We will rebuild.
I bit my lip, grinning down at the screen. He made it so easy. Effortless.
When the kids were finally asleep, I collapsed on the couch, blanket pulled up around me, textbooks glaring at me from the table. My brain screamed,study.My heart whispered,text him again.
I gave in.
Me:Thanks for ice cream the other day. It
was nice to just… be a person. Not “Mom”
or “student” or “employee.” Just me.
Hunter:You are pretty great as “just you.”
But for the record, I think you being
a mom and student is perfect too.
I covered my face with the blanket, groaning into it. Who evensaysstuff like that? Men were supposed to vanish at the word “kids,” not compliment me for juggling them.
Still, my cheeks hurt from smiling and I let myself laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. I was running on fumes, my to-do list was never-ending, and somewhere in all the chaos there was this man.
This man who made me laugh in ice cream shops. This man who texted me about Lego casualties. This man who made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t too much. And that was both the funniest and scariest thing of all, because this little space told the story of who I was: a woman doing the best she could with what she had. A woman patching together stability from the scraps life had left her. A woman who’d been left behind more than once before, and who still feared she might be again.
I tucked my blanket tighter, letting myself imagine, just for a heartbeat, what it might feel like to hear his laugh echoing in this apartment. What it might feel like to watch him step over toys, sit at my table, sip coffee from one of my mismatched mugs.
It was a dangerous dream. But it made me smile anyway.
And as I finally turned off the lamp, sinking into the too-small couch with textbooks still scattered across the table, the last thought that carried me into sleep was simple, terrifying, and impossible to shake.
Chapter Ten
Hunter
Ireturned my phone to my pocket as I walked into the clinic. The VA waiting room always smelled the same, like stale coffee and hand sanitizer. The walls were a bland beige, the kind of color that made you want to disappear into them.
I sat in the hard chair, jaw tight, boot tapping against the floor. Across from me, a guy I half-recognized from base years ago stared into space, eyes glazed. Another rubbed his hands together so hard it sounded like sandpaper. None of us talked. That was the unspoken rule. When my name was called, I stood too fast, shoulders already squared.
The therapist’s office wasn’t much better. There were posters about breathing exercises on the wall, an outdated desk stacked with papers, and two chairs facing each other like a trap. I took the edge of the chair, hands clasped in my lap, posture stiff.
“So, Hunter,” she began, voice calm, practiced. “How have things been since we last spoke?”
“Fine” was my default. But the truth wouldn’t stay down, pounding against my ribs with the memory of crouching in that dark room, breath caught on a ghost.
Instead, I shrugged. “Busy. Work. Life.”
She tilted her head. “Any trouble with triggers lately?”
The word made my skin crawl. Triggers. As if I were a malfunctioning weapon.
I clenched my jaw. “Nothing new.”
She studied me quietly, waiting for me. And I hated it. Hated the way she was trying to read me like I was a file on her desk. Marines aren’t supposed to talk about feelings. Marines push through. Handle it. The first thing drilled into us was don’t show weakness. Don’t show cracks, that’s what gets you killed.
And I learned it long before boot camp. My dad had made sure of that. I could still hear his voice, sharp as a belt:Stop crying. Toughen up. No son of mine is soft.
So I didn’t cry. Didn’t talk. Didn’t break. I locked it all down, carried it tight, because being a man meant control. Except I wasn’t in control anymore. I could handle firefights, deployments, and missions. But I couldn’t handle the sounds of the neighborhood kids accidentally throwing a ball against my window or a nightmare as I tried to sleep in the comfort of my own bed.
