We barely spoke—half a conversation, unfinished—and then he was gone. Still, I caught him watching me more than once, especially when I moved through the room serving others. The second time I offered him a beer, he only shook his head slowly, a quiet refusal that lingered longer than words would have.
He’s impossible to read. Closed off. Or maybe he’s simply lived too long in a world where communication is reduced to orders and precision. Michael warned me not to take it personally, said Wes isn’t talkative with anyone, that silence is just part of who he is.
That doesn’t change the way his presence settles into a room.
It doesn’t explain why my gaze kept drifting toward him, why some part of me needed to know exactly where he was at all times. There’s something in the way he moves—measured, deliberate—and in the control threaded through his voice, as if every word is chosen carefully, held back just enough to keepsomething contained. Like he’s constantly fighting a battle no one else can see.
And I feel it.
I can’t help imagining those strong arms around me, the weight of him close, the low seriousness of his voice when he speaks. The way his eyes shift when he’s listening, as though whoever has his attention has all of it—fully, intensely. He broke that focus twice tonight, lifting his gaze to mine and holding it there.
Each time, my whole body reacted.
Just the sense that he was watching me, that he liked what he saw, that maybe—just maybe—he might come back over because he wanted to made my heart race and my breath catch.
I almost laugh at myself when I get to work the next morning. Today I’m supposed to help with laundry, but Michael asks me to stop by the activities hall first. We end up talking longer than planned, drifting into ideas for the Post—small things that might make a difference.
That’s how the idea of home-cooked meals comes up.
Not anything elaborate. Just once a week. Something warm and familiar. I know most military personnel are used to MREs, to efficiency and the bare minimum, but I keep thinking that a real meal—something made with intention—can feel like more than food. Like a pause. Like proof that someone thought about them.
A quiet reward after a week of doing everything that’s expected of them.
And there’s a lot expected. I see it everywhere—men and women moving through the halls with purpose, always on, always ready.
“I can cover the bar in the evenings,” I offer. “After dinner, I mean.”
Michael studies me for a moment, not critically, just thoughtfully.
“Your father hoped you’d be a little more involved,” he says gently. “And as president of the Legion, it’s my responsibility to help with that.” His smile softens. “But it’s also my privilege to give you room to find what matters to you.”
I bite my bottom lip, unsure how to explain what I haven’t quite figured out myself. My father isn’t trying to control me—he’s testing me. He and my mom both enlisted at eighteen. In his mind, I’m behind schedule. Taking time feels like standing still. To him, this summer is guidance. Direction.
To me, it’s space.
We talk it through calmly, back and forth, until we settle on a compromise. I’ll run errands for the office, help out as an assistant wherever I’m needed, and work the bar in the evenings.
It’s a lot. But it feels… balanced.
When I leave his office, my thoughts trail after me down the hallway. My father loves me. He wants to give me a future he understands. I just want the chance to discover my own—to find my passion, to support people in ways that feel right to me.
I wonder, not for the first time, if that should be enough.
I shake my head, then look up just in time to keep myself from running directly into Wes.
Suddenly, all those worries and thoughts about my future fade away. All I can do is stare up at him, memorizing every intense detail of him. I think he’s wearing some kind of aftershave or cologne today, since I feel dizzy after one whiff. I just want to lean in to have more of him.
“Hailey,” he greets.
“Wes,” I whisper, hoping I’m not blushing even though my heart is racing.
He steps forward, his posture straightening. “Captain Holt.”
“Captain. Right. I need to get used to the titles,” I murmur, glancing from his eyes down the thick column of his neck. I can see his pulse thudding there and I can’t help thinking it would be wonderful spot to kiss.
He watches me, not exactly angry or even grumpy, just waiting for a question or something to respond to. I step to the side, but he continues watching me. “Do you need help with something?” he asks.
“No,” I say too quickly. And immediately regret it, because saying yes would have meant a few more minutes of him standing this close. “I mean—no. I’m getting the hang of things. I was just… lost in my head for a second.”
