Iwalked.
No destination. No plan. Just the steady rhythm of boots on pavement and the bizarre reality that Sophie—my Sophie—was real and here and back in my life after disappearing into memory so long ago I'd almost convinced myself she'd been a dream I'd made up to survive the loneliness.
What were the odds?
I'd flown across the country on a mysterious invitation, landed in a city I barely knew, asked to be dropped at the harbor because I couldn't face whatever waited at Dominion Hall yet—and she was just there. Standing on a dock in Charleston like the universe had decided those years were long enough punishment for whatever sins I'd committed by leaving.
The shock hadn't worn off yet. My mind kept circling back, replaying the moment our eyes met, the way her name had torn out of me before conscious thought could stop it, raw and unfiltered and true.
Sophie.
My chest felt tight with something I couldn't name. Relief, maybe. Or fear that this was temporary, that I'd wake up tomorrow and she'd be gone again, another ghost I couldn't touch no matter how real she felt right now.
I knew at some point, I'd have to explain. Why I left UT. Why I joined the Army instead of sharing an apartment and taking classes and pretending we were ready for the world. Why I never reached out, never looked back, let Valentine and everything in it—including her—fade into something I told myself didn't matter anymore because mattering meant hurting and I'd had enough hurt for one lifetime.
But that was for another day.
Tonight, I just needed to walk. To process. To let my brain catch up with my heart, which was currently running ahead like it had somewhere important to be and couldn't wait for the rest of me to figure it out.
Because right now, in this moment, sure—I'd noticed she was beautiful. Stunning, actually. The kind of woman who stopped traffic without trying, who turned heads and didn't seem to realize it, who moved through the world like she'd been designed by someone who understood exactly what beauty was supposed to do to a man's breathing.
But that wasn't what had knocked the air out of my lungs when I saw her.
It was recognition.
Not just physical—though yeah, I'd have known that copper hair anywhere, those blue eyes that had always seen too much and forgiven it, anyway. But deeper than that. Soul-deep. The way she smiled. The way her eyes lit when she laughed. The way she still tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, a gesture so familiar it hurt like pressing on a bruise you'd forgotten you had.
My soul needed a friend right now. The memories of today—Valentine, my mother's vacant smile, the ranch I couldn't visit, Roy Pacheco's weathered hands, Mrs. Herrera's kind eyes that held too much pity—demanded a friend. Someone who knew me before I became this. Before the uniform, the missions, the years of carrying things I couldn't put down and didn't know how to share with people who hadn't seen what I'd seen.
And Sophie had always been that person.
The only person, really.
I let the memories come as I walked, Charleston fading into background noise—just streetlights and distant music and the smell of salt water mixing with fried food from restaurants closing down for the night.
Middle school. Hot Texas summers that stretched forever, days bleeding into each other until you lost track of time entirely and stopped caring because time didn't matter when you were twelve and immortal. We'd disappear for hours, traipsing through scrub brush and dry creek beds, making up games and telling stories and acting like the world beyond Valentine didn't exist because in those moments, it didn't.
I remembered the rattlesnake.
Clear as yesterday. We'd been walking back from the swimming hole, sun beating down like it had a personal grudge, cicadas screaming in the trees like the world was ending. I'd been talking—jabbering on about something stupid, probably baseball or whether aliens were real or why Mrs. Henderson gave so much homework—and she'd grabbed my arm hard, fingers digging in, yanking me backward so fast I stumbled and nearly fell.
The snake was coiled right where my next step would've landed, tail rattling its warning, eyes flat and patient like it had all the time in the world and knew I didn't.
She'd saved my life that day. Didn't make a big deal of it. Just pulled me back, pointed at the snake with one steady finger, and said calmly, "Pay attention, Wyatt."
Like I was supposed to be watching for death hiding in the dust.
I'd killed it with a rock—three tries before I hit it right, hands shaking with adrenaline—because that's what you did in Valentine when rattlesnakes got too close to where people walked. She'd watched without flinching, just stood there with her arms crossed and her head tilted, then asked if I wanted to grab ice cream after.
Like saving my life and watching me kill a snake were just normal parts of a regular afternoon.
I smiled at the memory, warmth spreading through my chest despite the tightness that had lived there all day, settling into my ribs like it belonged.
The nights under the stars were what I remembered most, though. We'd sneak food from home—sandwiches, chips, cookies, whatever we could grab without our parents noticing—and meet at the old water tower on the edge of town. The one everyone said was haunted but really just had good cell reception and a view that went on forever, horizon stretching so far you could almost believe the world was bigger than Valentine.
We'd spread out a blanket. Stare up at the sky until our necks hurt and the stars blurred together into something that felt infinite, like maybe we were looking at forever and forever was looking back.
We'd make up stories about the constellations. Finish each other's sentences, the way only people who spent too much time together could, who knew each other's rhythms better than their own. Talk about everything and nothing until dawn threatenedand we had to sneak back home before anyone noticed we'd been gone.
