16
The first rush of hot water hit her shoulders, and Rachel leaned forward, letting her forehead rest against the cool tile. Heat sank into her skin, peeling away the layers she couldn’t scrub clean, blood, sweat, adrenaline. Dirt spiraled down the drain in slow swirls, but the images didn’t wash away with it.
They never did.
Each breath tugged at the band of pain cinched around her ribs. Something to remind her that today had been real.
She welcomed the ache. It was grounding. Better that than the footage still rolling behind her eyes.
When she stepped out, the towel dragged across her skin, careful not to graze the wound. She reached for the med kit Ghost had left and opened it, the sterile bite of antiseptic stinging her nose before it touched her skin.
The gauze hissed against the wound. She kept her hands steady and wrapped it tight.
When she got back to her barracks, she paused at the edge of her cot, fingers brushing her shirt. Her eyes drifted to the door. He’d said he’d come back. A promise delivered the only way he knew how. She told herself not to wait. Still, she hoped he would be there soon.
She pulled on a loose tee and cotton shorts, what she wore when the field allowed a moment of peace. She sat cross-legged on the cot, towel still damp in her hair, and opened her laptop.
The screen lit up with moments captured mid-chaos, smoke and blur, fire and ruin. The SEALs were there, silent shadows cutting through it all.
Her fingers flew across the keys, documenting while it was still clear in her head. Every line of movement, every scream, every face. Her side flared with every shift, but she didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.
Then, three sharp knocks at the door. She looked up, pulse already climbing. The door pushed open.
Ghost stepped inside, the scent of clean cotton and soap drifted in with him, subtle and warm. His hair was damp, his shirt clung to him, stretched tight across his chest and arms. Shetried not to stare, but damn, those muscles were doing things to her self-control.
“You eat yet?” he asked, holding a covered plate in one hand like it was nothing.
Rachel arched a brow. “Didn’t peg you for the room service type.”
A slow smile ghosted across his mouth. “Don’t get used to it.” His eyes swept the room before settling on her.
She sat with her legs tucked under her, laptop open, hair damp and loose down her back. Not just brown anymore, streaks of auburn caught in the low light, red and gold from weeks under open sky. Her tee clung just enough to outline curves that had been hidden beneath vests and dust.
His gaze dropped lower. Cotton shorts, bare legs, no shoes.
He cleared his throat. “Mess hall’s shut down. Snagged this before they packed up.” He held the plate out, still warm under the napkin. “Figured you’d forget.”
Rachel hesitated for just a breath, then reached for the plate, her fingers brushing his. The touch was fleeting, barely there, but itsparked heat beneath her skin.
“You snuck food for me?” she asked, brows raised, bringing the food to her lap. “Mr. ‘Follow My Orders’ broke the rules?”
He shrugged, too casual to be real. His attention snagged on her shirt again, the fabric outlining her shape. He cleared his throat. “It’s not stealing if I could’ve eaten it myself.”
She smirked, sitting up straighter. That single motion pulled her shirt just enough to make him look again. He yanked his gaze back to her face.
“Guess I should say thank you, then,” she said softly. The look in her eyes held its own heat.
He smirked, “Yeah. You should.”
She took a bite, savoring it like it meant more than a stolen mess hall meal. He watched her, eyes fixed, his body still. “You busy later?” he asked, voice steady.
She paused, “Why?”
“I’ve got a perimeter check. Figured you might want to see what we do after dark.”
Her brows lifted, interest sharpening her features. “Seriously?”
He nodded once.
