He cupped the back of her neck, let his thumb graze the skin behind her ear. “We need to move, angel,” he said, voice frayed. “Before I forget how to breathe.”
She nodded once, quietly. Took his hand again.
This time, he didn’t just follow. He held on.
The trail curved gently upward, the trees thinning just enough for light to filter in. Pines and cedar gave way to open air, the scent of cold stone and moss rising around them.
Then they came into a clearing, and his breath caught in his throat.
The cabin sat nestled against the base of a low ridge, half-tucked into the slope like it had grown straight from the earth. Weathered cedar shingles crowned the steep-pitched roof, and river rock formed the chimney stack. A wide porch wrapped along the front, with a bench swing hanging from chains on one side and a thick stack of split firewood on the other.
Behind it, the mountains rose, vast and old and quiet, like they were keeping watch.
To the right, a rushing stream spilled over granite boulders, loud and wild and clean. It wound around the edge of the property like a protective arm, whitewater foaming beneath the curve of a narrow footbridge.
The sun, breaking through the clouds, cast the whole place in gold.
It looked like something out of a dream. Like a pocket of the world untouched by noise, by pain, by memory. Just a quiet place to be.
“This is yours?” he asked, voice low.
“I found it after I was transferred here to WILD,” she said. “It’s quiet, beautiful, and cozy. Just what I need after a long day.”
He laughed under his breath. A real laugh. Tired and surprised.
She led him up the steps. The wood groaned beneath their feet, the sound oddly comforting. Familiar. Human.
He paused at the door, fingers still curled in hers.
The ache was still there. But so was something else.
Maybe this was the first place he didn’t have to wear his armor.
Maybe here…he could begin.
32
Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, Naval Special Warfare Center Conference Room, Coronado, California
In the conference room, Surf stood near the whiteboard, arms folded, restless energy barely contained.
“I might be compromised, guys,” he said.
Concrete glanced up from the roster and grinned. “You selling secrets to the tadpoles now?”
Surf pushed off the wall. “This is my second rotation at BUD/S, and I love this job. No bullshit. Introducing future brothers to the water is something I live for.” He hesitated, then shook his head. “But this kid. Gallagher.”
Shamrock felt it immediately, the tightening low in his gut.
“He’s phenomenal,” Surf went on. “His surf reports. Geezus. I’m envious. He reads water like a blind man reads braille.”
Easy leaned back in his chair, a slow grin spreading. “Aw. You got yourself a broski crush?”
Surf didn’t laugh. “Yeah. I do. No joke. His knowledge makes me want to drag him out to the breakwater and see what he’s really got.” He started pacing, his hands moving as he talked. "I was talking to him the other day, just shooting the shit about breaks. He's surfed the Gold Coast, sure, but he was talking about taking on the Box at Margaret River like it was an afternoon paddle. Then he starts telling me about Ours at Bondi on a south swell, how the rip can be a bitch, but the right-hander is worth the fight. This isn't some academy swimmer, guys. This kid has seen heavy water all over the world. He was describing a session at Cloudbreak in Fiji, talking about the wave face like it was a woman he was in love with. I mean, fuck."
“I have no idea what you just said,” Concrete growled. “But I’m sure it’s rad, dude.”
Easy chuckled.
