Some of the people here are veterans like me. Some are coming out of rehab. Some are starting over after divorce, loss, burnout, things that don’t fit neatly into paperwork boxes. The rule is simple: you’re here to get your footing back, not tear anyone else down while you do it.
The man who runs the place makes sure of that.
Everyone respects him. A few people are a little afraid of him too. Trouble doesn’t last long at Harbor House, and becauseof that, most of us keep to ourselves. Doors closed. Heads down. Quiet coexistence.
It suits me.
The building is divided into studio and one-bedroom apartments. I chose a studio without hesitation. After years of military barracks, it feels almost luxurious…my own space, my own door, silence when I want it. I don’t need much more than that.
I unlock my door and step inside, locking it behind me out of habit.
The apartment smells faintly of soap and disinfectant. Clean. Neutral. Temporary. I drop my keys on the counter and shrug out of my jacket, my body still humming with restless energy I can’t shake.
I won’t be here long anyway.
Georgia is already changing the shape of my days.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull my phone from my pocket, my thumb hovering hesitantly for half a second before unlocking it.
The photos load one by one—shots I took without meaning to, without thinking. Georgia stepping out of her office building. Her profile through the café window. The way her hair caught the light when she tucked it behind her ear. None of them are perfect. Some are blurred. All of them feel…intimate.
Seeing her in person has ruined me.
The woman from the letter is no longer a fantasy. She’s flesh and bone and quiet smiles and careful movements. She’s real. Close enough to touch.
And she will be mine.
The thought settles deep and heavy in my chest, not frantic or wild, but certain. Possessive. Purposeful.
I know I have to be careful.
She’s cautious by nature…I can tell that already. If I move too fast, if I push too hard, I’ll scare her. That would be unforgivable.
I won’t make that mistake.
Still…my body doesn’t listen to reason as easily as my mind does.
I close my eyes and picture her the way she looked standing at the counter, the soft curve of her mouth when she smiled. I imagine what it would feel like to brush past her in a hallway. To touch her wrist. Her cheek. To feel her look up at me, startled but not afraid. I imagine what it’d feel like to kiss her… To pleasure her… To touch her…
I imagine her touching me back.
My breath deepens.
The room feels smaller. Warmer.
With a swift motion, I unzip my pants. I probably shouldn’t do this, but I can’t help myself. The image of her is seared in my head…her subtle yet luscious curves…her plump lips and smooth skin.
God.
The cool air from the opened window brushes across the skin of my shaft as I pull out my painfully hard cock. I grab it,imagining it’s her hand on me as I stroke slowly…up and down and up…
My breath hitches, my eyes falling closed.
I imagine her mouth on me…her wet tongue gliding against the sensitive skin of my cock as she takes me all in.
“Fuck, Georgia…” I mutter under my breath, stroking harder and faster.
My breathing is harsh, my head woozy from all the blood rushing to my cock. Precum drizzles down my hand, the wetness increasing my pleasure.
