She stops, her hands falling to her sides. "Okay."
I've faced enemy fire. Jumped out of planes. Watched friends die. But standing here, looking at this woman who somehow makes me want things I thought I'd given up on, terrifies me more than any of it.
"The afghans. The baby blankets. All of it." I force the words out. "I make them. Not Birdie. Me."
She doesn't look surprised. Just nods slowly. "I know."
"You know?"
"I figured it out. The yarn. The way you looked at that afghan. The way you knew exactly what colors you needed." She takes a step closer. "Why do you hide it?"
Because men aren't supposed to knit.
Because I'm already the weird loner who can't handle crowds.
Because it's the one thing that keeps me sane and I'm terrified someone will ruin it by mocking it.
"It’s easier," I say instead.
"Easier than what?"
"Than being seen."
She's close now. Her brown eyes are steady on mine, no judgment in them. Just curiosity and something that looks like understanding.
"I see you," she says quietly. "And what I see is someone who creates beautiful things. Someone who donates to charity. Someone who takes care of an eighty-five-year-old woman because he worries about her."
I can't look away from her.
"Why knitting?" she asks. "Out of everything you could have chosen."
The question catches me off guard. No one's ever asked before. "I learned it in the hospital. After my last deployment." The words come haltingly. "I had PTSD so bad I couldn't... couldn't function. Nightmares. Shaking hands. Rage."
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pull away. Just listens.
"Therapist said to find something repetitive. Something that creates instead of destroys." I swallow hard. "So I... I tried it."
"And it helped."
"Only thing that did." I look down at my hands—these big, scarred hands that have done terrible things. "These hands... they've hurt people. Killed people. But when I'm knitting, they make something soft. Something that keeps babies warm. Something good."
When I look up, her eyes are shining with tears.
"Don't cry. I didn't tell you to—"
She reaches up and cups my face in both hands. "You're one of the best men I've ever met."
Something in my chest cracks wide open.
"I'm not."
"You are." Her thumbs stroke my cheeks. "You're scared and damaged and hiding, but you're so damn good. And I want—" She stops, bites her lip.
"What do you want?" My voice is rough.
"You. I want you." Her cheeks flush pink. "But maybe we should... do you want tea? I have tea upstairs. We could talk more. About the knitting, or—"
I answer by closing the distance between us and kissing her.
