I kept my arms around her. One hand resting at her waist. Grounding her. And perhaps myself.
My other hand reached for the bag.
She caught the movement and tilted her head up, her cheek sliding softly against my chest as she looked at me—eyes still glassy in the dim light, lashes damp, something open and unguarded in her expression that left me briefly, stupidly still.
I held up the whiskey.
“Seems appropriate,” I said.
The corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough.
I twisted the cap off and took a sip. It burned, and I welcomed it. Then I held it out to her.
She hesitated for half a second before taking it, her fingers brushing mine around the neck of the bottle. Incidental. I noticed it anyway. She tipped the bottle back and took too much, and went rigid, coughing hard against my chest as she tried to stifle the sound.
A quiet breath escaped me. Almost a laugh.
“Easy.”
She swallowed, pressing her hand lightly against my chest as she caught herself. Even in the dark, I could see the flush climbing her throat.
“God,” she said, her voice hoarse. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah, it really is.”
She shifted, a small adjustment that seemed to make her suddenly aware of everything at once: her hand on my chest, the line of her hip against mine. I felt the change in her, a sudden tension that radiated from her. Her gaze shot from my chestto my face, wide and uncertain. The whiskey bottle, forgotten between us.
I tightened my grip. Not much, but enough to make the point.
“Don’t,” I said. Softer than I’d intended. “This is okay.”
For a moment, she hesitated there, eyes cast somewhere past my shoulder. Then her eyes dropped. Her shoulders slumped. And the hand that had pulled away from my chest slowly relaxed.
She settled back into me. Her head came to rest against my chest again, lighter this time—testing, as if she needed to confirm the permission once more before she trusted it fully.
I let out a slow breath, leaned back against the wall, and kept my arm around her. My thumb found a steady, unconscious rhythm at her waist. Back and forth, barely there. Neither of us acknowledged it.
The whiskey passed between us one more time. Her second sip slid down without a fight. She didn’t cough—just breathed deep, and I tracked the way her body softened another degree against mine.
Then I spoke.
“I spent almost a decade in the SEALs.” My voice was quiet, unhurried. Below, something shifted in the dark—a sound like wind through broken glass, there and then gone. Neither of us looked toward it.
She didn’t move. But her attention sharpened; I could tell by the shift in her breathing. Shallower. Focused entirely on me.
I swallowed.
“What you did,” I continued, my voice dropping lower. “What you did for Lily… I’ve walked into enemy fire, done things people call brave. It was always with a team at my back, with an objective. What you did… alone… that’s a different kind of courage.”
She stilled.
“No.” The word came fast—fragile but firm, like something she’d rehearsed in the mirror a thousand times and still hadn’t convinced herself of. “No, it’s not. I—”
“It is.” Not harsh. Certain.
She pulled back enough to look up at me. The darkness reduced her to outlines—the shape of her jaw, the faint shine of her eyes, the parting of her lips—but I could read enough. More than enough.
“You don’t know—” she started.
