“I can’t undo it,” I admit. “If I could, I would. If I could take every mission back, every night she spent in a field instead of a dorm room, I would.”
That isn’t even entirely true and we both know it. I would take back the pain. The blood. The terror. The part where men like Mikhail got their hands on her. But I would never take away what she became. And that’s the part I can’t say out loud to her father without sounding like a monster.
He studies me, eyes narrowing slightly the way they used to before he made a call in the field. Measuring. Deciding whether I’m worth the next question.
“Do you love her?” he asks suddenly.
The question knocks the air out of me.
Somewhere in the kitchen, a drawer opens and shuts. A chair scrapes softly over tile. The whole house seems to pause.
King freezes. I can’t see him, but I know he does. Probably mid-reach for a cookie he was told not to touch.
I don’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Will closes his eyes. Not for long. Just long enough that I can see the cost of hearing it. When he opens them again, there’s grief there. Not rage. Not hatred.
Grief.
“That’s the worst part,” he says quietly. “Because I know you do. I’ve seen how you look at her.”
The words hit low and ugly. Because he has. Because apparently everyone has. Because whatever I thought I was hiding behind command and distance and bad timing must’ve been showing all along in the places I couldn’t control—my hands, my eyes, the way I moved when she walked into a room.
He shakes his head. “And I still don’t forgive you.”
I nod. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”
Silence falls again.
This time it’s different. Less sharp. No less painful. Just more honest. The kind that comes after a truth you can’t put back in your mouth once it’s out.
Then movement in the hallway.
I glance up.
Delilah is coming down the stairs, barefoot, hair loose over her shoulders, wearing one of her old college hoodies like she’s trying to fit into a life she outgrew. She pauses at the bottom, gives her parents a soft goodnight, then starts back up. She looks tired in that bone-deep way that has nothing to do with sleep. Softer here. Younger. And still nothing like the girl in the framed graduation photo in the hallway.
She doesn’t look at me.
I don’t call her name.
I just watch her disappear.
And suddenly—
I’m somewhere else.
It’s past midnight on base. Everything is quiet except the distant hum of generators and the dull thud of fists on leather. The air smells like rain on concrete and old rubber mats. One overhead light in the gym is out, leaving the far corner in shadow. The place should be empty this late. It isn’t.
I follow the sound to the gym.
She’s there.
Alone.
Hair in a messy ponytail. Sweat darkening her tank top. Knuckles wrapped. Breathing hard as she drives punch after punch into the bag like she’s fighting something invisible and refusing to lose. Her shoulders are taut. Her jaw is set. There’s rage in the way she moves, but it’s clean rage. Useful. The kind a soldier turns into repetition because repetition is easier than grief.
