She told me a little more about her life while I listened, actually listened, because the way she told stories was magnetic. Animated hands, quick wit, a little self-deprecating humor. I could tell she had insecurities by the way she shared things and often kept her eyes everywhere but on mine.
When she flipped the question back at me, “So what about you? What’s life like now that you’re out?” I kept it vague.
Her eyes searched mine, waiting for more, but I didn’t give it. Not yet. The rest, the late nights, the nightmares, the divorce, stayed locked down. She didn’t push. Just nodded and smiled like she understood more than I’d said. We lingered until the place started closing down.
When I walked her out, the night air was sharp. I wanted to reach for her hand, tuck a curl behind her ear, anything to make the moment last. I didn’t. Not yet.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said, leaning against my truck.
“Thanks for inviting me,” she said, brushing her curls aside. The streetlight caught her smile, almost knocking the air out of me. We stood there a moment, silence heavy but good. She laughed softly. “Guess this means you get a mini golf rematch after all.”
“Looking forward to it,” I said, grinning.
I walked her to her small white Ford hatchback. I wasn’t sure how she fit three car seats inside, but when I opened the door, there they were.
One grey. Two bright pink. All crammed together in the back like puzzle pieces in a space too small for the lives they were holding. The sight stopped me for a second. They weren’t just car seats. They were proof of the world she lived in, the world she carried everywhere with her. Sticky fingers, mismatched socks, little voices calling her name. Those three seats meant three lives depended on her every single day. And if I were being honest, they made the air shift. I’d seen a lot in my life: combat zones, endless desert, explosions that rattled the earth under my boots. But this? Three small seats in the back of a car hit me harder than I expected. It wasn’t theoretical; it wasn’t a story she told over ice cream. It was right there in front of me. Tangible. A reminder that dating her wasn’t just datingher. It was stepping into all of this. Into them.
She noticed me looking and gave a little laugh, almost self-conscious. “Yeah. It’s a tight fit. We make it work.”
I forced a smile, but inside I wasn’t laughing. Inside, I was taking in the gravity of it. Three kids who didn’t know me yet. Three kids who didn’t need another person walking in only to leave. The thought made me uneasy. Not because I didn’t want it. But because I did. She deserved more. One day, I’d get her the car she deserved, which offered space for her and her kids. I respected that she worked hard and did her best; her kids’ smiles showed that, but I hated that she felt she should be embarrassed. Responsibility had once been a weight that broke my back. But standing there, looking atthose three seats? I realized maybe the door wasn’t closed at all. Maybe I’d just been too afraid to try again.
“You’ve got a superhero car,” I said, keeping it light. “Looks small, but it carries a whole world.”
She smiled, brushed a curl behind her ear, and for a second, I wished I could tell her the truth. That I wasn’t scared of the car seats, the noise, or the chaos. I was scared of wanting to belong there too much. “Thanks, Hunter,” she said, voice low. I started to say “Anytime,” but the words stuck.
For a second, we stood there too close, too aware. Then she leaned in and kissed my cheek. It shot through me like a live wire. “Goodnight,” she whispered, cheeks flushed. I couldn’t help but grin.
“Goodnight, Beautiful.” She climbed into her car, and I shut the door behind her, still feeling the ghost of that kiss on my skin. That night, I drove home with a fierce and unfamiliar burning in my chest.
Chapter Eight
Hunter
The apartment was quiet when I walked in, keys hitting the counter with a dull clatter. That was the thing about living alone. The silence pressed in, heavier than any sandbag I’d ever carried. Tonight, after hours of her laughter and the hum of a parlor, it felt suffocating.
I kicked off my shoes, dropped onto the couch, and leaned back. Her face wouldn’t leave my head. Those curls falling into her eyes, the way she smiled when she teased me, the way she looked right at me when she said most men ran from single moms. She didn’t realize it, but I respected the hell out of that honesty.
And yet, underneath the warmth she left me with, the edges of something darker crept in. I should’ve been relaxed. Instead, my body was humming, still on high alert. My shoulders wouldn’t unclench. My jaw ached from being locked. I closed my eyes, tried to breathe it out. But my mind didn’t want to stay in that ice cream shop. It wanted todrag me back.
The hum of the ice cream machine became the whir of a helicopter. The laughter at the next table morphed into shouted orders. The smell from the coffee shop next door twisted into dust and sweat and cordite.
My eyes snapped open, chest tight.
“Not tonight,” I muttered to myself, scrubbing my hands over my face.
I got up, paced the living room, and checked the locks on the door for the third time. Rationally, I knew I was safe. Civilians didn’t think like that, didn’t keep their backs to the wall, didn’t catalog every sound in the night. But my body hadn’t gotten the memo.
Sleep didn’t come easily on nights like this. When it did, it wasn’t peaceful.
Hours later, I jolted awake, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a choke. My heart slammed hard enough to make my ribs ache, each beat too fast, too loud. The room tilted for a second before I realized I was sitting up, palms braced against the couch cushions, shirt clinging to my skin with sweat. My body didn’t get the message that I was safe. Every muscle was still wired tight, waiting for the next hit.
My throat burned, the taste of metal lingering there. My ears rang, sharp and hollow, like the echo of something that wasn’t really there anymore. I could smell it too—dust, smoke, the dry sting of gunpowder that my mind had dragged back from nowhere.
It took a moment for the room to come into focus: the couch, the soft glow of lamplight, the hum of the TV. Home. Not the desert. Not the noise. Just home.
I dropped my face into my hands and dragged in a breaththat trembled on the way out. My body still didn’t believe it. My pulse was a drumbeat against my palms, the edges of my vision still buzzing.
This was the part of me she couldn’t see. The part I didn’t talk about. The part that scared me more than any firefight ever had: the thought of letting someone in, of lettingherin, and her seeing that I wasn’t just guarded. I was haunted. But sometimes, in the moments when the shadows pressed in and my chest felt tight, I tried to hold onto a memory. A small, comforting moment from when I was a kid, before life felt so heavy, like the sound of the engine starting on my first dirt bike, the smell of fall as the leaves changed back home, a simple memory of safety. I focused on my breath, holding myself in the present, and imagined myself standing in that warm kitchen, far from the chaos that now chased me. It didn’t always work, but sometimes it was enough to pull me back from the edge.
