“You’ll probably need help finding the others,” I reply.
She smiles. “I’ll ask. People usually talk.”
Then she walks off, humming softly, leaving me standing there longer than I should.
One ordinary conversation — nothing dramatic — and I realize how wrong it is to think of her as naïve. She isn’t lost: she’s searching.
I linger there a moment longer, almost hoping she’ll drop something off and reappear with a sense of efficiency that will make me question even more about her. After a minute, I feel ridiculous for waiting. I have other things to do. Hailey doesn’t get to eat up my entire schedule, even if I’m not sure I’m ready to let this conversation or her secretive touch be the last.
Chapter 5 - Hailey
Disappointment courses through me the next day when I don’t see Wes. I sigh and try to shake it off. He works. He’s stable. He does things like he’s supposed to. No one has to remind him to stay on task or things like that.
He’s right that it’s reliable. It’s nice to have a clearly cut path without wondering if you’re doing the right things, but I feel like I’m itching, trying to claw out of my skin. I’ve been here for four and a half days and other than seeing Wes, I’m already desperate for a break in my routine. There’s something about having every moment structured that makes me feel like I’m in a cage.
“Melissa, I’m going to take a break,” I say.
“You know you only get two, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
I know we’ve barely started working, but I just need to be outside and away from everyone. How else can I actually breathe properly? Once I’m outside and can hear the trees rustling in the breeze and people talking, something unwinds in me.
Just as I’m about to close my eyes to find a sense of ‘normal,’ I hear a whistle and a sharp command I can’t make out. On thefield next to the activity center, I see well-sculpted men dropping for pushups. They settle into a plank, then mountain-climbers, then push themselves up.
I spot Wes just as they wrap up. He stretches, his arms up high, his shirt matted to every line of muscle across his body, except where it pulls up to reveal an adonis cut that sharpens his hips and leads down to …
Oh god, his fatigues might hide plenty, but sweat-soaked, they cling to him and give me a decent idea of what he’d offer.
If I laid under him for his pushups, would I feel every inch against my belly? Would he get hard while staring into my eyes. Would they go from blue to black like I’ve seen when I flirt with him? His heavy breathing, him grunting my name …
He turns to shake a hand, giving me a view of his muscled shoulders, the way his body tapers at his hips, his tight, yet round ass that would be perfect to sink my fingers into.
My mouth waters and my throat dries as he takes off his top shirt, revealing only a tank top. He wipes himself down, then spots me, blue eyes focused on mine. He walks forward, making the choice for both of us. His biceps flex as he shoves his top shirt in his back pocket. He’s panting, his breathing not slowing even when he’s standing with me, staring at me, letting the moment sizzle between us while I wonder if I said any part of my shockingly dirty fantasy out loud.
“Hailey,” Wes’s voice washes over me and I shudder.
With that heated gaze on me, that tick in his jaw that tells me he’s chewing the inside of his cheek, and his gorgeous post-workout intensity, I’m putty. “Hi, Weston.”
The use of his full name must shock him, because he freezes for a second. “Something wrong? Are you ok?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring far too long. I shake my head quickly, forcing a smile that’s a little too bright to be convincing.
“Yeah—sorry. I was just thinking.” I gesture vaguely, like thoughts are something I can physically wave away. “You know. About errands. Work stuff.”
I definitely don’t meet his eyes.
The silence stretches, and I can feel his attention still on me—steady, patient, waiting. It makes pretending feel pointless.
I rub my arm, grounding myself. “I mean… I was thinking,” I admit more quietly. “About what it’s like to actually choose your life.”
He watches me for a beat, then nods, giving me space instead of pressing. That alone steadies me.
“I guess,” I admit. “I want to play an active role in my life. Like you. Like most people here.” I glance around the hallway, then back at him. “You chose the military. You chose to stay. And every day, you choose how you show up—who you talk to, how you handle things. That matters.”
He steps a little closer, not crowding me, just enough that his presence feels warmer. His expression softens as he studies my face, like he’s actually listening instead of waiting to respond.
“I want that same sense of choice,” I continue. “That same drive. It feels like you’ve never doubted where you’re headed.” I hesitate. “How do you get that kind of self-assurance?”
