I glance at her, annoyed and reluctant, but not enough to stop myself. “Maybe. But it works.”
She snorts. “Works for whom? You or everyone else?”
“Both,” I say curtly, keeping my pace steady. “Mostly me.”
She nudges my arm lightly with hers. “So you’re admitting it’s mostly selfish?”
“Not admitting anything,” I reply, deadpan. “Just stating a fact.”
Her lips twitch. “You sound exactly like someone who should have been in the army instead of in therapy.”
I smirk faintly, a dry twist at the corner of my mouth. “Was in the army. It’s not an option anymore.”
“Clearly,” she teases. “But you still get to be stubborn and unfeeling. Lucky, meet Mr. Maddox.”
I shake my head, but there’s a twitch of humor I can’t quite suppress. “Not unfeeling. Cautious. Controlled. Precise.”
“Cautious, controlled, precise… and painfully lonely,” she says softly, almost under her breath.
I stop walking for a moment, caught off guard by the accuracy of her jab. She doesn’t push, doesn’t lean in — she waits, sharp and steady, like she expects an answer.
I inhale slowly, trying to reset. “Maybe,” I admit, voice low. “Painfully lonely, yeah. But necessary.”
Her gaze lingers on me, curious, teasing, challenging. And somewhere in the pause, I feel it — the tension, the pull, the first real crack in the armor I’ve built.
Her eyes don’t leave mine, sharp and expectant, and I feel that old weight pressing down again — the one I carry for years I never show anyone.
“You know,” she says softly, “you don’t have to do all of it alone. You don’t have to… hide everything.”
I bristle at first. Reflexive. Defensive. But something in her tone — gentle, not judgmental — stops me mid-step. My jaw tightens, hands clenching in my pockets.
“I didn’t ask for company,” I say, curt, clipped.
“You didn’t have to ask,” she shoots back, voice low but teasing, a little dangerous. “It just doesn’t suit you to be untouchable all the time.”
Her words land like a hammer. My chest tightens. And then the dam breaks — just a little. Enough that I feel it, that I let it leak out.
“Fine,” I mutter, more to myself than her. “Not everyone’s untouchable. Some of us just… carry things we shouldn’t.”
She tilts her head, curiosity sharp. “Carry what?”
I look down, kicking a small stone along the path. The memory comes unbidden — Mara’s voice, her anger, my own guilt.
“I was… gone a lot,” I admit slowly, voice rougher than I like. “Army. Tours. Duty. She wanted me home. Full-time. And I wasn’t.”
Her hand brushes mine as we walk again, a light anchor. I don’t pull away.
“She phoned me, furious. I told her I couldn’t come at the drop of a hat when I’m on tour duty. And then… she got in the car. Angry. And then she… she died.” My voice falters, throat tightening. “I… didn’t answer my parents' call that day because I was on an assignment. By the time I got to base… she was gone. And Lily…” My jaw tightens. “She cried like her world ended. Because it had. I wasn’t there for either of them.”
Lucky’s thumb brushes my hand — tentative, careful — and something loosens, tiny, dangerous, inside me.
“You carried that alone?” she asks softly, voice more curious than judgmental.
I shrug, a dry, brittle motion. “Doesn’t matter. It’s over. Should’ve been… should’ve done more. But it’s done.”
Her gaze lingers. Something unspoken passes between us, fragile and delicate. She sees the cracks I never let anyone touch. And maybe for the first time in years, I feel seen. Not as a soldier. Not as a father. Not as a man who has to be in control.
Just… me.
