I remembered his texts from a few nights ago, the way he’d said it so simply.I’m not active duty anymore. Did ten years before getting out a year and a half ago. I’m a government contractor on the same base now.He hadn’t offered more, and I hadn’t asked. Still, the mention of his military past left me tangled in curiosity and caution. There was somethingdependable in that kind of service, a dedication that hinted at who he was beneath the surface. But I couldn’t help wondering what a decade in the military did to a person, what it left behind. I wanted to ask what made him leave, if he missed it, or if the shift to civilian life still felt strange. The questions hovered, quiet and insistent, threads I wanted to pull until his story unraveled between us.
Instead, I gasped, letting the drama fill my voice. “So you admit it! You’ve been hiding behind retired military pictures. Definitely a scam.” I pressed my lips together, fighting off a wave of childish giggles.
His grin widened, all boyish mischief. He leaned in, the camera catching the way his smile tugged sideways. “First off, a catfish is when someone pretends to be someone else completely. Fake name, fake pictures, different age, the whole scam. That’s not me at all,” He lifted a brow.
“Fine! You’re right. I guess I’ll give you a pass.” I said, shaking my head, trying not to smile.
He laughed under his breath, low and rough. “A pass? Careful, Cami. You hand those out too easily, and I might start thinking you actually like talking to me.”
I rolled my eyes, though the corners of my lips betrayed me. “Maybe I just feel sorry for you.”
“Yeah?” he said, leaning in a little closer, voice warm and teasing. “Funny. Although it doesn’t sound like pity when you say it.”
“I’m at a loss for words,” I said, half laughing, half breathless.
His grin turned lazy, eyes dark with amusement. “Didn’t think that was possible. Should I be proud or worried?” The confidence in his voice wrapped around me. And the truth? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled this much withanyone.
I tucked my legs beneath me on the couch, chewing my lip, wishing I didn’t feel so exposed through a glowing screen.
We talked until my cheeks ached from smiling. Our conversation drifted: the motorcycle he’d been working on before our call, his family, the Marine Corps, my dream of becoming a therapist, my craving for vanilla ice cream. Each piece slotted into place with a kind of ease I wasn’t used to. The conversation made me forget everything else I had going on. Connection with him was a breath of fresh air: equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
“So,” he started, drawing the word out. “Since I’ve already survived your catfish accusations, when do I get to redeem myself in person?”
I blinked. “Redeem yourself?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding as if it were obvious. “I think mini golf should do it.”
I raised a brow. “Mini golf?”
I should be careful. Careful protects me and the kids; being careless brings pain. Letting someone new in means risking more than my feelings. It was risking three little hearts, too. Last time, trusting someone cost pieces of myself I didn’t get back whole, and I can’t do that again. Am I ready for this? Still, as he looked at me, doubt tangled with hope. Why does his gaze make me feel seen and dangerous at once? My hand moved to my hair again, signaling nerves I swore I’d hide.
He smirked knowingly. “Am I making you nervous?”
I groaned, covering my face with my hand before dropping it just enough to peek at him through my fingers, and he winked. Heat crept up my neck, and I hated how fast my stomach flipped.Ugh, I’m ridiculous. He’s just a guy on a screen.Stop acting like a teenager.
I muttered. “I’m not nervous.”
He leaned in closer, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the screen filled with that maddeningly confident face. “You are. And it’s cute.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I was sure he saw it. “Stop calling me cute. I’m a grown woman.”
His brows lifted, tone dipping into something low and teasing. “Who says grown women can’t be cute? ”
I shook my head, biting down on a grin I couldn’t stop. “You really don’t quit, do you?”
“Not when it comes to you,” he said, leaning in again, voice warm and smooth, “And you don’t seem to mind. You’re still on this call.”
My stomach fluttered. My fingers tightened around the phone. Should I say no? Should I remind him how impossibly messy my life is? Everything feels tangled and relentless: last night, up past midnight finishing a report as the twins clambered out of bed, convinced monsters lurked in their closet. This morning, syrup from Zeke’s breakfast cooled on my bare feet while I tripped over a forgotten toy, a plastic wheel pressed into my shin. Chaos reigns, every moment demanding, barely space to breathe. Yet underneath, I ache for a sliver of peace. Could someone fit into this whirlwind, bring laughter and warmth? All I managed was, “I’ll… let you know… About mini golf. My schedule’s crazy.”
“Fair enough,” he said easily, no pressure in his tone, just reassurance. “But I’ll hold you to it. Mini golf. You and me.”
And that’s when my pulse skipped, because he didn’t sound annoyed or disappointed. He sounded sure. Like he had all the time in the world.
“Okay, fine,” I said, fumbling for composure. “Mini golf sounds fun.”
“Good. Talk soon, Beautiful,” he said, his voice low and warm.
When the screen went black, I just sat there for a moment, staring at my own flushed face in the dark reflection of my phone.
