Friday, March 7th
It was a moonless night. The kind that lets you see every star visible for miles. The constellations were shifting, winter giving way to spring. Orion and his hunting dog, Canis Major, were fading west, making room for the Spring Triangle of Regulus, Arcturus, and Spica to reclaim the sky above the barn.
Jackson tried to focus on the stars while loading up the extra hay. It was dark, but that didn’t mean much when you rarely slept.
The stars were safe. Bright and fiery, and a million miles away. Unlike the woman who dominated his thoughts.
He didn’t know how Zoe did it. She could turn an ordinary day into a whirlwind. She drove him insane half the time. She was always late, always messy, forever losing her keys, her tools, or entire flower orders. She called him Sergeant Tidy whenever he tried to restore order, claiming his labeling system for seed trays was “a cry for help.”
And yet, he couldn’t think of a single thing about her he’d change. Not one. Because when she smiled at him, really smiled, everything heavy inside him quieted.
He refused to think about how natural it had felt holding her earlier, how she’d fit against him like she was made to. With her in his arms, his pulse had slowed, his breathing had evened out, even the sharp pain in his shoulder had dulled.
But none of that mattered. It couldn’t.
He had to keep his distance, because he would not force his trauma on her. Jackson couldn’t change the past he wasn’t proud of, and he didn’t know how to work through the guilt that weighed heavily on his chest like a two-ton brick.
It should’ve been me. The words repeated in his head like a mantra he couldn’t escape from, didn’t deserve to escape from.
Because no matter what anyone else said—his sergeant, his comrades, his family—it hadn’t been Micah’s turn to die. It had been his.
They were pinned down that day, dust thick in the air, bullets shredding the heat-stilled silence. Jackson remembered the crack of rifles, the metallic tang of his own sweat, the frantic sound of his pulse roaring in his ears. He remembered shouting to Micah, telling him to cover the left flank while he tried to move their men to higher ground.
And Micah had obeyed, because Micah always had his back. That was the problem.
The explosion ripped through the line before Jackson could get to him. One second, Micah was crouched and firing. The next, he was on the ground, his blood soaking into desert sand.
Shrapnel tore into Jackson’s side when he dove after him, the jagged burn of metal searing into flesh. But the real wound was the one he couldn’t staunch.
If only he hadn’t given that order. If only he’d gone left himself. If only he’d been faster, braver, better—Micah would still be alive.
And that was the truth no one could ever talk him out of.
Jackson cursed under his breath, feeling the rawness of the wound that ate away at his chest every single day.
Except, when he was with Zoe, things were different. She was like air. Somehow, she made him forget how heavy it all was.
And the way she made him smile, going on about a mystery flower. She’d waved her hands so much describing it, he thought for sure she was going to knock over her tea. Only Zoe could turn a missing flower into a full-blown treasure hunt.
He’d thought it was nonsense at first. Who had time to search for a flower? But then she’d leaned across the table, her blue eyes flashing, and he’d found himself grinning like an idiot.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made him smile that easily. Probably before the war.
And then there wasthemoment, as the day slipped toward evening and the shop quieted around them, when Zoe had wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned in. The softness of her breath as it escaped her lips when she sighed, how she had felt so right and perfect, her body pressed against his.
He couldn’t help but think how he would’ve deepened their embrace if he had the right to. If she had wanted him to.
He’d lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist, clinging to him like she never wanted to let go. He’d carry her upstairs, though they wouldn’t make it to the bed. She’d shut the door behind them, and he’d press her against it, kissing her like he meant it, like she was the only thing that mattered in this world.
His mouth would find the hollow beneath her ear, the soft space that made her shiver. She’d tip her head back, her fingers tugging at his shirt, desperate for skin. And he’d give it to her—peeling his jacket off, letting it fall to the floor, followed by the thin stretch of her sweater as he pulled it over her head.
She’d be soft and warm under his hands. He’d kiss along the top of her breast, listening to the breath catch in her throat, his tongue circling, teasing until she whimpered.
He’d slide one hand past the waistband of her leggings. She’d already be slick, ready for him, hips rolling into his touch as he slid two fingers inside her, slow and steady. Her thighs would tremble. Her breath would whisper against his lips.
“Jackson,” she’d breathe, her voice ragged with desire.
He’d carry her to the couch then, gently laying her down, his mouth never leaving her skin. He’d kiss his way down her belly, peel her leggings off, and settle between her thighs like it was where he belonged.
