“What is it?” I asked softly, breaking the brief silence.
His voice dropped when he answered. “It’s a unit tattoo. Me, Hunter, Sean, Nick all have it.”
I glanced up at him. “The four of you?”
He nodded once. “Got it after we came back from Afghanistan. It was a bad one.” His voice dipped slightly, as though siphoning out the emotion.
“You lost someone?”
He didn’t look at me when he answered. “Yeah.”
The word landed heavily.
“I’m sorry.”
He let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped for years. “We all are.”
I didn’t ask who. I didn’t ask how. I could feel it in the way his body had gone still, that a door had closed out of habit.
“Hunter mentioned you guys were close,” I said gently.
“He was our baby,” Logan said, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Matt, I mean. He was the youngest, loudest. Thought he was invincible.”
His throat bobbed.
I became acutely aware of everything: the heat of his body, the faint scent of soap and salt, and the way his attention felt like pressure against my skin. A cool breeze from the open window contrasted with the warmth radiating between us, amplifying the tension in the room.
I pulled my hand back slowly, reluctantly, curling it around my glass to give myself something to hold onto.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” he cut in, voice rough.
Logan leaned forward to grab the remote, causing his hand to graze mine.
I inhaled sharply, and he froze.
For a second, just one, his hand stayed there. Not moving. Not retreating. Like he was testing the weight of it.
Then he pulled back.
“Sorry,” he muttered, already shifting further away.
“It’s fine,” I said quickly, even though my pulse was racing. “You didn’t—”
“I should probably take it easy,” he cut in, lifting his beer and realizing it was empty. He frowned at it. “Long day tomorrow.”
Tomorrow; when he had to leave to go back to work and finish out the rest of the two weeks at his post.
I nodded, forcing my body to relax. “Yeah. Of course.”
As I thought about tomorrow, a tightness gripped me, unwelcome and persistent. My fingers unconsciously worried the stem of my wine glass as if trying to unravel the knots inside me. Despite my attempt to brush it off, the disappointment settled in my shoulders, making them slump slightly.
When the episode ended, neither of us moved. Instead, he leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “You ever get that feeling where things are good, but your brain won’t let you just… sit in it?”
I glanced at him, a flicker of anxiety threading through me. I knew exactly what he meant; the silent fear that if everything was still, I’d have to confront how fleeting happiness could be.
“All the time,” I said, forcing a small laugh. Behind that laugh was the unspoken acknowledgment that contentment felt like a distant whisper I was always chasing.
