i’d love to see me from your point of view

The truck hums on where you're sitting, engine still running idly. It's pushing heat through the vents that curls around your legs and settles at the dash. One of your hands rests low on your stomach, your thumb moving in slow circles to soothe the son in your womb. The other hand keeps the puppy, that Waylon had so desperately been asking for and what this weekend trip was all about, steady in your lap as he squirms. His fur is tinted blue and grey, speckled all over, with black ears. His paws are too big for his body and his little nose twitches at every new smell.

You glance toward your in-laws house. Mac had disappeared inside a few minutes ago to pick up the spawn. Leaving you out here to wait as you listen to the engine whir and the faint rustle of the trees.

The puppy lets out a tiny huff and tries to climb higher against you, to get a better look out the window. "Easy." You mumble to him, adjusting him carefully over your stomach. "You're gonna meet him in a second. I promise. But you've gotta be cool." You say softly, fingernails scratching gently at the puppy's back. 

This dog does not, in fact, be cool. His tail thumps harder as soon as the front door opens. He lets out a little yelp and then a howl. You straighten your back the best you can, hoping they cannot hear the noise inside the truck.

Waylon steps outside first and Mac follows a step behind him. One hand briefly brushing the back of his neck as they walk. They're talking but you cant hear what they're saying, thank God. If you can’t hear them, they probably can’t hear you. You maneuver the puppy down into your lap as he opens the back door. 

"Hey bub." You smile gently, turning your head to look over your shoulder at him as you try your best to manage the puppy, who thankfully isn't making much noise anymore.

"Hi mama." He answers, pulling his backpack up into his lap as Mac shuts the door behind him. He picks at the seam of it as Mac circles the truck to the driver's side, giving the hood of the truck a light tap as he passes. 

The canine in your lap, finally lets out a little playful growl as he bites at your hoodie sleeve. Waylon freezes in place, lifting his head from the canvas bag in front of him to you. "What is that?" He asks as he sits up. His eyes lock on the little ball of blue-grey fluff sitting on your lap. Confusion hits him first and then surprise smacks him so hard it seems like it knocks all the breath from his lungs. 

The pup lifts its head from your sleeve. His ears perk up and he immediately tries to scale the middle console to get to the boy waiting in the backseat. You cant help the small smile that tugs at your lips when Waylon catches the puppy. "The rescue named him Tucker, but you don't have to keep it if you don't like it." 

Tucker makes a tiny, excited yip as he stretches over the console, his front paws slipping as he tries to get closer to Waylon. Waylon doesn't pull back. He just watches with wide eyes. His eyes flick up between you and his dad as Mac settles into the drivers seat. "He's… really cute." Waylon says softly, smiling as he lifts his hand.

You shift Tucker just enough that he can climb onto the console, closer to Way. "Go on." You say softly. Waylon's fingers press into the fur at the top of his head, petting him gently. And Tucker loses his mind. His tail whips back and forth quickly, his little body wiggling, he presses his nose against Waylon's hand like this is the best thing he's ever experienced. "He likes you." You say softly.

Waylon nods and smiles, looking up at you. "Is he ours?"

You shake your head gently and you swear you can see him deflating. You reach back to tuck back a strand of his hair. "He's yours, kiddo." 

He looks up at you then, shock on his face. "Mine?!"

"Yeah." You nod, "Just yours." You look over at Mac whose twisted in his seat slightly, one arm hooked over the top of the wheel. He watches the two of you interact without interrupting. 

Waylon looks at Tucker then before reaching forward and pulling him from the console down into his lap. He scratches behind his ears, grinning. Tucker just melts into it, licking his face lovingly. "He's gonna sleep in my room." Waylon says softly, just holding his new four legged best friend close. 

Sam

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

The silence in the downstairs bedroom was textured by the ghost of a life that hadn’t been his. Sam sat upright, his back propped against the mountain of pillows Jolene had meticulously arranged, his gaze fixed on the single window that looked out into the yard. Outside, a squirrel skittered across the neglected lawn, its movements erratic as it scampered around, indifferent to the man watching from behind the glass. Sam felt a bitterness toward the creature’s mobility. Envy that he immediately tried to swallow down.

His eyes drifted to the corner of the room, lingering on a stack of old books tucked away on the mahogany dresser. Relics of the man who had breathed his last between these four walls. Every time the sun dipped low and the room bathed in that twilight orange, Sam felt the weight of it. He hated this. He hated that Jolene’s compassion had forced her into this temporary sanctuary, because he knew it contained the geography of her grief. Worse than that, he was a constant reminder of mortality in a room that already held too much of it. The memory of that raw moment only a few nights ago, where Jolene had finally stopped holding back her tears and begged him to just be kind, still hummed beneath his skin like an open nerve. It had been the point of no return.

Two days later, at his first physical therapy appointment, he hadn't been focused on the stretches or the ache of the metal plates in his leg. He had been looking for a way to stop the poison. He remembered the antiseptic scent of the clinic, the way he’d cornered his doctor near the supply closet, his voice softly demanding in a way that left no room for debate: Cut the dosage. As much as possible or switch him to naproxen. He had lied to her at the pharmacy later that same afternoon, saying that with the progress his doctors were going to stop writing a prescription for the good stuff. When she’d looked at the bottle, her brow furrowed in that way that usually preceded a question, he’d told her it was just a switch because he was doing so well. He had looked her in the eyes, his own vision swimming with the beginnings of withdrawal, and lied with a steadiness that made him feel like a stranger to himself.

He’d made the choice because he had finally understood the situation he was in. The pain of a throbbing, broken leg was a penance he could endure because comparatively, the agony of hearing Jolene’s voice crack as she pleaded for him to stop being cruel? That was something he couldn't survive. But the reality of the trade-off was becoming so intense in his leg, that he felt more delirious from the pain than he had at times from the medications. The physical pain, previously dampened by the haze of narcotics, had returned with a vindictive clarity. It was a constant, pulsating agony that made his teeth ache, a fire that crept up from his ankle and anchored itself behind his eyes.

Even worse was the mental fog. Coming off the high-dose regimen hadn't been the instant return to clarity he’d naively anticipated. Instead, it was a blurred transition. His nerves were frayed wires, reacting to the slightest shift in the room's temperature. Reality felt slippery. One moment dizzying then sharp all at once. He struggled with discerning the paranoid echoes of the drugs and the painful truth of his own fragility. Sam was in control, and for the first time, he was terrified of what he might say if the pain finally pushed him over the edge again.

The shift in his chemistry had stripped away the golden haze that used to soften the edges of the world, leaving Sam’s senses uncomfortably attuned. It was as if he’d been watching a film in a blur, and someone had suddenly snapped the focus into place, revealing a level of detail that was both addictive and overwhelming.

He found himself cataloging Jolene like a man starving for reality, his eyes tracing the minutiae of her existence. He’d spent days watching her move through the room, tethered to the rhythm of her habits. It was in the small notes she left on the nightstand. Like reminders to drink water or eat, written in her hurried, slanted script. He’d been staring at one for twenty minutes, fixated on the way she wrote her G’s. They weren’t standard loops. She pulled the tail up and tucked it in, a weird, idiosyncratic shorthand that looked like a combined C and T fused together. It was a bizarre, tiny piece of her anatomy he’d never noticed before.

Then there was the way she looked when she didn't know he was watching.

He tracked the stubborn, tight curl pattern at her temples. There was a lock that always fought the gravity of the rest of her hair. It would dive into her cheek, dancing along the line of her jaw, before springing back out with a life of its own. He watched the light catch the strands, the way the deep auburn fire of her hair transitioned into that lighter, softer shade of copper as it moved down her back.

In the evenings, when the house finally quieted and the weight of his own body forced him to retreat to the bed, she would slide in beside him, carrying the scent of soap and steam from the shower. It was the only time he felt truly steady. He’d watch her settle, her breathing slowing as the fatigue of the day finally claimed her. When her eyes fluttered shut, he was struck by the vulnerability of her face. Her lashes were thick, but he noticed how the very tips of them were thin and light, almost translucent against the porcelain pale of her eyelid. In the harsh glare of the daylight, he knew those same lashes were weighed down by dark mascara. But here, in the private sanctuary of their life, she was unadorned.

But even unadorned, she felt unreachable, and that was the knife twist.

Sam shifted his weight, his leg sending a flare of hot, white static up his thigh. It was difficult to rationalize that he was still paying for his months of medicated cruelty. He kept his gaze fixed on the yard, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with pain as he measured the distance between him and Jolene.

He thought about the way her bottom lip tucked just slightly under her top while she slept, a habit he’d only just identified. It made her look younger, softer, and infinitely more fragile. It made him want to reach out and brush his thumb against it, to see if she would wake up and smile, or if she would flinch, expecting a lash of his tongue instead of a caress. That was the terrifying crux of his sober reality. Yes, he was seeing her clearly, but he was simultaneously terrified that his presence was a permanent blight on her peace.

The squirrel was gone, leaving nothing behind but the empty, swaying branch. The house felt suffocatingly quiet. He felt a bead of sweat track down his temple. Every memory of the last few months flooded back. Every harsh word, every time he’d seen her flinch, every time he’d let his own physical torment dictate his humanity, was replaying in high definition. He looked down at his own hands and wondered how she had stood it. How she had continued to make him dinner, how she had continued to adjust the pillows, how she had continued to look at him with anything other than patience. But even as the thought unnerved him, a far more pressing reality began to claw at his lower abdomen. The water he’d forced down an hour ago, an attempt to flush the medicinal rot from his system, was demanding an exit.

Jolene was at the shop. He was alone, and he was faced with the most humbling gauntlet of his recovery.

He gripped the edge of the mattress, his knuckles turning a bloodless white. His leg felt like a rusted pipe filled with molten lead, and as he shifted his weight to pivot, a groan ripped from his chest before he could stifle it. He had to be careful. The physical therapy team had been clear about the rotation limits, but in the solitude of the room and driven by the need to piss, he felt reckless. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the sudden shift in blood pressure causing his vision to white out for a moment. He waited, teeth gritted, until the world stopped spinning.

The wheelchair sat like a waiting predator a few feet away. Reaching it was a series of small, agonizing calculations. He moved in increments, using his good leg to push, his upper body sweating beneath his t-shirt. When he finally locked his hands onto the armrests and hoisted himself across. He breathed a sigh of relief, unlocking the wheels with a clack. Rolling toward the en-suite felt like maneuvering a barge through a narrow canal. The chair rolled over the hardwood, the sound amplified by his own heightened senses. Once inside the bathroom, he had to navigate the tight turn. He backed in, the wheels scraping the doorframe, until he was positioned just right.

He reached for the handheld urinal. It was ironic. A man who so frequently pissed in plastic bottles on the job, he felt the burn of shame in his own house with a medical piece of plastic that accomplished the same objective. He fumbled for his sweatpants, the simple act of undoing the drawstring feeling like a battle against his own lack of dexterity. His hands shook. As he maneuvered, the ache in his leg flared into a localized sting at the site of his surgical incisions. He kept his eyes fixed on the scuffed wood of the floor, his breathing shallow. The act itself was a grueling exercise in focus. A series of micro-adjustments to ensure the plastic was positioned correctly while keeping his injured leg extended and stable, all while every movement was a negotiation with gravity. 

He waited, impatient and irritable, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. When he was finished, the task of cleanup and then stowing the container and securing himself back into his pants felt like running a marathon. He was exhausted. Drained by a simple life function that used to take him seconds.  He sat there for a long moment in the bathroom, listening to the drip of the faucet, feeling the sweat cool on his neck. He was clean, he was managed, but he was utterly, painfully alone. The silence of the house pressed in, no longer filled with the comforting sound of Jolene’s humming or the clatter of the kitchen from when she ran by at lunch. He looked at his hands again, noticing how they were still trembling, and felt unfiltered anger at the man he had become. Sam knew that the hardest part of the day wasn't the pain. It was having to face himself in the mirror when he passed it, and seeing the hollow look of a man who was still trying to figure out how to come to terms with his new life. He gripped the rubber-rimmed wheels, his shoulders burning with the exertion as he turned the chair around, maneuvering in the cramped bathroom. The path toward the bed felt longer than it should have, but as he passed the bathroom vanity, he couldn't help but flick his eyes upward, an involuntary glance he immediately regretted. 

