But he was wrong; perfection was never what I needed. I just needed something genuine. The quiet in the middle of the mess. It was trust, built slowly. It was the comfort of being seen and chosen, flaws and all. It was learning to forgive the past, letting hope take root where fear had once lived.
His hands framed my face, reverent this time, as if he was learning me all over again. The tension that had lived between us for weeks melted away. Our breaths mingled in the space between us. In that intimate moment, a faint trace of cypress from his shirt lingered in the air, pulling me deeper into the warmth between us. No words, just the soft rhythm of two people finally letting their guards fall.
His thumb traced the corner of my mouth, a gentle touch that said more than an apology ever could. I fell into it, into him, the weight of everything we’d been carrying finally easing.
He brushed a kiss across my jaw, down to the hollow of my throat, every movement careful, as if he was memorizing what it meant to be allowed this close again. I became acutelyaware of my racing pulse that seemed to echo the tremor in his breath. The unspoken promise in the way his hands moved was deliberate, full of quiet awe. He pressed slow, lingering kisses down my chest, lips, and tongue mapping every inch, leaving a trail of fire in their wake before he settled between my thighs. The room felt charged, the quiet broken only by the quick, uneven cadence of our breathing. Every brush of his mouth, every warm exhale against my skin, made the air feel thick and electric, anticipation building until it almost ached. My body was hyper aware of everything: the slick heat where his hand slid against my body, the way our eyes met for a long heartbeat before he moved closer. Time seemed to stretch, each second heavy with want.
“Hunter,” I whispered, my voice trembling with wanting, not uncertainty. It was permission, a plea for more. He looked up, and in that charged silence, everything else faded. All I could feel was the heat of his mouth, the hunger in his eyes, and the tension winding tight inside me, waiting to snap.
The feel of him at my core left a fire low and wild, need tightening in my belly. The heat of his mouth, the rough scrape of his beard teasing my most sensitive skin, sent shudders racing through me; my hips lifted, desperate for every stroke of his tongue.
The pleasure built, sharp and hot, until I had to bury my face in the blanket, embarrassed by the desperate sounds slipping out. Hunter gently pulled the blanket away as he tilted up my chin, grounding me. When our eyes met, I felt completely exposed, raw, and open.
“I want to see you,” he murmured, voice thick and rough with desire, eyes dark and hungry as they roamed over me.
Before I knew it, I was on him, straddling his hips, my thighs bracketing his. There was only the warmth of his skin beneath my hands, the hard thud of his heart under my palm, the scent of him that was unmistakably his. The room was thick with heat and history; the old arguments, the silence, the distance all faded until only this moment remained.
Night air curled around us, cool against my overheated skin, making every touch feel sharper, every breath more urgent. In that moment, I realized how precious this was. All that existed was us, bodies pressed close, hearts pounding in sync, nothing held back.
As I rocked above him, arching to meet the rhythm we found together, his hands explored everywhere. His fingertips running down my spine, strong palms gripping my hips, pulling me closer with each thrust. His breath was hot against my skin, his voice rough with need, leaving every sound made in the air between us vibrating with tension.
“Damn, Beautiful. I love looking at you like this.” His grip on my hips tightened, holding me firmly as we moved together, eyes locked, the world narrowing to the ache building between us.
He looked at me as if I hung the stars. Like I was the most beautiful thing in his world, and in that moment, I felt just that.
Everything built to a breaking point, and I came undone around him, our bodies moving together until there was nothing left but the sound of our breathing. I collapsed onto his chest, trying to find my breath, my body still trembling from release.
Later, when the room went still again, we stayed tangled together in the quiet. His arm draped over me, his breathtickling my neck. I traced idle patterns against his skin, taking in the feel of him.
He pressed a sleepy kiss to my shoulder, murmuring in a way I couldn’t quite make out as I smiled into the darkness. The weight I’d been carrying didn’t vanish, but it shifted, just enough for me to breathe again.
That night, I drifted to sleep with hope curled against my chest instead of fear. Still, as I faded, a question lingered, quiet and persistent. Could I risk it again? Could I allow myself to dream of a future where Hunter’s promises became part of our life, building something lasting, something the kids could believe in, too?
A small image formed in my mind, a simple yet powerful wish: Saturday mornings filled with pancakes and laughter around the kitchen table, Hunter helping Zeke with his soccer practice, the girls clamoring for bedtime stories from both of us.
Could that dream become our reality, woven into the fabric of our lives, piece by fragile piece?
Chapter Sixty Two
Hunter
Traffic crawled, headlights blurring into the dusk as I made my way back to that small apartment that had become my home, with Camille and the kids, after another therapy session.
Months had slipped by. I could still feel the first click of the timer, the therapist’s rooted gaze, the way her questions pressed against the places I wanted to keep hidden. Three sessions became six, then ten. Each time I walked through that door, it felt a little less like penance and a little more like searching for something I’d lost. Some days, I still bristled, arms crossed, words locked tight behind my teeth. But each session left its mark, softening the edges, letting a little more light in.
I started to notice the triggers before they swallowed me whole. I learned to breathe through the urge to snap. I learned to anchor myself in the present, instead of letting the past pull me under.
The nightmares still came, and the guilt still weighed on me,but it didn’t crush me. And for the first time in a long time, I started to believe maybe I wasn’t broken beyond repair.
With Camille and the kids, everything felt different when I was there. Really there. Not halfway, not slipping out the door at the first sign of my own shadows. I could sit cross-legged on the floor, helping Zeke stack Lego bricks, my mind staying here instead of drifting back to sand and gunfire. I could lift the twins when they squealed for me, just feeling their small arms around my neck, letting myself love them without questioning if I deserved it.
The therapist taught me grounding: those lists of sights, sounds, touches, smells. And at first, I thought it was a joke. But the night Zeke knocked over a glass that shattered against the floor, a sharp jolt ran through me: heartbeat thundering, skin prickling, chest tight. I caught myself counting—couch, window, Zeke’s little hands, Camille’s voice, the smell of dinner—and slowly, I came back. I didn’t snap, didn’t scare him. And later, when I knelt beside him to help clean up, I apologized, showing him that even grown-ups have hard days, and it was never his fault. That mattered.
In another session, I finally admitted what I’d carried for years: the guilt from my second deployment. Decisions I made in Afghanistan, although it wasn’t my fault or my order, I could still recite the names of men who never made it home. I’d told myself their blood was on my hands, and I’d been punishing myself for it without any intention of pardoning myself.
The therapist didn’t argue or try to take it away. She just asked, “What would you tell a fellow Marine carrying the same weight?” I told her I’d say: he did the best he could with what he had; he wasn’t alone; he was still here, and thatmattered. Then she asked why I couldn’t give myself the same grace. That question echoed through every session.
I started tracking my stress the way I used to track supplies. I noticed the tightness in my jaw, the way my shoulders locked, the sharpness in my voice. Instead of swallowing it down until it boiled over, I learned to step away. A walk around the block before seeing Camille, or telling her I needed a few minutes to cool off, these became new rituals. It wasn’t perfect. Some days, the old anger coiled inside me, ready to strike.
