Indian food. Spicy. Homemade. He's already planning the menu, I can tell by the way he's staring into the pantry
I can picture it. Jason standing in front of open cabinets, taking inventory, building a meal in his head. Trying to figure out what would impress me. What would make me want to come back.
Fuck.
What time?
Noon. Don't pretend you're not interested. I saw how you looked at him. I saw how you grabbed his wrist. You don't do that unless you want someone.
He's right. I don't touch people casually. Never have. Even before the military made me paranoid about everyone and everything, I was careful about physical contact. Touch is intentional, deliberate—a choice made with full awareness of what it means. Every handshake, every pat on the shoulder, every brush of fingers.
And I chose to wrap my hand around Jason's wrist, feel his pulse racing, watch his pupils blow wide. I chose to lean in close enough to smell him. Chose to say things that would make him blush.
I chose that. I chose him, in that moment, even knowing I shouldn't.
And I want more. Want to see what sounds he'd make if I pinned him against a wall. Want to know if he'd still try to feed me after I fucked him speechless. Want to know if he's as soft as he looks, or if there's steel underneath all that golden warmth.
I'll be there,I text back.
YES. Okay. Noon. Wear something nice. Don't be scary.
I'm always scary.
Try to be LESS scary. Just for one lunch. For me.
Fine.
Love you big brother
Love you too. Stop matchmaking.
Never
I pocket my phone and finally start the bike. The engine roars to life beneath me, familiar and grounding. Whatever else has changed—and everything has changed—this is still the same. The vibration, the power, the sense of controlled danger. I know who I am when I'm riding. It's everywhere else I get lost.
---
Spice King is exactly how I remember it.
Same faded awning, red letters bleached pink by years of sun. Same cracked parking lot with weeds pushing through the asphalt. Same neon OPEN sign flickering in the window, one letter dimmer than the others. I've been dreaming about this place for five years—literally dreaming, waking up in a tent or a barracks or a bombed-out building with the taste of their vindaloo on my tongue.
The restaurant is mostly empty at this hour. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner, that dead zone in the afternoon where restaurants survive on stragglers and people with nowhere else to be. A couple in the corner sharing a plate of naan. An old man by the window reading a newspaper. That's it.
I take a corner table with my back to the wall, facing the door. Old habits. The kind you don't shake even when you're stateside, even when the worst threat in a strip mall Indian restaurant is probably heartburn. My eyes track the exits automatically—front door, back hallway that probably leads to a kitchen exit, windows that could be broken in an emergency. Sight lines. Cover positions. Fields of fire.
It's exhausting, the constant vigilance. But it's also why I'm still alive when so many others aren't.
The waiter recognizes me, which is strange. I've been gone five years, but he smiles and says "The usual?" like I was here last week.
"Yeah. Extra hot."
"You got it." He doesn't write anything down, just nods and heads for the kitchen.
I ate here at least once a week before deployment. Sometimes more, when I couldn't face cooking or going home to an empty house. The owners know me—know my order, know I like water with no ice, know I'll eat every bite and leave a good tip. They sent me a card when I deployed, a whole thing signed by the staff, wishing me safe travels.
I still have it. Tucked into a book somewhere, one of the few personal items I kept.
The vindaloo arrives fast, steam rising off the plate in waves. The smell alone makes my eyes water—tomato and chili and a complex blend of spices that I've never been able to fully identify. First bite and my sinuses clear. Second bite and sweat prickles on my forehead. Third bite and I'm finally, finally starting to feel like myself again.