The bathroom mirror was a liar. It showed a man Sam didn’t recognize. His hair was the worst of it. A chaotic crown of overgrown, honey-brown curls that felt like a mocking costume. They were too soft, too long, too much like the life he was supposed to be living now, rather than the one he’d been stripped of. The chair itself felt like a cage beneath him, which was ironic considering the actual cage holding his bones together. The silence of the Virginia house was deafening with Jolene still at work. It gave the pain too much room to breathe. 

Permanent Medically Retired. The phrase echoed in his skull. Sure, it wasn’t official, but his command wouldn’t be blunt with him about the harsh reality of the situation if it weren’t on the horizon. That line jotted down on a document was months off but the reality was being lived actively, even if he was only temporarily placed on medical leave. 

Sam leaned forward, his hands shaking as he gripped the edge of the sink. His fingers brushed against the cabinet door below. He knew what was in there. He’d always kept them in the downstairs bathroom for Sunday afternoons. The ritual with him and Jolene took place at the kitchen table while Chewie ran in the backyard. It was a relic from a time when life was much simpler and not defined by his medical chart. He dug in the cabinet depths until his fingers closed around the heavy plastic of the clippers. Body on autopilot as he plugged them into the wall outlet, snatching the towel off the wall and tossing it over his lap. The motor kicked over with an aggressive buzz that vibrated straight through his palm and up his arm, grounding him for a fleeting second. Sam didn't hesitate. He pressed the cold steel teeth directly against the center of his forehead, right at the hairline where the curls were thickest.

With a single, steady shove, he plowed the clippers back. A massive hunk of dark, curly hair fell away, tumbling onto his shoulder before sliding down to the wood floor below. He watched it in the mirror, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He did it again. And again. The clippers moved in desperate swathes with slightly trembling hands. The soft, civilian curls he’d grown in the hospital being replaced by the pale, vulnerable skin of his scalp. It looked raw. The sight suddenly offputting instead of relieving. "Too much," he whispered. 

The intense pain in his leg made the falling hair look like it was moving in slow motion, drifting through the air like autumn leaves. He was trying in vain to claw back to the only version of himself that made sense. The one who was stripped down, ready for the dirt, and unburdened by the softness of a life he no longer knew how to navigate. He was halfway through, his head a mess of uneven stubble and patches of skin, when the sound of the front door distracted him. He stared at his reflection with head half-shorn, eyes wild and rimmed with red, and paused. The front door clicked shut, followed by the familiar scuff of Jolene’s boots on the hardwood. "Sam? Sorry I’m running late. The pharmacy took forever and 64 was a nightmare, I can start on din–"

She stopped dead in the bathroom doorway. She looked at the floor, covered in dark, severed curls, and then at Sam. He was hunched over in the chair, the clippers frozen against the side of his head, looking like a man trying to skin his own shadow.

Jolene took a slow, steadying breath, her eyes darting from his wild gaze to the lopsided mohawk he’d carved into himself. "Well," she said, her voice forced into a lightness that didn't quite reach her eyes, "I knew you were bored, Sam, but I didn't think you were this bored. I feel like you should’ve said ‘It’s Britney Bitch’ when I walked in."

The joke hit the air and lingered. Sam’s hand trembled, the clippers still buzzing, but the manic energy suddenly drained out of him. His shoulders slumped, the weight of the moment crashing down as the fog of his mind swirled. "I just..." He looked down at his lap, at the hair clinging to his shirt. "I couldn't look at it anymore, Jo. Every time I saw it, I just saw a guy who’s supposed to be able to stand up and walk out the door." He rubbed a hand over the raw, stubbled patch above his ear, his expression twisting. "I look like a half-plucked chicken. God, I’m an idiot. I shouldn't have... fuck–"

Jolene moved then, closing the distance between them. She didn't scold him. She didn't look horrified. She just reached out and gently took the clippers from his hand, switching them off and setting them on the counter.

"Hey," she whispered, cupping his jaw and she knelt enough to match his height. "Look at me."

"I’m a mess," he muttered, his eyes glassy. "The pain makes everything feel like a good idea for five minutes and then a disaster for the next fifty."

"Clearly," she murmured, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. "You could’ve at least slapped a guard on the thing, Sam. You didn't have to go full deployment mode. I would've helped you with a fade if you'd just waited twenty minutes." She stepped behind him, her hands moving to the collar of his t-shirt. "Come on. Out of this."

He leaned forward, allowing her to pull the shirt over his head, the fabric catching on the loose hair. Once he was bare-chested, vulnerable in the harsh fluorescent light, she tilted the wheelchair back slightly so his head rested against her stomach as she ran her fingers over the sections until she determined there was no salvaging it. She picked up the clippers, clicking them back to life. The sound was steadier in her hand. As she began to mow down the remaining patches of curls, the metal felt cool against his heated skin. "Good grief, Sam," she commented softly as a fresh wave of honey-brown hair fell away, revealing the stark whiteness of his scalp. “We’re definitely going to need to get some sun on this before you go out in public, or you’ll blind the physical therapist."

Sam closed his eyes, the vibration of the clippers humming through his skull. The anger was gone, replaced by a quiet exhaustion, but her touch kept him from drifting too far into the dark. He just sat there letting her finish the job he’d started in a moment of brokenness. Jolene worked with a steady hand, the clippers humming a monotonous tune that finally started to drown out the buzzing in Sam’s head. He watched in the mirror, his eyes tracked the silver blades as they mowed down the last of the defiant curls over his ears. As the symmetry returned, the man looking back at him was stark, his features sharpened and his brow appearing heavier without the soft fringe of hair to break it up.

"There," she murmured, flicking the power switch. He reached up, his palm rasping against the velvet-short stubble. It felt like sandpaper. But seeing the pile of hair in the sink made a fresh knot of guilt tighten in his stomach. The graveyard of hair she had started to twirl around her finger while they watched movies in the evenings, now stuck to his chest and in his lap. Hair she’d spent weeks praising as it grew back in the hospital, tracing it with gentle fingers while he slept.  "Jo, I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. He didn't look at her, only at the reflection of her hands resting on his shoulders. "I know you liked it."

Jolene leaned down, pressing her cheek against the top of his head. She caught his gaze in the mirror and held it. "Sam, look at me," she said. "I fell in love with a guy who rocked a buzzcut. It’s just hair, remember?" She gave his shoulders a playful squeeze, trying to pull him back from the edge of his own regret. "Besides, let’s be real. I know one day this is all going to start retreating on its own anyway. I’m still going to be right here. I'm not going to care then, and I certainly don't care now." Sam let out a long breath, his head dropping back against her. The tension didn't leave him entirely, but the edges of his internal monologue started to dull. "You really are covered in this, though," she noted, brushing a stray clump of hair off his collarbone. "We need to get you in the shower and wash the rest of this off before it drives you crazy."

She moved to the side, reaching for the shower handle to let the water warm up, and then she paused, glancing back at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"So, tell me now," she teased, pointing a finger at him. "Are you going to be a total grump about me helping you in there tonight? Because last night was truly awful, Sam. I’ve had more cooperation from a wet cat. If you're going to give me that 'I can do it myself' glare while I'm trying to make sure you don't slip, I might just leave you in here to itch."

Sam managed a weak, ghost of a smile. The first real one in days. The pain laced exhaustion made his limbs feel like lead, and the thought of navigating the bench and the handheld spray felt like a mission he wasn't prepared for alone. "No," he muttered, his voice low but sincere. "No grumping. I promise. Just... keep the water hot."

Jolene didn’t wait for him to change his mind. She knelt on the cold floor, her movements methodical as she reached for the roll of heavy-duty plastic wrap and the waterproof medical tape they kept stocked. "Okay, G.I. Jane," she murmured, "Let’s get the hardware ready for the car wash."

Sam looked down at his leg, and the familiar wave of detachment hit him. His leg wasn't really a leg anymore; it was a construction project. The Taylor Spatial Frame was a nightmare of stainless steel rings and telescopic struts that pierced through his skin and anchored directly into the shattered remnants of his tibia and fibula. The six carbon-fiber rods were adjusted by millimeters every day to pull his bone back into alignment, a slow, agonizing stretching of his anatomy. Something he’d assumed by now he’d be used to and yet, continued to be surprised to learn he hadn’t acclimated yet. Jolene began the tedious process of wrapping the frame. She worked from the top ring down to the ankle, winding the plastic tight enough to keep the water out but loose enough not to compress the sensitive soft tissue.

"I have to say, Sam," she said, glancing up with a half-smirk as she smoothed the tape over the top seal, "I’m genuinely impressed. In the middle of your manic moment, you actually had the foresight to toss this towel over the cage." She patted the thick terrycloth that had shielded the frame from the falling hair. "If we’d gotten those tiny hairs into your pin sites, we’d be looking at a one-way ticket to an infection and a very angry orthopedic surgeon."

Sam grunted, his fingers tightening on the armrests of the wheelchair. "Didn't want the pins to itch. Bad enough as it is." And he wasn’t lying. The way the pin sites still continued to produce a nasty ooze of fluid, leaving them to eventually dry and crust over meant a constant state of itching sores he couldn’t scratch. It reminded him of childhood when his mom would get on him about scratching mosquito bites on his legs, warning they’d scar. Ironic now, Sam huffed at the thought.

"Well, thank God for small mercies," she said. She stood up, checking the watertight seal one last time. The frame looked like a bizarre, translucent cocoon as it did every time he’d wanted to bathe in the last few months.

The transition from the chair to the shower bench was the part Sam hated most. It was infuriating for him having to be assisted in a simple shuffle from one seat to another. But, he couldn't just stand and pivot. His proprioception was shot, and the weight of the frame alone added a clumsy, unbalanced five pounds to a limb that refused to obey him. "Hands on me," Jolene commanded, stepping into his space. He reached out, his arms wrapping around her neck as she braced her knees against the front of his chair. He felt the familiar, humiliating lightness of his own lower body as she helped him heave his weight upward. It was a strained, jerky dance. Sam’s good leg shook with the effort of bearing his full weight, while the caged leg dangled, the steel rings clinking softly.

Jolene didn't flinch. She bore his weight with a strength that always surprised him, guiding his hips toward the plastic shower bench. With a low groan, Sam settled onto the seat, his breath coming in hitches. She carefully lifted the caged leg, supporting the weight of the frame with both hands to ensure the pins didn't torque against his skin, and eased it over the lip of the shower basin.

"See? Being an asshole isn’t a necessary part of shower OPs," she teased him, reaching for the handheld showerhead. She turned the water on, testing the temperature against her wrist before directing the spray at his shoulders. As the warm water hit him, the thousands of tiny, shorn hairs began to run down his chest and back in dark, swirling rivulets. "God, you really did a number on yourself," she laughed softly, using a washcloth to gently scrub the stubborn stubble from the crook of his neck. "You’re shedding more than Chewie in the summertime. I’m going to be finding hair in the grout for the next three weeks."

She moved the spray higher, rinsing his head gently while her other hand kept the water from running into his eyes. Sam let his head tip back. Her fingers followed the water, massaging soap into his skin with tenderness.

"It’s so much easier when you just relaxed," she whispered, her voice losing its teasing edge for a second as she looked at the stark white of his scalp. "But even when you are grumpy, you're still you. The only man I want in my shower. Shaved head, bone cage, and all."

As she leaned over him to adjust the handheld sprayer, Sam’s hand heavy and uncoordinated as it drifted toward the brass zipper of her navy work coveralls. His fingers fumbled with the tab, the fabric damp from the spray, but he managed to hook it and tug downward, exposing the fabric of her camisole. Jolene let out a startled, breathless laugh, batting his hand away as she repositioned the showerhead. "Oh, for the love of–Sam! Even in pain, you’re still a pervert. Can we focus on the medical-grade de-fuzzing first?"

Sam offered a sluggish, half-lidded shrug, his back resting against the shower wall. "Priorities, Jo." She reached for the bottle of shampoo, squeezing a small drop into her palm, but Sam let out a low, disgruntled grunt, shaking his head. "Why even bother? There’s nothing left to wash." The regret was back. He looked down at the dark curls swirling around the drain.

