He sits in the chair opposite my desk, back straight, hands folded, eyes sharp even in retirement. He looks the same as he always has—older, maybe, lines deeper around his mouth, more silver in his hair, but still very much the man who once led men into hell and brought most of them back.
Most.
That word lives in the room with us too. It always has. There’s no version of men like us that exists without ghosts nearby.
The office feels too small for this conversation. Too formal. My desk suddenly looks ridiculous—files stacked neatly, a map pinned on the wall, mission reports I should be reading and am absolutely not reading. The coffee in my mug went cold fifteen minutes ago, but I keep holding it like it’s doing something useful.
I clear my throat.
He doesn’t look up.
“So,” I try. “Base treating you all right?”
He hums. Noncommittal. The kind of sound a man makes when he’s deciding whether to answer politely or set you on fire and is leaning toward the latter.
“Food’s still terrible,” he says. “Some things never change.”
“Budget cuts,” I mutter.
Silence stretches.
Again.
I have faced enemy generals with more ease than this. Because this isn’t about tactics. This isn’t a negotiation with clear terms and defined risk. This is personal in the ugliest, most fragile way. This is his daughter. And what she means to me. And what I want. And whether I’m arrogant enough to ask for it after everything that’s already happened.
I glance toward the door for the third time in thirty seconds.
Come on, Lilah.
Give me five more minutes.
Or no minutes. Hell, burst in right now and save me.
I rub my beard, fingers restless. The coffee tastes like burnt dirt and regret. My pulse is too loud for a room this quiet.
“Mark,” I say finally, voice low. “I wanted to talk to you about—”
The door bursts open.
“Mom, you have to try it again—”
Delilah storms in first, cheeks flushed, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, eyes bright in a way they haven’t been in months. Not the manic brightness of adrenaline. Not the brittle edge of forced normalcy. Real brightness. The kind that starts somewhere honest. Her mother follows behind her, laughing, still wearing protective earmuffs around her neck like a badge of honor. There’s a smear of grease on one sleeve of her cardigan and absolute triumph in her expression.
“I hit the target, Jon,” her mom announces proudly. “Dead center.”
I blink.
“Twice,” Delilah adds, grinning like she personally discovered gunpowder.
Will finally looks up. “You took your mother to the range?”
Delilah beams. “She was amazing.”
Her mom preens. “Your daughter is an excellent teacher.”
Something warm settles in my chest so fast it almost hurts.
She’s better.
