Because I don’t want to leave.
I need to.
“Good night,” I say when she returns for the signed slip. “Hailey.”
Her breath catches, just slightly. “Good night, Captain,” she murmurs. “I hope you sleep well.”
I would sleep better with you in my bed.
The thought hits fast and uninvited, vivid enough to tighten my grip on the edge of the bar.
FFS, get a grip, Wes.
I straighten immediately, jaw setting, the weight of that single, reckless thought enough to tell me exactly why I can’t stay another second.
***
She’s just someone new. A reminder of warmth brushing up against routine. In time, she’ll settle. The questions will fade. The pull will dull.
It always does.
All I need is time.
Time, apparently, lasts a day and a half.
I’m passing through the Post on my way back to base when I spot a familiar folder sitting in the outgoing tray—documents flagged for Legion Post 317. Michael Trent’s name is on the cover. Routine stuff. Forms. Signatures. Nothing urgent enough to warrant a special trip.
I pause anyway.
“I’m heading toward the Ridgehouse,” I say to the clerk. “I can drop those off.”
They hand the folder over without comment. Efficient. Ordinary. Exactly the kind of thing I can justify without examining my motives too closely.
When I walk into Michael’s office, he looks up in mild surprise. Then amusement softens his expression as his gaze drops to the folder in my hand.
“Well,” he says, taking it from me, “I didn’t realize flight instructors were branching out into deliveries.”
“Passing through,” I reply evenly. “Saw the paperwork. Thought I’d save someone the trip.”
He hums, clearly unconvinced, but lets it go. “Much appreciated.”
My attention drifts before I can stop it.
Hailey is at one of the side tables, sorting papers into tidy stacks, her brow furrowed in concentration as she murmurs quietly to herself. She taps something on the tablet, frowns, then gathers the papers and disappears into one of the corridors.
Michael follows my gaze and smiles to himself.
“She’s helping me track down which offices need updated copies,” he says. “Smart girl. The system isn’t exactly intuitive.”
He looks back at me, eyes sharp with gentle curiosity. “Since you’re already here… would you mind helping her find a couple of the admin offices? You know the layout better than most.”
I ignore the knowing glint to his eyes and nod. I stand, then pause. “The request for additional funds has been denied, President Trent.”
He stands as well. “For?”
“The specialty weekly dinners. If you counter with a request for half it will be approved,” I state. “I didn’t share that with you.”
“Of course not. It’s a natural negotiation tactic,” he agrees. “Penny pinching assholes at the top.”