"Because I know you think it feels good," she countered, her fingers beginning to work the lather. The massage was intentional, her nails lightly scraping the skin in a way that made his toes curl. "And maybe if we stimulate the follicles, it’ll grow back faster."

Sam groaned, the sound echoing off the shower stall. "I remember the first time you saw me like this. Before that first deployment after we started dating. You cried the entire time you ran the clippers. You hated it."

Jolene’s hands paused for a fraction of a second, her expression softening. He remembered the way her tears had hit his bare shoulders, as if the terror of the unknown manifested in the loss of his hair. "Things change, Sam."

"Yeah," he muttered, his jaw tightening. "Back then it was functional and served a purpose. Now, I just hate the way I look. Cue the bald jokes. I look like a damn thumb."

"Technically, you’re not bald," she teased, rinsing the suds away with a gentle stream of water. "There’s still stubble here. Unless, of course, you want me to break out the shave cream and make it truly shiny? We could go full Mr. Clean."

Sam let out a grumble, leaning forward until his head knocked into her hip. "Absolutely not."

"I don't know," she said, her voice dropping to a playful, sultry hum as she tilted his chin up to look at her. "It could be sexy."

Sam looked up at her, the steam clinging to her eyelashes, his gaze landing on the bone cage that sat like a monstrous piece of scaffolding around his leg. The contrast between her vitality and his wreckage felt insurmountable. "Doubtful," he said, though the way she was looking at him like he was still the only man in the world, made the lie a little harder to believe.

“Do you really think so little of me, Sam?" Jolene asked, her voice dropping the teasing edge for something more grounded. She leaned over him, her damp coveralls clinging to her skin as she caught his gaze. "You think I’m going to stop finding you attractive just because you had a disagreement between your pain brain and a pair of clippers?"

Sam let out a hollow laugh, his head lolling against her. "It’s not just the hair, Jo. It’s the fact that you’re having to bathe me like a child. I’m sitting on a plastic bench while you scrub my back because I can’t stand up without a spotter. Not exactly the height of rugged masculinity."

Jolene scoffed, the sound echoing off the tile as she turned off the water. She reached for a plush grey towel and began to pat the water from his shoulders. "Please. I’ve seen you at your worst, and honestly? I still find you incredibly sexy, Sam." She gave the top of his head a playful little tap with her palm. "The hair will grow back babe. The leg will heal. But the ego? That’s the part we really need to work on." She moved with the efficiency of someone who had turned this new way of life into a routine. Standing in front of him, she draped the towel over his lap, careful not to snag the plastic-wrapped cage. "Alright, lean into me. Big heave on three."

It was the same strained, awkward physics as before. Sam gritted his teeth, his good leg trembling as he pushed off the bench, his arms locked around Jolene’s neck. He could feel the heat of her skin through the damp fabric of her coveralls, a reminder of the woman who hadn't flinched once since he’d come back broken. With a pained grunt, he pivoted, his weight shifting heavily until his hips hit the seat of the wheelchair with a thud. Jolene didn't let go immediately; she stayed braced against him, ensuring he was stable before she reached down to lift his bad leg. "Easy, easy," she murmured, supporting the weight of the steel rings as she guided his leg back onto the elevated footrest. She stood back, wiping a bead of condensation from her forehead with her sleeve, and looked down at him. "There. One clean, impulsive SEAL, ready for transport."

Getting Sam dressed was a choreographed struggle. Always a series of grunts and apologizes-for elbows. Because of the frame, normal pants were a relic of the past; Jolene reached for a pair of modified gray sweats with the bottom half of one pant leg cut off. He leaned forward, bracing his triceps on the armrests to lift his hips just enough for her to slide the fabric underneath. It was an undignified process. She worked upward, her fingers deft and certain, while Sam focused on the ceiling’s exposed wood beams to keep the nausea from peaking in the heat of the post shower air of the bathroom.

Once a soft, faded Navy PT shirt that hung loose on his frame was over his head, Jolene stood up and grabbed a broom from the corner. She began to sweep, the dry sound of the bristles against the tile filling the small room. "Stay put for a second," she murmured, her eyes on the floor. "I don't want you tracking this all over the place."

But Sam was already moving. He gripped the cold chrome rims of his wheels, his muscles straining as he maneuvered the chair toward the fogged-up vanity. He reached out a trembling hand, his palm wiping a clear streak through the condensation. The man who looked back was a stranger. Without the curls, his face looked gaunt, the shadows under his eyes deeper, his jawline more severe. The pale, buzzed scalp made him look like a prisoner of war or a monk. 

"God," he croaked, his fingers tracing the stubble near his temple.

Just then, a heavy click-clack of claws sounded on the hardwood in the hallway. Chewie trotted into the bathroom, his tail giving a single, tentative wag. He stopped short, his head tilting so far to the left it was almost horizontal. The dog looked at Sam, his dark eyes wide and confused, his ears twitching as if trying to reconcile the familiar scent with the unfamiliar silhouette of the man in the chair. Chewie let out a soft, inquisitive whimper, his nose dropping to the floor. He approached the pile of hair Jolene had swept near the door, his nostrils fluttering as he took a deep, lingering sniff of the discarded curls. He looked back up at Sam, then back down at the pile, let out a confused huff, and sat back on his haunches, waiting for an explanation that Sam didn't have the heart to give.

Jolene reappeared with the dustpan, pausing to ruffle the dog’s ears. "He’s wondering where the rest of his human went," she teased gently, though she kept her eyes on the pile of hair. 

The dustpan clattered against the floor as Jolene caught the look in Sam’s eyes. The light, teasing air she’d been trying to maintain collapsed instantly. Sam wasn't looking at the dog anymore. He was staring at the clear streak he’d wiped through the steam on the mirror as the first sob broke through. His head dropped into his hands, his shoulders shaking with a violence that made the wheelchair rattle. Jolene was at his side in an instant, sinking to her knees beside the wheel.

"Sam, oh god, Sam, I’m sorry," she whispered, her hands reaching up to catch his wrists. "I was just trying to–"

"I hate it," he choked out, his voice thick and distorted. "I hate it so much, Jo."

He pulled his hands away, his face flushed a deep, painful red under the harsh bathroom lights. "The officer who stopped by... the pain... how bad I’ve been treating you. It’s all too much. Sitting here, listening to them list off everything I can't do anymore. Telling me that I’ll probably be classified as ‘Totally disabled’ before it's all said and done. Like I’m a piece of equipment that’s beyond repair. I felt like the SEAL was being ripped away from me. I wanted to hand it over with some fucking dignity, not live in this purgatory where I am still legally one but know deep down there’s never a chance at going back to it." He gripped the armrests so hard his knuckles turned white. "I just wanted to be that guy again. I thought if I looked like him I’d feel like myself.”

He looked at the pile of curls on the floor, then back at the mirror, the realization of what he’d done finally settling in with agonizing clarity. "I look awful." He let out a dry, bitter laugh that turned back into a sob. "Before I left for that last op, I told you I wanted to retire. I told you I never wanted to touch those damn clippers again. I wanted to grow it out, be a civilian, be with you. And then I panicked and did this. I’m so stupid."

"You’re not stupid, Sam," Jolene said firmly, her thumbs brushing the tears from his cheeks. "You’re grieving and trying to process all that happened. You’re allowed to have a moment where you just want to go back to what felt safe."

"It’s stupid," he snapped, though there was no heat in it. He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for the lie he was sure was there. "There is no way after all that’s happened you can be proud of what you see.”

“It’s not true," Jolene didn't flinch from the raw, wet grief in his eyes.

"How can it not be?" Sam shot back, his voice cracking as he gestured vaguely toward his own body. "Look at me, Jo. I’ve changed so much. I’ve lost thirty pounds. My legs are wasting away. I’m scarred, I’m hardly even able to put together a thought and now I’ve gone and shaved my head like a lunatic." He looked at the way the bathroom light caught the warmth in her auburn hair and the steady, unwavering strength in her posture. "I’m not the same man you’ve been dating for the last two years. I’m not the guy who could pick you up and carry you over the threshold. And you’re still the most beautiful woman in the whole world."

Jolene didn't let him spiral. She reached out, her fingers curling around his shoulders to pull him closer to her. "Stop," she whispered. She leaned back, tilting her head. Sam opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He looked back at his reflection. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the hum of the bathroom ventilation and the rhythmic thumping of Chewie’s tail against the floor. For the first time since he’d picked up the clippers, the buzzing static in Sam’s brain began to settle. He looked at her and the realization began to sink in that his own self-loathing was a wall he was building between them, stone by stone. "I..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to his lap. He felt diminished, a fragmented version of the man who had left for that final op. 

“Sam. You’re still my guy." she whispered through a sigh, kissing the tip of his nose as if signaling she was not going to continue pushing him. Her allowance of his own self loathing if he chose feeling more freeing in a weird way. "Let’s get you out of this chair before the dog decides to eat the rest of your hair."

Jolene helped Sam navigate the final, grueling transfer from the chair to the edge of the mattress, her strength anchoring him until he could finally collapse back against the pillows. "Stay put," Jolene murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "I'm going to grab some water and your meds." Sam didn’t have the energy to move even if he wanted to. He lay there, staring at the ceiling fan. The silence of the room was heavy until the bed shifted.

Chewie didn’t hesitate. The big German Shepherd hopped up, his weight tilting the mattress as he crawled toward the headboard. He circled once, then dropped down right next to Sam’s head. The dog leaned in, his wet nose twitching as he took a long, confused sniff. Before Sam could react, a massive, sandpaper-rough tongue swiped across the entire side of his head from his temple to his crown. "Ugh, Chewie! Gross," Sam scoffed, trying to pull away, but the dog just huffed and licked him again.

Jolene walked back in holding a glass of water, and the sight stopped her mid-stride. She looked at Sam currently being power-washed by a hundred-pound dog and her composure shattered.

She let out a loud, genuine wheeze of a laugh that made her double over, her hand catching the doorframe for support. The sound filled the room in a way that made the heavy atmosphere of the last few hours vanish. Sam watched her, his annoyance fading. He realized then how much he’d missed that sound. The unbridled, belly-deep laugh that meant she wasn't worried about his pin sites or making sure he had all he needed for a fleeting second. He was just her guy getting lovingly mauled by their dog.

"I'm glad my misery is so entertaining," Sam grumbled, though a small, real smile was finally tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye as she stood back up, still breathless. "It’s just, he’s being so cute! It’s like he thinks you’re a giant tennis ball, Sam."

Chewie seemed to agree. The dog let out a satisfied sigh and slumped down, resting his heavy, blocky head directly on Sam’s chest, his golden-brown eyes looking up with unwavering devotion. Sam looked down at the dog, then back at Jolene, and gave a helpless, lopsided shrug. "Well. At least someone likes the new look," Sam muttered.

Jolene’s eyes lit up as she spotted her Polaroid camera sitting on the dresser. She reached for it immediately. "Jo, no," Sam groaned, instinctively trying to raise a hand to cover his face. 

"Sam, please," she said, her voice dropping into that soft, persuasive tone he could never fight. She held the camera up, her finger hovering over the shutter. "It’s for me. It’s a good moment. I want to remember it."

Sam looked at her, then at the dog pinned to his chest, and finally let his hand fall back to the duvet. "Fine," he sighed, the defeat flavored with a strange sense of peace. "Take the damn picture."

The flash flared, bright and sudden, followed by the mechanical whine of the film ejecting. In the quiet of the Virginia evening, the sound felt like a period at the end of a very long, very hard day. The flash of the Polaroid died away, leaving a lingering purple bloom in Sam’s vision that danced against the shadowed corners of the bedroom. Sam squinted at Jolene. "How the hell did you get that camera so fast?" he muttered, his voice raspy from the earlier crying. "You were just holding a glass of water."

Jolene didn’t answer right away. She was busy shaking the film, watching the milky white surface begin to resolve into the shape of a man and a dog. A ghost of a smirk played on her lips as she reached into the deep cargo pocket of her work coveralls. Instead of answering, she pulled out a second, already-developed photo and slipped it into his hand.

