Me:Don’t get used to it. You’ll start
thinking I’m soft or something.
The dots appeared, disappeared, then came back.
Hunter:Beautiful, you sent me Taylor Swift.
You’re already soft.
Heat flushed my neck and I laughed, burying my face in the pillow. He was relentless.
But when I closed my eyes and the chorus played in my head:
“Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone…”
“You’ll be the prince and I’ll be the princess. It’s a love story, baby, just say, Yes”.
For a moment, I let myself believe that maybe this was my second (or third) chance. This feeling was more than hope. It was a quiet promise, echoing against the old scar I kept hidden. Years ago, when trust broke and love felt impossible, I promised myself I’d only open my heart again if it felt right, truly right. Maybe this thing with Hunter was the answer I’d been waiting for, the light that could finally reach the places I’d kept in shadow.
Chapter Sixteen
Hunter
The base thrummed with the same steady pulse as always. Boots striking pavement, radios murmuring, the quiet choreography of routine. Working as a government contractor never felt glamorous, but it kept me tethered to what I understood. Structure. Familiarity. The comfort of knowing what comes next.
At least, it was supposed to be.
By midmorning, I was on my third energy drink, and my focus was shot. The noise in the office: phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the low hum of conversation, blended into one long, dull blur. I rubbed the back of my neck, exhaustion pressing behind my eyes.
I’d been up half the night airing out my apartment. The place still smelled faintly of smoke and burnt chicken, a reminder of how badly I’d screwed up dinner.
Dinner had been my way of saying thanks. Camille had invited me into her world, given me time that I knew was valuable. It had meant more than I’d expected. I’d wanted todo something small, something normal, to show her that I didn’t take any of it for granted.
But the second she walked through my door, all plans went out the window.
Every time she laughed, it hit me right in the gut. I’d told myself to concentrate, to act like I had a handle on things, but the truth was, I couldn’t keep my hands off her. She made every rational thought scatter.
Music had been playing low from the speaker; some country playlist that was supposed to feel casual but now felt too intimate. The soft light from the window caught the edges of her hair as she leaned against the counter, barefoot, curls messy and falling out of some knot on top of her head.
She leaned against the counter, barefoot, curls wild and falling loose around her face. Oil popped in the pan, and behind me, she was humming. I didn’t tell her I liked it. I just let it fill the space.
She’d changed out of her scrubs into one of my old T-shirts that hung off one shoulder, and I was doing my best to focus on dinner instead of her.
“You keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna burn the chicken,” I said, flipping the spatula in my hand to distract myself.
She tilted her head, smiling in that way that made my chest go tight. “You mean the chicken that’s already smoking?”
I turned, smirking. “You volunteering to take over?”
“Maybe,” she teased, stepping closer and peaking over my shoulder, her voice dipping just enough to make my pulse jump. “But, you seem pretty confident.”
“Confident?” I grinned. “It’s called skill, Beautiful.”
“You mean, ego?” she shot back, crossing her arms.
“Maybe. Good thing you’re here to keep me humble.”
Her laugh filled the small space, bouncing off the walls.
