And yet she stays.
I don’t understand why she’s lodged herself so firmly in my thoughts. I’m not someone who catalogs faces or holds onto small details. I don’t replay moments. I don’t wonder.
So why do I remember the way she looked at me? The stillness in her expression. The openness in her eyes.
Even if I can’t pin down exactly which wire in my head she’s pulled—or why my body reacts to her like it does—I know one thing for certain.
She isn’t a threat.
At least, not in any way I’m trained to respond to.
Which means this isn’t a problem. Just a distraction. Something unfamiliar brushing up against routine. All I need is time. A few brief, ordinary interactions to dull the edge of her novelty. To let whatever spark flared settle back into nothing, the way these things always do.
That’s the logic, anyway.
I push through the rest of my duties, change into my fatigues, the T-shirt beneath pressed and regulation-perfect. By the timeI head to the Ridgehouse for the Veteran Appreciation event, my expression is steady again. Controlled.
Inside, I shake hands with the men who are already there—veterans who carry history in their posture, who deserve patience, respect, and grace. I guide them toward the volunteers, who greet them warmly, and for a moment the rhythm feels familiar. Grounding.
Then Michael Trent approaches. President of Legion Post 317. Retired chaplain. Perceptive enough to see past ranks and excuses.
He stops in front of me, arches a brow, and looks at me like he already knows I’m not here just to be helpful.
And that’s when I realize I may not be either.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the familiar crinkle at the corners of his eyes deepening. “You usually keep your distance from these events. And before you say it—no, it’s not mandatory, Weston.”
I meet his gaze briefly. “I know.”
That seems to satisfy him less than it should. He studies me for a moment longer, then gestures toward the bar, where the room has begun to fill with easy laughter and low conversation.
My eyes follow the motion before I can stop them.
Hailey is behind the counter, smiling at one of the veterans, nodding as she listens while pouring his drink. She says something that makes him laugh, then gives his hand a soft, reassuring pat before moving on to the next person.
Simple. Kind. Nothing about it meant for me.
I tell myself to move on.
Yet my attention drifts back to her anyway—another unfamiliar instinct surfacing where discipline should be. She isn’t in danger. She isn’t inviting anything. She’s just doing her job.
And still, I notice.
“If you’re planning on socializing tonight,” Michael says mildly, watching me too closely, “we should at least make it official. Have a drink.”
I incline my head once.
We walk over together, and Michael’s expression eases the moment he sees Hailey. His smile is warm, familiar.
“There you are,” he says kindly. “I didn’t know you were scheduled tonight.”
She relaxes instantly, her shoulders lowering as she smiles back. “I wasn’t, exactly. But I wanted to help.”
In this light, her eyes catch me off guard—the way brown and gold blend together, alive and expressive. My gaze drops before I can stop it. Her shirt is softer than regulation attire, dressier too, flaring gently beneath her breasts, outlining her figure in a way that feels unintentionally intimate.
I force my eyes back to her face just as she looks at me.
She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, a nervous habit I recognize immediately, and clears her throat. A shy smile curves her lips as she looks up at me from beneath her lashes, her cheeks faintly flushed.