Sam held it up to the bedside lamp. It was only a few minutes ago. In the frame, Chewie was standing over the massive, chaotic pile of curls on the wood floor. The German Shepherd’s head was tucked low, his ears pinned back in total bewilderment, staring at the hair as if it were a downed piece of prey that might suddenly spring back to life and reattach itself to Sam’s head. The photo captured Chewie’s legendary underbite. Two bottom teeth hooked over his upper lip, making him look like a very concerned gargoyle. Underneath, in Jolene’s effortless script, she had written: Detective Chewie investigating the scene of Dad’s Impulsive Haircut. The suspect is currently bald and confused.

Sam looked from the photo to the actual dog currently pinning his chest to the mattress. He reached out a heavy hand, scratching the thick fur behind Chewie’s ears. "Sorry, buddy," he murmured, his voice thick. "Sorry for freaking you out. Didn't mean to lose my mind in front of you."

Jolene let out a soft snort, moving the Polaroid camera back to the dresser. "You don't need to apologize to the dog for your Britney moment, Sam. He’s seen you through worse. But I’m keeping that photo. It’s the kind of thing we’re going to look back on in a year and laugh about until we can't breathe."

Sam huffed watching as she reached for the long brass zipper of her coveralls. With a weary motion, she slid it down, stepping out of the heavy navy fabric until she was standing in just her black ribbed tank top and underwear. She looked exhausted, the faint grease stains from the shop still smudged near her collarbone, but she didn't complain. She just climbed into the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under her weight as she tucked herself into his side.

He leaned his head into the crook of her neck. Her hand immediately found the back of his scalp, her thumb tracing. "I realized I never even asked," Sam whispered, the guilt of his self-absorption finally hitting him. "How was work? I... I had this whole plan, Jo. I was going to have dinner ready when you got home."

Jolene’s fingers slowed their movement, her voice a soft hum against his temple. "It’s okay, Sam. Work was work. The world didn't stop turning because you didn't make pasta. Just being here when I walk through the door is enough."

"It's not, though," he countered, his jaw tightening. "At least let me sit with you in the bathroom while you take your shower. I can wheel in there, keep you company, and order a pizza so you don't have to think about food. It’s the bare minimum."

"Sam, that’s really not necessary," she said, though her tone was more tired than dismissive. He feared for a moment she was getting a flash back to his time in the bathroom while she showered back in Maryland but the fear dissipated when she seemed more tired than fearful.

"I disagree," he said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. "I’m living rent-free in your house, Jo. I’m not contributing a dime of effort while you’re working forty-plus hours at the shop and then coming home to play nurse for the rest of the night. I’m not going to just lie here like a piece of furniture while you do everything. I’m ordering the pizza, and I’m sitting in that bathroom with you. Deal with it."

Jolene looked at him for a long beat, seeing the stubborn glint of the Navy SEAL she’d fallen in love with peering out. Jolene’s head felt heavy against his shoulder, her breathing already beginning to slow as the sheer exhaustion of her life caught up to her. The tension in her limbs, which had been wound tight as a spring while she was scrubbing his scalp and wrestling with the Taylor frame, finally began to unspool.

"If you're really calling it in," she murmured, her voice thick and slurring at the edges with impending sleep, "can you get those mozzarella sticks..?"

Sam felt a ghost of a grin pull at his lips. The contrast from the hollowed-out grief that had consumed him only an hour prior to feeling pride at being given a way to take care of her softened him. "Jo, you can have whatever you want. I’ll order the whole damn menu if it means you don't have to touch a stove tonight."

She let out a soft, contented hum, melting into his side until she was draped across him like a blanket. Her hand, still resting on the prickly, shorn nape of his neck, gave a lazy, affectionate squeeze. "I love how you still take care of me, Sam," she whispered into the cotton of his shirt. "Even when you think you're not doing anything... you're still looking out for me."

He stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way the painkillers couldn't numb. For weeks, his internal monologue had been a relentless loop of broken, useless, burden, and bastard. He had viewed every act of her kindness as a debt he couldn't repay. A tally of his own failures as a partner. He’d seen himself as a project she was managing, a patient she was discharge-planning, a shell of a man she was pitying all while letting him treat her like shit.

But in that one sleepy, unfiltered sentence, she had flipped the script.

She wasn't seeing a man who couldn't walk; she was seeing the man who still anticipated her hunger, who still prioritized her comfort after a long day at the shop. Who, even in the middle of his own identity crisis, was still hers. She was acknowledging that his contribution wasn't measured in the weight he could lift or the miles he could run, but in the way he held space for her needs. The lump returned to his throat, but this time it wasn't born of shame. It was a quiet, staggering realization that his value to her wasn't tied to his status as a SEAL. It was tied to the soul of the man who was currently holding her while she drifted off.

He reached down, his fingers threading through her auburn hair, anchoring himself to the reality of her warmth. "I've got you, Jo," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'll always take care of you, Baby."

He stayed like that for a long time, watching her chest rise and fall, before he carefully reached for his phone on the nightstand. He moved with quiet purpose, navigating the call log till he found the shop so often providing their meals these days with a focus that felt like his first successful mission in months. He ordered the extra cheese, the mozzarella sticks, and a side of the wings she liked, feeling a strange, steadying pride in the simple act.

As he waited for the teenager to read it back to him, he looked at his reflection in the mirror on the bedroom wall, seeing the buzzed head and tired eyes. He didn't look like a hero, and he certainly didn't look like a soldier, but as Jolene shifted in her sleep, he realized he could still be exactly what she wanted. He could still be the one to provide, even in the smallest, most domestic ways. 

In the kitchen, the challenges of his height became apparent, but he adapted. He hooked his good foot under the cabinet for leverage, leaning precariously out of the chair to reach the fridge. He found the leftover roast chicken and some greens, tucking them into a container for Jolene’s lunch tomorrow. He moved to the coffee pot, straining his core to reach the water reservoir and the filter, setting the timer for 05:00. It was a clumsy, slow-motion version of his old self, but as he clicked the 'Auto' button, a fierce sense of pride bloomed in his chest.

He rolled back into the bathroom, turning the shower on to let the steam build, then finally made his way back to the bedroom. Jolene was sprawled sideways across the mattress, her auburn hair fanned out like a sunset against the white duvet. She looked soft, vulnerable, and utterly wiped out. Sam reached out, his hand resting on her hip, and gave her a gentle shake.

"Hey. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," he murmured, his voice energized, vibrating with a renewed sense of purpose. "Shower’s hot. Pizza’s twenty minutes out."

Jolene let out a long, protesting groan, her eyes fluttering open and squinting against the soft bedside light. She looked at the bright, alert look in his eyes, and a sleepy, lopsided smile touched her lips. "Mm... you’re loud," she mumbled, reaching up to rub her eyes. "Why are you barking orders at me like a recruit?"

"Because I've got a schedule to keep," Sam said, his tone playfully bossy. He maneuvered the chair closer, nudging her shoulder. "I've already got your lunch packed and the coffee set. Now, get up. I’m not letting you go to sleep covered in garage grease."

Jolene didn’t even look back as she stood, her movements fluid and unbothered by the cool air of the room. She reached for the top of her tank top, pulling it over her head and tossing it toward the hamper in one practiced motion. Then, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her underwear, stepping out of them as she turned toward the dresser, her pale skin glowing in the amber spill of the hallway light. She started rummaging through a basket for a clean change of close, her back turned to him, completely exposed. Sam didn't hesitate. He rolled the chair forward just enough to close the gap, and with a crisp smack, his palm connected with her bare behind.

Jolene jumped, her shoulders hitting her ears as she spun around, her eyes wide with mock outrage. "Sam!"

Sam didn't back down. He didn't offer the sheepish, apologetic smile he’d been wearing for weeks. Instead, he leaned back in the wheelchair, crossing his arms over his chest, his jaw set. He looked every bit the Petty Officer as he pointed a commanding finger toward the steaming bathroom door. "I gave you an order, Jolene," he said, his voice dropping into a register that left no room for debate. It was the tone he used when the clock was ticking and the mission was live. "Shower. Now."

Jolene stared at him, her indignation melting into an amused smirk. She braced her hands on her hips, her gaze dragging over his pale, buzzed scalp and then back to his eyes. "Oh, I see," she said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "He shaves his head and suddenly he’s back to being the bossy Petty Officer." She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth were twitching. "You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re being a tyrant."

"Less talking, more scrubbing," Sam countered, his eyes flashing with a spark of the dominance he’d feared was buried under layers of hospital gauze. "Move it."

"Yes, sir," she drawled, giving him a mock, two-finger salute that was entirely disrespectful and exactly what he needed.

As she turned and sauntered toward the bathroom, the sway of her hips deliberate, Sam felt a predatory grin spread across his face. For the first time in a long time, the man in the chair felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be: In charge of his house, his woman, and his life. The wheelchair hummed over the bathroom floor. Sam didn't stop at the door. He navigated the tight turn, bringing the chair flush against the side of the shower stall. The plastic curtain was a translucent barrier, blurred by the spray, but he reached out with a steady hand and hooked the edge, peeling it back just enough to reveal the silhouette of her body slick with water.

Jolene spun around, the spray hitting her shoulders and sending a cascade of droplets. She caught his eye, a playful scowl tugging at her lips as she reached for the bar of soap. "Sam! You are absolutely unbelievable," she scoffed, though the glint in her eyes was anything but annoyed. "Since when does the commanding officer conduct mid-mission inspections?"

"Since the mission involves high-value assets," Sam countered. He leaned back in the chair, his eyes trailing the path of the water down her spine.

Jolene didn't offer him the satisfaction of an immediate surrender. Instead, she turned her back to him again, the muscles of her legs and lower back shifting under the hot spray. She gave her hips a slow, deliberate shimmy. A blatant, taunting shake of her ass that was designed to remind him exactly what was currently out of his reach. "You’re a menace, Sam. Go wait for the pizza before you hurt yourself."

"Don't taunt me, Jo," Sam warned, his thumb tracing the cold chrome of his wheel. "Just because I’m in this chair doesn't mean I’ve lost my edge. I’m a SEAL. We’re trained to be adaptable. I’m a very creative man, and I promise you, I will still find a way to have my fun with you."

Jolene paused, the soap abandoned. She turned slowly, moving with a grace that made his breath hitch, until she was facing him fully. She stood bare and unashamed under the deluge, the water slicking her auburn hair against her neck and tracing the curves of her breasts and stomach. She leaned one hand against the wall, a challenge written in the curve of her brow. "Oh, really?" she asked, her voice dropping to a sultry, daring silk. "And how exactly do you plan to do that? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve got a lot of hardware between you and me."

She didn't move to cover herself; just stood there, a vision of wet, glowing skin and defiance, waiting to see exactly how far his creativity would go. Jolene didn't move to close the curtain. Instead, she reached for the handheld sprayer, the water hissing as she began to rinse the lingering suds from her shoulders. She moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the spray tracing the curves of her body, turning her skin into a landscape of glistening, translucent pearls.

She looked at him through the mist, "Well?" she prompted. "Enlighten me. I’m all ears. Because from here, it looks like I’m the one with the tactical advantage."

She stepped closer to the edge of the stall, the water splashing against her shins, and waited. Sam didn’t look away. The frustration that had fueled his impulsive haircut had transmuted into something cooler, sharper, and much more dangerous. He reached out, his large hand gripping the area where the wood panel wall gave way to the shower stall. He felt the phantom pressure of the soldier he used to be. The one who didn't see obstacles, only secondary routes.

"Step one," he said, his voice dropping into uncompromising command. "Turn the water off."

Jolene’s smirk faltered just a fraction, replaced by a flicker of genuine intrigue. She reached back, her fingers finding the handle and twisting it. The sudden silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of the showerhead.

"Step two," Sam continued, his gaze dragging upward to her eyes. He didn't move the chair; he didn't have to. The sheer gravity of his presence seemed to pull the air out of the room. "Come closer. Right to the edge. I want to see exactly what I’m working with."

Jolene hesitated, her breath hitching as she looked at the man before her. He had lost so much of his softness, leaving behind the  intensity of the man she’d seen in those deployment photos. One who survived things people weren't meant to survive. She took a step forward, the water on her skin dripping onto the bathmat as she leaned over the edge of the shower stall, her face inches from his.

