A photograph, bent at the corner. Oliver, younger. Beard shorter. Grinning—a real, wide, carefree grin I’ve never seen. His arm around another man, a blonde guy with a hawk tattoo on his neck. Behind them, a Humvee and endless sand. They look invincible.
A patch. Unit insignia. Lightning bolt and dagger. Edges frayed, dark stains soaking the embroidery.
Dried blood.
My breath hitches. I drop the patch.
A folded piece of paper. Yellowed, crinkled from being clenched in a fist. I don't open it. Violation too far. But I see the handwriting.
For the Vanguard.
I sit back on my heels, cold seeping into my jeans, clutching the tags.
The Vanguard.
He told me that’s what they call him. The one who watches. I thought it was biker posturing. Looking at the photo, the blood-stained patch, I realize the truth.
It’s a penance.
He’s not up here for the view. He’s still on watch. Guarding a perimeter in his head, protecting himself from a war that ended years ago.
"What are you doing?"
A low rumble vibrates through the floorboards.
I jump, heart slamming against ribs. Twist around.
Oliver fills the doorway. Hands clenched into fists. His face is tight, pupils blown wide, swallowing the green.
"I—I dropped some wood." I scramble to gather the items. "The table—it just fell."
He crosses the distance in two strides. He drops to his knees, ignoring the logs. Snatches the photo. Jerky, desperatemovements. He grabs the patch, the box, shoving them back inside with trembling hands.
"Oliver." I reach out.
He flinches. "Don't."
He grabs the dog tags from my hand. His skin brushes mine—ice against warmth. He clutches them tight, metal biting into his palm.
"You shouldn't be digging in here." Voice rough. Gravel. "This isn't for you."
"I wasn't digging." My voice holds steady despite the pounding in my ears. "It fell. Oliver, look at me."
He stares at the box in his hands. Chest heaving. "Go back to the fire, Avery."
"No."
He looks up. Eyes blazing. "No?"
"No." I shift, kneeling in front of him, ignoring the pain in my ankle. I cover his large, clenched fist with both hands. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to pull me into your bed and then shut me out the second things get real."
He laughs. A dark, bitter sound. "Real? You think this is real? A snowstorm and a rotting porch railing? That’s a vacation."
He gestures to the box. "This? This is real. The blood on that patch? That’s real."
"I know."
"You don't know shit." He pulls away. Stands up, towering over me. "You see a grumpy guy in a cabin. You think it’s a fairytale. Beauty and the fucking Beast."
