“I took your advice. I’m going to talk to a therapist. And one of the things I’ve realized is that talking helps me. It makes the trauma not have as much power over me.”
“I’m here to listen, anytime you want…”
Jackson held Zoe close; her head was on his chest while he spoke. “We were two weeks from rotating back. Sun so bright it erased the edges. We were out on a patrol—you’ve seen enough movies; you know how that looks. Only most of the time it’s nothing. Long stretches of boring emptiness—until it isn’t.”
His fingers skimmed an invisible pattern on her skin. A small figure of eight, over and over again.
“We were patrolling a town when it happened. One step and then—” He exhaled, shook his head once. “Sound turns into a wall. Everything lifts. You don’t know which way the sky is. When you come back down, the world’s wrong. There’s ringing and…there’s blood where it doesn’t belong. I caught shrapnel in my side and back. Not the worst in the unit. Not even close. We lost Micah.” The name scraped out of him. “I was closest to him, and I still couldn’t—” His voice broke, a crack in old concrete. He steadied it. “I replay it. Where I stood. Whether I should’ve seen it. Whether one different decision would’ve…I know what they tell you. That it wasn’t your fault. That these things happen. But the mind doesn’t care about the report. It takes the guilt and stitches it into you.”
Zoe slid her palm to his cheek, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He leaned into it as if it hurt and healed at once.
“I came home and I—” He searched for the word, found it. “I closed doors. A lot of them. I wanted noise I could control: engines, the clatter in a bar, anything that drowned out the quiet where the pictures play. I kept thinking I didn’t have the right to have anything good. Not after the body count kept going without me. Not after we folded flags.”
She didn’t sayI’m sorry. She didn’t say he was wrong. She said, simply, “I’m here.”
He waited one beat, then two, as if he thought more might come, as if this moment might be the key that opened whatever door she, too, kept shut behind her eyes. She felt the nudge of it and almost spoke. Almost told him about the appointment, the form she’d filled out. Almost told him about time, about how she felt like it was slipping away, and she couldn’t stop it.
But Whiskers chirruped from the back, the sound small and delighted, and Jackson’s hand curved over her shoulder, thumb stroking a calm, steady line. Zoe tucked closer instead, borrowing his steadiness for just a little longer.
“Stay,” she said.
“As long as you want me,” he answered.
The next morning, Zoe woke earlier than usual. The storm had passed, leaving a blinding sunrise flaring through the gap in her blinds. She blinked against it and scooted back into Jackson’s embrace.
He was warm behind her, his arm draped around her waist as if he had no intention of letting go. His breath moved in a slow rhythm. Steady, untroubled.
For a moment, she tried to sink back into sleep, but her body reminded her of the night before. Her muscles hummed with a pleasant ache, and when she shifted, her ankle twinged. She stilled, not wanting to wake him.
After a minute, she slipped free of his arm and sat up. The movement made her ankle protest. Muttering, she limped to thebathroom, shook two Tylenol from the bottle, and swallowed them with tap water. The throbbing would ease soon enough.
Back at the doorway, she paused, letting her gaze linger on Jackson sprawled across her sheets. The line of his jaw, the sweep of dark hair, the breadth of his shoulders against her pillow. She wanted to press the sight into memory.
But something in her chest twisted. Guilt crept in. Because last night Jackson had bared his soul, and she’d stayed silent.
Tomorrow was her IVF appointment. If Jackson were just anyone she’d recently started dating, she would have asked him openly if he wanted children. But this was Jackson. She had wanted him for so long that risking everything now felt impossible.
She feared she already knew his answer. She imagined him shaking his head, saying his scars ran too deep to be a good father. Hadn’t that been why he’d held back before, because he hadn’t believed he was enough?
The weight of it pressed on her and quietly, she left the room.
In the hallway, Whiskers hopped from the crate and greeted her with a demanding meow. Zoe crouched, wincing at her ankle, and scratched behind the cat’s ears.
“How are you holding up, little mama?”
Whiskers purred and rubbed her head against Zoe’s hand. Zoe filled her bowl in the kitchen, then cut a small piece of salmon for her. She peeked in at the crate. The kittens were a soft, breathing pile of fur. The sight tugged a smile from her, and a sharp reminder of tomorrow.
She knew she needed to talk to Jackson, but not by waking him with heavy news. First, breakfast. Which meant a quick trip to the market.
She slipped on joggers, a sweatshirt, and tied her hair up before heading out. The air was cool, washed clean by the storm. Cherry blossoms were strewn across the pavement andthere were puddles everywhere, but the storm hadn’t caused any significant damage. Maple Falls was quiet, save for the hum of a delivery truck near the bakery. She breathed in the faint aroma of cinnamon rolls drifting from the inn.
“Hey, girl,” Krista called, waving a to-go cup, her other hand holding Frankie’s leash. “You’re out early. Where you headed?”
“The market. Jackson stayed over last night. And I have news!”
Zoe pulled out her phone, showing photos of Whiskers and the newborn kittens. Krista leaned in, delighted.
“They’re so precious,” she said. “Whiskers looks like she knows exactly what she’s doing.”