"Alright," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of defiance and desire. "Now what?"

Sam didn't give her a chance to overthink it. He reached out, his hands certain as he gripped her hips, the skin still slick and hot from the spray. With a firm tug, he pulled her toward him until she was standing directly between his thighs, her knees brushing against the cold metal frame of the wheelchair.

Jolene gasped, her breath catching as she stumbled slightly, her wet hands reflexively flying out to find his shoulders for balance. Her eyes went wide, darting down to the Taylor frame and the precarious way she was boxed in by his legs. "Sam! Be careful–"

"Stop worrying, Jolene," he growled, "I’m not going to break."

He didn't wait for her to argue. He leaned forward, his strong arms locking around her waist. The scent of her damp skin and hibiscus soap filled his senses.

He tilted his head back, his eyes never leaving hers for a heartbeat before he leaned towards her. Jolene let out a strangled moan as he wrapped his lips around her breast, his tongue swiping across the sensitive, wet peak. The heat of his mouth was a startling contrast to the cooling air of the bathroom, and she arched into him, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders as her panic melted.

Sam didn’t let up, his tongue swirling against her damp skin. Her fingers were firm around the back of his head, her hips pressing instinctively closer despite the looming presence of the steel frame. Then, the rap-rap-rap of the front door echoed through the hallway.

Jolene jumped, her body tensing as she pulled back, her chest heaving. "Sam, the pizza," she said , her eyes wide and dark with a sudden, disoriented flush. "I should go–"

Sam’s hands tightened on her hips. He looked up at her, his eyes firm and dark. "Stay put," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl. "I’m going to get the food. When I come back, I want you sitting on that. Right on the edge." He pointed a blunt finger at the bathroom counter.

"Sam, I'm wet, I'm naked, and the pizza guy is–"

"No," he cut her off, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Vanity. Now."

He let go of her and expertly spun the chair around, the wheels whispering over the floor as he rolled out of the bathroom. As he navigated the hallway toward the front door, his mind was a riot of static and heat. For weeks, the high doses of oxycodone had turned his body into a numb, heavy thing. The pills usually acted like a wet blanket on his libido, leaving him feeling disconnected from his own skin. But in the quiet hours while Jolene was at the shop, the frustration would build until it was unbearable.

He’d spent countless afternoons staring at the ceiling, his hand working beneath the covers as he envisioned her. Not as his nurse, not as the woman wrapping his leg in plastic, but as the woman who used to wrap herself around him in the dark. He’d jerk off to the memory of her scent, his teeth gritted against the phantom pains in his tibia, desperate for a shred of the intimacy that felt like it was slipping through his fingers. He wanted to prove that even with a shattered leg, he could still make her lose her mind.

He reached the front door, his pulse hammering in his throat. He’d deal with the pizza, he’d pay the man, and then he was going back into that bathroom to reclaim the only part of his life that still felt like it belonged to him. The heavy front door clicked shut, the transaction handled with a curt, efficiency. Sam didn't linger. He shoved the pizza boxes onto the kitchen counter, the smell of garlic and toasted dough trailing behind him like an afterthought, and pivoted the chair back toward the bathroom.

When he rolled through the doorway, the steam had begun to thin, settling into a heavy, translucent dew on the mirrors. Jolene was exactly where he’d ordered her to be. She was perched on the vanity, her legs dangling, her pale skin still flushed from the heat of the water. She was working a wide-toothed comb through her damp, auburn hair, the long strands catching the light like polished copper.

She looked up as he approached, the comb pausing mid-stroke. Her eyes were wide, a mix of lingering arousal and the reflexive, caretaking instinct she couldn’t quite turn off. "Sam," she started, her voice soft and slightly breathless. "You really don't need to do thi–"

"Hush," he cut her off.

He didn't stop until the front of his wheelchair was pressed against the vanity, boxing her in. Without a word, he reached out and took her ankles in his hands. Her skin was cool now, but still damp against his palms. He simply tugged, pulling her feet forward until her heels were resting firmly in his lap. The contrast was striking: her soft, arched feet resting against the rough fabric of his sweats and the cold, unforgiving steel of his leg cage.

"The pizza?" she asked, her voice wavering as he began to trace the line of her instep with his thumb.

"In the oven," Sam murmured, his focus entirely on the delicate bones of her feet. "Warmer is on. Stop worrying."

He began to rub the arches of her feet, his thumbs pressing into the muscle with a slow pressure that was designed to ground her. He knew how much she stood at the shop. He knew the toll the long hours on the concrete floor took on her body while she was busy worrying about his.

"I want you to relax," he said. He looked up, his head tilted back so he could catch her gaze. For a moment he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind her. The harsh bathroom light sharpened the planes of his face, making him look less like a patient and more like a man reclaiming his territory. "For the next few minutes, there is no physical therapy, there are no pin sites, and there is no 'medically retired' bullshit. There’s just you and me. Now, put the comb down."

Jolene let out a shaky exhale, her shoulders finally dropping as she set the comb on the counter beside her. She leaned back on her hands, her chest rising and falling, her eyes never leaving his. The dominance in his tone wasn't just a performance. He was desperate to drag her out of the role of the provider and back into the simplicity of being wanted. Sam didn’t give her time to think, his hands shifting from her arches to the backs of her thighs. He pulled her forward until her hips were flush against the very corner of the vanity. 

"Sam–" her voice was a breathy, startled hitch.

"I said stop worrying," he murmured.

With a controlled motion, he lifted her right leg, guiding it up until her calf was draped over his broad shoulder. He leaned forward into the space between her thighs, his chest pressing against her knees as he boxed her in. He didn't hesitate. He buried his face in the damp heat of her, his lips finding the sensitive, aching center of her with a precision that made Jolene’s head snap back against the vanity mirror.

The first contact was slow. A lingering, hot press of his mouth as he tasted her own unique sweetness. He moved his lips, his tongue sweeping upward in long, firm strokes that traced the delicate architecture of her body. Every motion was intentional. Jolene’s fingers scrambled for purchase, her knuckles turning white as she arched her back. A high, thin whine escaping her throat. He used the stubble on his chin to ghost against her inner thighs, as the abrasive friction heightened the sensitivity until she was shaking under his hands.

Jolene’s heels dug into the tops of his thighs as she tried to anchor herself against the storm he was creating. She was shaking, her entire body vibrating with a tension that was finally, mercifully, snapping. Her fingers scrambled blindly behind her on the countertop, knocking over a bottle of lotion that clattered into the sink. "Sam... Sam," she sobbed his name, her head falling back until it thudded against the mirror.

He heard the change in her voice. The high-pitched catch that signaled she was right on the edge. He leaned forward even more, the end of the wheelchair’s seat biting into his hamstrings as he pressed his face deeper into her, his tongue moving with a relentless energy that ignored the throbbing protest in his pinned leg.

This was it. The bridge back to himself.

For months, he’d been a project to be managed, a body to be mended, and a burden to be carried. He’d watched her exhaust herself for him. Seen her hands steady his trembling ones. He’d felt the crushing weight of his own perceived uselessness. He’d also felt the overwhelming guilt of being such a nasty jerk to her that it brought her to tears. But right now, in the humid heat of the bathroom, the power dynamic had shifted. He wasn't the one receiving; he was the one giving. He was the one in control of the sounds tearing out of her throat.

He used his hands to spread her further, his thumbs hooking into the soft skin of her inner thighs to keep her open for him. He was thorough, his mouth hot and unyielding as he chased her climax. When it finally hit, it was violent. Jolene’s hips jerked off the vanity, her muscles coiling tight as she let out a long, choked-off cry that ended in a series of shuddering gasps.

Sam didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his forehead resting against the soft curve of her belly, his own breath coming in bursts. He could feel as the tremors in her legs subsided.

He felt a tear prick at his eye, hidden against her skin. It was the first time since the explosion that he felt like a man who was still capable of taking care of his woman. He wasn't just a patient anymore. He was Sam. And he had a long road ahead of him to remind her exactly why she had stuck around for him.

Jolene’s hand came down, her fingers shaking as they found the prickly, buzzed hair on the back of his head. She didn't say anything; she just held him there, her palm grounding him as the steam in the room slowly began to dissipate. She didn't move to cover herself. Instead, she leaned forward, her hands sliding from the prickly nape of his neck to cup his face, her fingers damp with steam and the salt of her own skin. She forced him to look up, her thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes where the exhaustion still lingered.

"Sam," she whispered, her voice a beautiful rasp. "Look at me." He raised his head. "Don't you ever," she started, her voice shaking, "don't you ever tell me you aren't the same man. I don't care about the chair. I don't care about the hair. That?" She gestured vaguely to the space between them, her face flushing a deep pink. "That was you. All you."

She leaned down, pressing her forehead against his, her nose brushing his. A small, tearful laugh bubbled out of her. "You’re still a bossy, arrogant, over-achieving SEAL, Sam. Even if you are currently doing it from a seated position."

Sam let out a breath. The weight on his chest didn't vanish, but it shifted. It became something he could carry. "I told you I was creative," he murmured, his hands sliding up to grip her waist one last time.

"You're a menace," she countered, though she kissed him then. It was deep, with a lingering taste of gratitude and rediscovered fire. She pulled back just an inch, her eyes searching his. "Now, I think I hear a pizza calling my name, and if I don't get those mozzarella sticks in the next five minutes, I might actually faint."

"Can't have that," Sam said, his smirk returning as he felt more confident than he had all day. He began to back the wheelchair up, giving her space to slide off the counter. "Don’t even think about putting those clothes on, Jolene. I want you ready for round two. That's an order."

She hopped down, her legs still a little unsteady as her feet hit the bathmat. "Yes, Sir," she teased, blowing him a kiss before starting off towards the kitchen.

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

Weeks later, and Sam’s mind drifted to the nights like that, which felt like a fragile truce with the universe. He wished the energy he’d captured in that bathroom, and later in the bedroom where he’d pulled her thighs up over his shoulders, could be bottle-fed to the daylight hours. It was a fierce kind of worship. A way to anchor himself to her when his nerves were fraying at the edges. But for every evening of slowly reclaimed intimate release, he kept coming up short on the grueling, mundane terrain of day-to-day existence. He told himself he was doing better, and he clung to that mantra like a buoy in a storm. Something is better than nothing. But the illusion of his recovery fractured the moment the rest of his team arrived, and the stability he’d fought so hard to cultivate began a slow, almost undetectable slide backward.

Jolene had been a saint, hosting them at the house, ensuring the cooler was packed with beer and the kitchen stocked with enough food to feed a battalion. It had started lighthearted enough. The guys rolled through the front door like a wave of familiar noise, filling the quiet Virginia house with the heavy, unpolished cadence of a life Sam had once owned. They were playful, checking on the hardware strapped to his leg, poking at the scars, and firing off jokes that had lost their teeth years ago. The relief of being back in the same place together was glaringly apparent, even if no one said it. It had even felt genuine when Ray recounted the story of that day in the chaos. The ridiculous, surreal image of Sam’s dick hanging out of his trousers mid-shuffle toward the tank for the medical evacuation.

But as the sun began to dip, the relief of simply laying eyes on one another evaporated. The energy that had defined their arrival bled out of them, leaving the back porch heavy and stagnant. The conversation drifted into the quiet, hollow spaces where words usually went to die. As the evening air grew crisp, the cold began to prickle along the length of Sam’s leg, a phantom needle-stitching that seemed to mock the stillness. The group went catatonic, sinking into that terrifying silence shared only by men who had survived something gut-wrenchingly awful. A collective refusal to admit that a piece of their souls had been left behind in that house, buried in the blood, dust and the heat of Iraq.

Jolene, sensing the shift, had kept her distance, retreating inside with Tina. The two women had sequestered themselves, and he imagined Jo was likely investigating the… situation. That had become the focal point of the night, surfacing during one of those midnight debriefs in the bedroom that made Sam feel, for a fleeting moment, like a human being again.

