We don’t hear the door open.
“—and then she nailed the target and I told her—”
Her mom stops.
Will stops.
They stare.
Delilah is in my arms. My mouth is on her neck. My hands are not innocent.
“…Well,” her mom says faintly. “That answers some questions.”
Will closes his eyes. “Lord,” he mutters.
Delilah turns red but I don’t let go.
Not because I’m trying to make a point. Because letting go now would feel too much like shame, and I’m done being ashamed of loving her.
“I was going to ask you,” I say calmly.
Will looks at me–really looks–then at his daughter.
Who looks happy, healthy, strong…
In love.
He lets out a long exhale. The kind of breath a man takes when he realizes the fight he’s been gearing up for has already been decided without him and all he can do now is choose how much grace to bring to the aftermath.
“Bring her home alive,” he says. “Every time.”
There’s no room for bravado in the answer. No clever line. Just truth.
“I will,” I promise.
“And don’t screw it up.”
“Working on that.”
Delilah laughs and kisses my cheek, soft and quick and full of something so warm I feel it all the way down to my ribs. Her mother wipes at one eye like she’s not emotional. Will mutters something that sounds like “unbelievable” but there’s no venom left in it.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, the future doesn’t look like a threat. It looks like something I might actually get to keep.
***
Later that night, in my quarters, with the world finally quiet and no wars demanding attention— She straddles my lap, fingers in my hair, eyes bright.
“So,” she murmurs, hips settling against mine with lazy confidence, “future husband.”
A slow pulse thumps at the base of my spine. “Yeah?”
“About that ring…” Her smile is half-tease, half-challenge, the same look she wore the first time she asked what war felt like.
I grind the stub of my cigar into the ashtray, shove it aside, and slide my hands up the warm line of her thighs. “Let me show you.”
I hook a finger beneath the collar of her oversized Greenport tee—my old PT shirt—and tug her forward until her breath ghosts across my mouth. The room smells like rain-damp concrete and the faint metallic tang of weapons oil; beneath it, she carries sweat, soap, and something unmistakably hers—bright, restless, alive. My pulse kicks harder. Everything in me wants to devour, but I force myself to slow, to savor the privilege of having her here free, unbroken, wanting.
“Jon,” she whispers, the word half-sigh, half-warning. Her nails skim my scalp, a little scrape that draws heat down my spine. “We don’t have to be gentle tonight.”