Sam had opened the door to his squad and pulling up the rear had been Tina. Frank’s wife had stood there, clutching a newborn to her chest as if she were hiding behind it. The kid was impossibly tiny, skeletal-looking, especially considering the confident, booming claims Frank and Tina had made about a normal, healthy birth. Sam had enough experience from his sister’s extremely early delivery to recognize the telltale signs of a preemie. This wasn’t just a small baby.

“There’s no fucking way, Sam,” Jolene had murmured to him later, her voice a low vibration against the pillows in the dark. She was tracing the line of his hip, her touch tentative.

Sam shifted, the metal in his leg biting into the mattress. “The kid’s got brown eyes,” he whispered back, the words tasting like copper. “Last time I checked, Tina’s got green ones, and Frank’s are blue as the fucking sky.” He let out a dry chuckle, but there was no mirth in it. It wasn’t that he was laughing at the betrayal, or the fact that his teammate’s wife had clearly spent the deployment bedding someone else. It was purely simple gossip that made him forget reality.

He remembered the way Frank had looked back in October when he’d announced the pregnancy. He’d seen the shadow of doubt in his friend’s eyes. A flicker of denial that Frank had been nurturing for months and now was clearly failing to acknowledge what was screaming at him from the cradle. That whole night Sam felt nauseous when he realized he was surrounded by a house full of men who couldn't admit they were broken, a woman who couldn't admit she was unfaithful, and himself who couldn't admit that he was more afraid of his own sobriety than he was of the war he’d been pulled away from. In the silence of the bedroom, he felt the walls closing in, the weight of their collective lies pressing against his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.

In the weeks after, life took a different form. The arrival of the guys was a complicated mercy. It acted as a buffer, a shifting of the weight that had been crushing Jolene’s spine for months. With Erik having traded the grit of the field for the polished sterility of a desk job, and Ray climbing the ranks to Petty Officer, Sam found himself in a peculiar position. His squad had become a skeleton of its former self. And if he was honest, with Frank’s reassignment back in '03 and Tommy’s in '06, the faces that moved through his living room were familiar, but the context had irrevocably shifted. They were moving forward, carving out lives that didn't revolve around the next deployment or the next firefight, while Sam remained anchored in the quiet hum of the Virginia house.

Yet, there was a relief in the transition. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the suffocating atmosphere of the homefront began to thin. Whether it was the gradual tempering of the medication withdrawal or the slow, grinding progress of his physical therapy, Sam began to reclaim small, vital pieces of his autonomy. He was leaning less on Jolene, and that reduction in his total reliance felt like the first breath of air after a long submersion. It didn’t negate the pulsing, white-hot reminder of the hardware in his tibia, nor did it fully quell the prickle of irritation he felt whenever Erik arrived to shuttle him to rehab or Ray stopped by to perform a casual, "bro-to-bro" wellness check. It was annoying, the constant intrusion on his fragile independence, but it was also a shield. It meant he was a man with a network, and that alone shaved down the edges of the self-loathing that had been eating him alive.

His connection to the world beyond these four walls also began to stretch back toward home. Since early March, he’d forced himself to initiate calls to his mother. He had to bite his tongue, grinding his molars to keep from snapping when she demanded granular updates on his recovery or launched into her standard, heavy-handed interrogation regarding his lack of a ring. “That girl has bled herself dry for you, Samuel. You better have a plan to take care of her once you are able,” she would murmur into the receiver. A soft, feminine tone that couldn't mask the steel-toed boot of her words. He never fought her on it. He didn't have the energy, and frankly, he couldn't disagree. He was just tired of the cadence of the conversation, the way it highlighted exactly how much he was failing to be the man Jolene deserved.

Then came Stephanie. Her brief arrival for Spring Break was a sudden, welcome gust of normalcy. She didn't stay long, and for a while, the dark, paranoid corner of his mind tried to convince him it was because he was too broken to look at. But Stephanie was focused on her own trajectory, eyes bright with the news of a potential summer internship with a congressional campaign. He was proud of her and in a moment of selfish, quiet maneuvering, he’d talked her into being his driver. He hadn’t given Jolene a heads-up, a failure of communication he chose to ignore until the moment of impact. 

“What do you mean he didn’t say anything?” Stephanie yelped, her voice hitting a panicked register as she stared at the unblinking, unreadable mask Jolene had settled into. Jolene was standing in the hallway, her lunchbox still gripped in her hand, her gaze locked onto Sam with silent intensity.

“He didn’t tell me shit,” Jolene scoffed. She set the cooler down on the counter with a heavy thud and paced around the table as she reached them.

“Sam!” Stephanie turned to him, her hands fluttering in the air, desperate to bridge the gap as she started an apology that wasn't hers to make. Jolene merely held up a hand, silencing her without looking away from him.

“It’s his body, Steph,” Jolene said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. “If he wants to decorate it, that’s not something he needs to ask permission for.” She leaned in, her eyes tracing the line of his arm, her expression a mix of frustration and morbid curiosity. “Well? Let’s see the new paint job.”

Sam complied, his movements slow as he pulled his shirt sleeve up over his shoulder. The ink was fresh, still vivid and angry. It was a sprawling, intricate piece. Hades, the God of Death, etched in the same stark style as the Poseidon he already wore on his ribs. It spanned his entire shoulder and bled down into his bicep. Stephanie had drafted the design back in December, while he was still haunting the hospital corridors, and for months, he’d stared at the framed sketches on his bedroom wall until the desire to wear the art had become an obsession. If he was going to be forced to live inside a body that was essentially a collection of shattered parts and metal, he was damned if he wasn’t going to claim the canvas. He’d rather look at the shadow of a god than the ruin of a soldier.

Jolene’s eyes didn’t widen, she simply leaned in closer, the overhead kitchen light catching the almost detached appraisal in her gaze. She traced the edge of the dark, stippled ink where it met the healthy skin of his shoulder, her thumb ghosting over the lines of Hades’ crown. To Stephanie, standing across the table with her hands gripped tightly in her lap, the sheer scale of the permanent addition probably seemed like a massive, impulsive argument starter. But Jolene didn’t flinch. She just tilted her head, noting how the tattoo’s dark pigments deepened the pallor of his skin, and let out a soft, hummed sound of acknowledgement.

Watching her, Sam felt a realization settle in his chest. Of course she wasn’t freaked out. She had spent the last four months watching his body get dismantled and reassembled by surgeons, watching his mind unravel in the wake of medication, and watching the man she loved turn into a stranger before slowly dragging himself back toward the surface. A tattoo, even one that covered half his arm, wasn't a crisis. It wasn't a flare-up of nerve pain, it wasn't a night terror, and it wasn't a mood-driven explosion. In the hierarchy of the disasters Jolene had managed, this was merely a cosmetic change. 

That night, the house settled into its usual, heavy silence. Sam was propped up against the pillows, his leg throbbing with that familiar ache that signaled the end of the day. The new tattoo felt tight and inflamed. It was hot and itching against his shoulder, tugging whenever he moved.

Jolene came out of the bathroom with a small tube of ointment and a clean, lint-free cloth. She didn’t ask if he was managing. She simply climbed onto the bed, her movements purposeful and quiet, and reached for his arm before he could offer a protest.

"Have you taken care of it yet?" she asked, her voice barely a murmur.

"I've got it," Sam said, reaching for the supplies he’d gotten that afternoon. "I can handle it, Jolene. It's just a tattoo."

She ignored him and tilted his arm in a way that brooked no argument. She pulled his sleeve up, her fingers cool against the feverish heat of the ink. She began to work the ointment into the skin, careful to avoid the tender, raised lines. Sam watched her as she worked, her brow furrowed in concentration. The light from the bedside lamp hit the translucent tips of her lashes, casting soft shadows on her cheeks, and for a moment, the world felt agonizingly still. He looked down at her hands unbothered by the permanent ink he’d just introduced to his already battered canvas.

"Why didn't you freak out?" he asked, the question escaping him before he could curate it. "It’s a lot of ink, Jolene. I just went and did it, didn't tell you, didn't ask... most people would be losing their minds."

Jolene didn’t look up. She smoothed the ointment over the shading of Hades’ face, her thumb pressing firmly against his bicep. "Sam," she said, her tone level, almost tired, "you’ve spent the last few months trying to find ways to take control of your own body again. If this is how you decide to do it, then that’s your choice." She finally looked up, her green eyes meeting his with a clarity that made him feel entirely transparent. "I’ve seen you lose your grip on everything else. If a tattoo is the thing that makes you feel like yourself again, then go ahead and get a hundred more. It’s just ink. It’s not the kind of thing I see worthy of an argument. It’s just you, existing in your own skin, and honestly? That’s all I’ve been waiting for you to do for a while now."

Her words hit him with more force than any lash of his own temper ever had. He sat there in the bed. Sam watched her thumb trace the edge of the fresh work, his jaw muscles tight as he waited for the other shoe to drop. He needed to be sure. He needed to know if this was just her playing the long-suffering saint, or if he’d actually managed to cross a line he hadn’t fully mapped out.

"You're not pissed?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. "I should’ve told you. It’s a pretty big commitment to just... show up with."

Jolene stopped her gentle rubbing, looking up at him with a look that was almost amused. She let out a soft, huffing laugh, shaking her head. "Sam, I’m not mad. I was surprised, yeah. Mostly because it was a hell of a surprise to come home to after a ten-hour shift. But mad?" She tapped his bicep lightly, a playful jab. "No. I’m not mad."

She went back to the ointment, her touch feather-light against the raw, stinging skin. "Honestly? I’ve been more shocked that you only had the one all this time. You’ve got the Poseidon, and even that’s tucked away on your ribs where no one really sees it unless they’re... well, unless they’re me." She looked up again, her expression softening into something reminiscent of the ease they’d had before the world had gone sideways. "My dad was practically a walking canvas, you know that. And the guys who come through here? They’re all covered in ink, half of them look like they’ve been doodled on by a toddler with a sharpie. I always assumed you were either the outlier or it was just a matter of time before you decided to add to the collection."

"I didn't want to be like them," he admitted. "I wanted to look like... I don't know. Like I hadn't been through the grinder. Like I was just a regular guy."

"And now..." she let the words trail off, her gaze flickering down toward the thick, rigid scarring on his thigh from the deep cut that luckily avoided his artery. It was silent evidence of the violence he’d endured. Sam didn’t need her to finish the sentence. He gave a single, slow nod, a gesture that carried the heavy weight of admission. It explained everything, from the reckless appointment to the permanence of the ink.

As Jolene settled back against the pillows with a book, he let his mind wander back to the years he’d spent calculating his future, treating his body like a portfolio he needed to keep pristine. He’d always operated on the assumption that there would be a "post-Navy" life. A civilian life that required suits, interviews, and the kind of professional anonymity that ink usually compromised. He’d looked at the guys in his unit who treated their skin like a communal scrapbooking project, and promised himself he wouldn't be that guy. He’d kept the Poseidon on his ribs, a secret he could hide beneath a uniform or a dress shirt, ensuring that when the time came, he could fold back into society without anyone asking questions about the man underneath. But the reality of his present was a cruel correction to those carefully laid plans. The metal around his leg, the limp that would likely define his stride, and the scars that mapped out the wreckage of his survival had marked him. He was a walking testament to violence, and the idea of "professional anonymity" felt like a cruel joke he’d stopped telling himself.

He told himself the new ink was just about reclaiming the canvas. A way to make the story his own rather than having it dictated by a roadside IED. It was a logical, aesthetic choice. Or at least, that was the narrative he fed his own brain. He had to believe that. He needed it to be a conscious, calculated evolution of his identity, anything to keep the memory of that afternoon in the bathroom with the clippers at bay. He would not allow himself to be so undone by something as simple as appearance. He didn't want to be that man again. So, he built this newer, colder justification for the tattoo. He convinced himself this wasn't an impulsive lash-out, even though, deep down, the urge was the same. He was just better at dressing it up in logic now. He watched his own reflection in the dim light of the bedroom, touching the fresh work on his shoulder, and prayed that if he kept covering the scars with art, eventually, he might actually believe he was the one in control.

Tag list? Just ask babes

Jolene

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

It was crazy how quickly time managed to fly during the early months of the year. One moment they were celebrating the small victory of on-site housing, and in a blink of an eye, Sam had managed to successfully prove he could move himself from a bed to his wheelchair with confidence. Just enough proven independence that his doctors at Walter Reed released him for months of ongoing outpatient physical therapy back in Virginia. Randy and Loretta had driven up with their SUV, knowing Jolene’s truck couldn’t successfully provide a comfortable way for Sam to keep his leg elevated during the five-hour drive home. In some ways, it was nice having them trailing behind in hers while she drove Sam in theirs. They’d helped out as much as possible without seeming overbearing by pulling off at gas stops, running in to grab her and Sam food while she gently nudged him awake for meds. 

When they got home, Randy had walked them through all the modifications to the house with an anxious pride. The ramps out front and back were sturdy, and carefully thought over in the way only a man who loved Jolene like a daughter could manage. The door frames had been widened, the fresh trim not yet painted, smelling of sawdust and love. Loretta had spent the days prior shifting the entirety of essential items in the kitchen to the lower cabinets for easy access to accommodate Sam’s needs.

The downstairs bedroom, however, was the hardest hurdle. It was homier than Jolene gave it credit for. Filled with the familiar scent of cedar and the soft glow of the lamps they’d brought down from the second floor. But no amount of decorative pillows or a brand new king sized bed could mask the fact that she was sleeping in the room where her father had taken his final breaths. It was unnerving to be there alone. Luckily between Chewie and Sam that was rare.

The first week back was a blur of exhausting firsts. There was the reunion between Sam and Chewbacca. A moment Jolene had braced for with a mixture of hope and terror. The eighty pound German Shepherd had been vibrating with months worth of suppressed energy when they finally pulled into the gravel drive. Jolene had to practically tackle the dog to keep him from launching himself at Sam’s leg. Eventually, their dog settled into a state of watchful vigil once he calmed. A heavy head resting on Sam’s good knee, his tail thumping against the hardwood every time Sam so much as shifted a blanket. It was almost as if, in that big Shepherd head of his, he was acknowledging that his dad came back, thus it was his responsibility alone to watch over Sam until he was upright to do it on his own.

The rhythm of their days became dictated by the kitchen timer. The ding signaled the rotation of ice packs, the swallowing of pills, or the beginning of the home exercises that left Sam drenched in sweat and shaking with a silent rage. Jolene watched him from the doorway, her heart aching as she saw the Chief Petty Officer tremble as he tried to lift his leg six inches off the mat a few seconds faster than the previous attempt. 

He was improving, though. To Jolene, it was like watching a glacier move. To Sam, it may as well have been the fastest he’d ever felt life move. Jolene assumed it was because he was finally doing something. The messy-headed teenager look she’d teased him about at Walter Reed had stayed. He hadn’t asked for the clippers, and she hadn't offered. Instead, she spent the quiet evenings sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, her fingers working through the darkening curls, gently working through the knots from laying back most of the day. When she’d first met Sam, they’d hovered between honey brown and medium. Now, likely due to the stress, it was beginning to darken and taken on a more ashen color. Not that she minded at all.

They were finally home, and Jolene found herself breathing deeper. Her ribs started to find their curve again as she actually ate the meals Loretta dropped off. It was a conversation that hadn’t gone over well at all the moment Loretta finally laid eyes on her in February. She’d walked out of the room, away from Sam’s ears only to get met with sternness and a frightening level of love only her Godmother could muster. She’d tossed out promises to start being better about eating. Agreeing that Sam wouldn’t benefit if she was unwell because she stopped taking care of herself along the way. Mostly concessions just to get Loretta to stop yelling in the hallway of a military facility. But being back home finally, Jolene allowed herself to believe for the first time since the phone call in November, that things were finally looking up.

Sam was talking about the future again. Not ‘just the getting through today’ kind of future, but their Little Creek future. He’d spend his PT sessions grilling the therapists about functional movement, his eyes bright with the prospect of the Lead Instructor role once he was back to normal. He was convinced that by the time the Winter was over, he’d be out of the chair for good, and by the end of the year he’d be trading the titanium pins for a pair of combat boots and a whistle. Jolene didn't have the heart to tell him that she’d seen the latest emails from the Personnel Office, or that the "purgatory" they thought they’d left behind in D.C. had followed them home in the form of a thick, manila envelope marked Medical Evaluation Board. She just kept her hand in his hair and watched him sleep, waiting for the inevitable day the Navy would come knocking on their front door to reclaim what was left of their hopeful bubble.

As for her shop, being the boss had its perks, mainly the ability to treat her schedule like a rough draft. She’d pop in during the mid-morning to check the progress on a frame alignment or help her lead mechanic. Sometimes she’d help source a hard-to-find part for a classic restoration with Ruth in the front office. She wasn’t pulling full days yet, but those four-hour stretches were her own version of physical therapy. She’d work until noon, her hands getting grease-stained and calloused again, before wiping down and racing back to the house to check on Sam.

Tuesdays and Thursdays were the real anchors of their week, given those were PT days.

Getting him into her truck was still a choreographed dance of grunts and careful bracing. She’d help him leverage his weight from the chair to the passenger seat, tucking his leg into the specific, cushioned configuration he needed to avoid the jarring of the Virginia backroads. Sam usually spent the drive in a focused silence, his jaw set as he prepared for the hour of torture disguised as rehab that awaited him. By the time they pulled back into the driveway around lunch, he was usually a shell of himself. Pale, trembling with muscle fatigue, and smelling of the gym’s stale sweat.

"Come on, Grumpy," she’d murmur, her arm around his waist as she guided him toward the modified bathroom. The shower had become their most sacred ritual. In the hospital, it had been about simple hygiene, but here, it was about trying to get him to relax. She’d get him settled on the newly installed shower bench. The water hot enough to steam up the room and loosen the tight, angry knots in his back. Jolene would step in behind him, her own clothes usually getting damp in the process, and reach for the bottle of expensive, sandalwood-scented shampoo she’d bought specifically because it didn't smell like a pharmacy and the fact the earth fragrance really fit the man she knew who loved to run in the pines back in New England.

She’d work up a thick lather, her fingers disappearing into the dark, unruly curls that had now fully claimed his head. This was the only time Sam truly let the armor go. He’d lean his head back into her touch, shaky exhales escaping him as Jolene used her nails to scrub his scalp. She’d take her time, her fingertips moving in slow, deliberate circles, massaging away the tension of the PT session until she felt his shoulders finally drop.

"Better?" she’d ask, her voice barely audible against the hiss of the spray.

He’d usually just offer a muffled grunt of affirmation, his eyes closed, letting her hands be the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Once he was dry and settled on the bed, the caregiver in her would resurface, shifting from the soft intimacy of the shower to the clinical nature his recovery demanded. She’d lay out a clean towel beneath his leg, exposed metal catching the light in a way that still made her stomach lurch if she looked at it too long. Cleaning the pin sites was a silent ritual. Jolene would sit on the corner of the mattress, a bowl of saline and a stack of sterile swabs at her side. She’d work with the steady hand, clearing away the crust and discharge from the places where the titanium met the skin. Sam usually looked away during this part, staring at the ceiling or tracing the pattern on the quilt, his body tensing with every cold swipe of the cotton.

"No redness, Sam. The skin looks tight," she’d provide him with updates. She was always checking for the tell-tale heat of infection, knowing the slight swelling would send them racing back to Walter Reed. It was a weight she carried every time she touched him. The knowledge that his recovery was a house of cards, and she was the one tasked with keeping the wind at bay. The worst of it was his heel. It had been a constant battle since those first two weeks in the ICU when he’d been too broken to move. The sore there was stubborn, and still refused to fully close. Jolene would carefully lift his foot, cradling his ankle in her palm to check the dressing before she’d take the time to apply the medicated cream, her touch light as she tried to keep it from turning into a full-blown bedsore.

"Still tender?" she’d ask, though she already knew the answer by the way his toes would curl inward.

"It's fine, Jo. Just do what you gotta do," he’d rasp, the exhaustion of the day finally bleeding into his voice.

She’d finish the wound care with a fresh wrap, before moving on to the rest of the checklist. She’d check the backs of his thighs, making sure no other pressure points were developing, and then move to the nightstand to organize the afternoon cocktail of meds. She was a hawk about the timing, knowing exactly when the nerve blocks would start to wear off and the "lightning strikes" in his leg would begin.

"Three pills, Sam. Then you’re eating this entire sandwich," she’d command, sliding the plate toward him. Jolene learned early on that if she didn't watch him swallow the last bite, he’d neglect it once the lethargy hit. She’d sit there until the plate was empty, watching the color slowly return to his face as the food and the quiet of the house did their work.

Finally, once the dressings were clean, the meds were down, and the sandwich was gone, she’d help him maneuver his pillows into a fortress of support. She’d tuck a final bolster under his knee, making sure the elevation was exactly as the therapists demanded. "You good?" she’d ask, leaning over to press a kiss to his forehead.

"Yeah," he’d breathe, his eyes already heavy, the fog of the painkillers finally winning. "I'm good, Baby."

She’d offer a small, genuine smile, snagging her keys from the dresser. She’d wait until his breathing shifted into that deep, heavy sound of a man who had finally found safety, before she’d quietly click the bedroom door shut. It was only then, she would feel confident enough to walk across the gravel driveway and head toward the shop for the afternoon. And for a few hours, she could be Jolene Johnson, the owner of the best damn mechanic shop in Virginia Beach, while the woman who was holding Sam Walsh together took a much-needed breath.

She tried her best to carve out space for herself. Small, quiet pockets of air where she wasn't just an extension of a medical chart. Truly. But it was a losing battle when everyone around her seemed to exist in a constant state of hunger for updates. She understood, of course. Sam had nearly died. He was currently a miracle with a metal leg, and people cared. But being the sole curator of his trauma meant that every interaction was a reminder of what they’d lost. She found herself unhealthily invested in the most mundane of places. One afternoon, while a teenager at the Piggly Wiggly helped her load groceries into the truck, she’d felt a surge of genuine adrenaline just hearing him mention he went to Princess Anne High.

"I was the kicker there," she’d blurted out, her voice a little too loud, a little too eager. She’d probably weirded the poor kid out, but she couldn't help it. For three minutes, she wasn't the woman with the "injured SEAL boyfriend." She was just a former athlete talking shop with a fellow Cavalier. It was a rare, precious oxygen bubble. No updates on pin-site infections. No debating mobility milestones with a therapist. No logistics talk with Randy or insurance paperwork with the Casualty Liaison. Even at the shop, where she went for sanctuary, she had to dodge Ruth’s well-meaning but heavy-handed inquiries and offers of dropping by groceries. Not to mention, the proximity community was one thing, Sam’s mother was somehow more overbearing despite the hundreds of miles.

Mary had been a persistent, static-heavy presence in Jolene's ear ever since they’d crossed the state line. If the doctors were in charge of Sam’s physical recovery, Mary Walsh considered herself the spiritual foreman. She called twice a day, her voice vibrating with that Northeast Upper-middle class pace barely masked her judgment of the southern grit Jolene was using to keep the house running.

Jolene would grit her teeth, her knuckles turning white against the steering wheel or the kitchen counter, and offer the same patient, hollow reassurances. She was a buffer for him. A human shield between Sam’s fragile ego and his mother’s suffocating concern. Sam didn't have the patience for his mother's fussing, and Mary didn't have the stomach for the raw, ugly reality of Sam’s temper, so the burden fell to Jolene. She was the one who translated his "I’m fine" into something Mary could digest, and Mary’s "He should be treated tenderly" into something Sam wouldn't throw a remote at.

By the time she’d hang up, the weight of the balancing act felt heavier than the truck she was driving. She’d pull into the gravel drive, the gutters overflowing with leaves from months of neglect, heart panging because she knew under normal circumstances he’d already have taken care of it. She loved him. She would walk through fire to keep him breathing. But as she watched Chewbacca jumping on the other side of the door with his tail a happy blur, Jolene felt a pang of envy for the dog. He didn't need to know about complications of Sam's recovery and career. He just wanted a head scratch.

Inside, Sam was likely waking up from his nap, his mind already churning through the day's frustrations. And tucked in the glove box, hidden beneath a pile of napkins and a spare wrench, was the manila envelope from the Navy. She hadn't told him yet that the home visit from the Naval Officer had been scheduled for Friday, mostly because she wanted him to have one more night of believing that he was a man returning to his career, and not a liability being measured for his exit.

"Just a little more time," she whispered to the empty truck, smoothing her hair. She climbed out and headed toward the ramp, the weight of the world settling back onto her shoulders with every step. The house was cool, the air smelling of the lavender-scented floor wax Loretta had used to scrub the place within an inch of its life before they arrived. Usually, the sound of the door was enough to send a ripple through the house, but today, there was only the low, steady hum of the refrigerator.

The door was cracked, letting a sliver of the afternoon sun slice across the hardwood floor. Sam was out. Not just resting, but truly, deeply submerged in a narcotic-induced heavy sleep. He was sprawled on his back, the mountain of pillows she’d meticulously arranged still holding his leg in its elevated position. The sheets were kicked down to his waist, revealing the stark contrast of his body. The slightly softened but still corded muscles of his chest and arms, leading way to the thinning shape of his legs and the brutal reality of the fixator below.

"Sam," she whispered, leaning over him. She reached out, her hand hovering over his shoulder before she gently shook him. "Hey, Baby. Time to join the living." He didn't move. She tried again, her voice a little louder, her hand sliding up to the side of his neck where his pulse beat slow and steady. "Sam. Wake up, honey."

He let out a long, shuddering sigh, his head rolling toward her touch. His eyes didn't snap open with the alertness she’d seen for years. There was no bracing for a threat, no immediate tensing of his jaw. Instead, he surfaced slowly, like someone rising through deep, clear water. When his eyelids finally fluttered open, they were unfocused and soft. He looked at her, and for a fleeting, devastating second, the hardened bastard she’d come to know well the last few months was nowhere to be found. The defensive lines around his mouth were gone, smoothed over by the remnants of sleep. He looked younger. Almost boyish in a way. 

"Jo?" he murmured, his voice a thick, sleep-warmed rasp. He didn't ask about his meds. He didn't complain about the ache that always followed a nap. Instead, he reached for her, his hand trailing up her arm until his fingers found the back of her neck, pulling her down toward him with a desperate tenderness. "You're back," he whispered against her skin as she let herself be pulled into his space. He tucked his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. He sounded vulnerable. Like a man who hadn't yet remembered that he was supposed to be angry at the world.

Jolene felt a sharp ache in her chest. A pressure so intense it made her eyes sting. She hadn't realized until this exact moment just how much of him she’d been missing. She’d been so focused on the patient who required frequent medical intervention, the soldier who needed her logistics on paper, and the survivor he was lucky to be that she’d forgotten about the man who used to look at her like she was the only thing that made sense. The version of Sam she’d been living with lately was a fortress she so often felt outside of, but here, in the dim light of her father’s old room, the gates were wide open.

"I'm back," she managed to say, her voice trembling just enough for him to notice. She ran her fingers through his hair, her nails lightly scratching the scalp she’d scrubbed earlier, and he let out a soft, contented hum that vibrated through her own body.

He pulled back just an inch, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip. His gaze was clear, for once, and filled with a raw, unburdened affection that made her want to sob. "I missed you," he said simply.

It wasn't a joke. It wasn't a sarcastic remark meant to deflect. It was a Glimpse. Seeing him like this, so open and tender, nearly broke her. It was a reminder of the man who existed beneath the titanium and the trauma. The one she was fighting so hard to preserve even as the Navy prepared to write him off as a loss. The one who may never walk properly again, and was doing his best to not be angry or worried about that fact. The man who promised her the world and now demanded too much of it to give her that. She leaned down and pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes to hide the moisture. She wanted to stay in this moment forever, in the quiet space where the hardware didn't matter and the manila envelope didn't exist. She wanted to hold onto this boyish and sweet version of him before the world rushed back in and he remembered he was broken.

"I missed you too, Walsh," she whispered, her voice fracturing on his name.

She pressed her face into his shoulder, the tears finally winning as they soaked into his t-shirt. To anyone else, it would have sounded like the standard greeting of a girlfriend who’d been gone for a few hours at the shop. But internally, Jolene was grieving a much longer absence. She wasn't talking about the three hours she’d spent at the garage; she was talking about the months she’d spent looking for him in the wreckage of hospital rooms and bureaucracy. She missed the man who didn’t need her this intensely, and instead chose to allow himself to want her.

She stayed there, feeling the tightening of his arm, and let her mind drift back to the version of Sam Walsh she had first fallen for.

It felt like a different lifetime, that first night in the bar. She could still see him sitting at the counter at Randy and Loretta’s. Just a handsome stranger with a half-drank Michelob and a quiet, observant air that had instantly stilled the noise of the room. She’d walked in, fresh off a long two weeks in Baltimore for Elijah’s delivery and welcome home, and had fallen into those honeyed eyes before she could even think to put up a guard. There had been a warmth there that melted into a heat that wasn't aggressive, but steady and sure.

In those early months, she’d grown addicted to the quiet, casual way he claimed her space. It wasn't about the grand gestures, but the small, mindless touches that defined their rhythm. She thought of the way he’d come through the front door after a long day at the base. His uniform smelt of sea salt and jet fuel, and he’d immediately find her at the stove. He wouldn't say a word, just slide a large, warm hand onto the curve of her waist, wrapping himself around her while she stirred a pot of pasta or flipped a grilled cheese. It was a silent check-in, a way of saying I’m back, you’re here, and that’s enough.

At night, when they’d settle onto the couch to catch up on a show, his hands were never still. His fingers would find the bare skin of her shoulder, tracing the lines of her old shop related injuries or the faint freckles there with a distractingly gentle ease. He’d do it while his eyes were fixed on the screen, a subconscious movement that made her feel more seen than any conversation ever could.

Even in sleep, Sam had been a man who craved proximity. She remembered the dozens of times she’d woken up in the middle of the night to find he had shifted toward her, his heavy forearm tossed over her side. He had a habit of abandoning his own pillow, gradually migrating until he was leaning into hers, his face tucked against the back of her neck or his forehead resting against her temple.

Now, as she felt his hand stroking her hair in the quiet of her father’s bedroom, she realized she was holding a ghost of that man. He was still there. She could see him in the boyish curve of his mouth and the way he still sought out her scent, but he was buried under layers of pain and a desperate, clawing need to be useful again. Sam let out a soft, questioning noise, sensing the shift in her mood. "Jo? You're shaking, baby. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she lied, pulling back just enough to wipe her eyes with the heel of her hand. She forced a small, watery smile, desperate to keep the front from crumbling completely in front of him, only daring to look up at his eyes for a brief moment before looking away. "Just glad to be home. I’m just... tired."

Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly, that observant streak she’d so usually associated with him flickering back to life. He didn't entirely believe her.  He was too good at reading her for that, and the narcotic fog wasn't quite thick enough to hide the hitch in her breathing. In the half-light of the room, he didn't let it go. He may not have had the energy for a confrontation, but he had a surplus of that quiet, marrow-deep intuition that had always made him her perfect match.

"Jolene," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum against her ear. He shifted, a small hiss of pain escaping as his leg protested the movement, as he hooked his thumb under her chin, gently forcing her to look up, though she tried to bury her face back into the cotton of his shirt. "Don't do that. Don't hide from me."

"I'm not," she whispered, the lie tasting like salt.

"You are." His touch was impossibly tender, his fingers tracing the wet path of a tear down her cheek with a reverence that made her chest feel like it was being squeezed in a vise. He sounded so much like the man who used to hold her in the dark before the world broke. "Tell me. Is it the shop? Is it Ma? Did someone say something to you?" The gentleness was her undoing. If he had been grumpy, she could have been firm. If he had been distant, she could have been busy. But this raw, soft version of him stripped away every defense she had left.

"It’s just exhaustion, Sam," she whispered, the first silent sob breaking through the dam. She collapsed against him, her forehead pressed into the center of his sternum, her hands fist-clenching the fabric of his shirt as if he were the only thing keeping her from drifting out to sea. "I just wish you weren't going through this. I miss the you who isn't hurting every second of the day."

She cried unlike how she had in the last months. Not the silent, polite tears she shed in the shower or the margins of the day, but the deep, racking sobs of a woman who had been carrying a mountain on her back for months. She cried for the bar in Virginia Beach, for the lightheartedness they once shared, for the future that was on hold and for the terrifying, looming reality of the Friday appointment she hadn't told him about yet. And the worst part of it all, was the excuse she muttered out as to why she was loosing it... was nothing more than a half truth to keep it all at bay.

"I'm okay, baby. Just breathe. I’ve got you," he murmured, his voice lacked even a trace of the detachment that had defined their interactions lately. He pressed a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering there as if he could draw the sorrow out of her skin. But his softness only acted as a catalyst. Every tender word was a reminder of the gentleness they had sacrificed at the altar of his survival, and it made her sob harder, her shoulders shaking with the sheer force of a release that had been months in the making. She felt like a frayed wire finally snapping under the current.

Halfway through the storm, a bolt of guilt pierced through her grief. She felt a sudden need to pull away, her mind racing with the realization that she was supposed to be the strong one. She was the one who cleaned the pins; she was the one who fought the Navy; she was the one who held the line. She shouldn't be letting a random Tuesday be the thing that finally leveled her. Not after she’d survived the ICU. Not after she’d stood up to Mary Walsh. Or after she’d swallowed the bitter pill of knowing the kind and soft man she’d known was nowhere on the horizon in the wake of what happened to him.

"I'm sorry," she choked out, her voice wet and thick. She tried to push back, her palms flat against his pectorals as she attempted to sit up and wipe the tears from her face with her sleeves. "I don’t know why I’m doing this. I’m just tired, Sam. I didn’t mean to... to put this on you."

But as she tried to retreat into her fortress, Sam’s grip tightened. He didn't let her move an inch. The grogginess was gone now, replaced by a sudden alertness that cut through the haze of his meds. He hooked his arm more firmly around her waist and used his other hand to press her head back down against his heart, refusing to let the distance grow between them.

"Don't," he whispered, "Don't you dare apologize, Jolene."

She tried to protest again, a small, muffled sound against his shirt, but he shifted just enough to tuck his chin over the top of her head, holding her there.

"Just stay," he breathed, his hand moving in slow, heavy strokes down the length of her spine. "Please. Just... let me be the one holding the pain for a minute. Let me feel like a man for once."

The honesty in his plea struck her harder than any of his previous outbursts ever had. Because of all the ways he'd needed her these past few weeks, this was different. Before, his needs had been practical. Humiliating, vulnerable, painfully human. There had been those awkward first sponge baths, his pitiful brown eyes fixed on the ceiling while she carefully pulled back his foreskin and cleaned the most intimate parts of him under a nurse's supervision. There were the countless transfers from bed to chair and back again, the constant adjustments, the medications she tracked because he simply didn't have the mental capacity to manage them himself. Those were real needs. Necessary needs. The kind that stripped away every trace of romance or sex appeal between them and left her in the singular role of caretaker. She had become the person who kept him functioning, who carried the weight when he no longer could.

But this was different.

This wasn't him asking her to care for him. It was him asking for the chance to care for her. To shoulder some of the emotional burden she'd been carrying alone. To offer strength instead of borrowing it. As though he'd been starving for an opportunity to give back even a fraction of what she'd given him every day since November. And somehow, that need touched her more deeply than all the others combined.

Jolene stopped fighting his kindness. She let her hands go limp against his chest, her fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt as she surrendered to the weight of his embrace. She stayed there, listening to the steady, powerful thrum of his heart. In the quiet of the room, with the late afternoon sun fading against the hardwood, the roles finally blurred. For the first time in a long time, the house didn't feel like a recovery ward. It just felt like home.

She lingered there for a long moment, the steady cadence of his heartbeat against her cheek. But as the silence deepened, the secret she was keeping began to feel less like a hidden burden and more like a betrayal. The warmth of his skin felt unearned while she was holding back a truth that would inevitably shatter this fragile peace. The guilt grew teeth, gnawing at her until she couldn't breathe under the weight of his kindness. Reluctantly, she pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes red-rimmed and her voice still caught in the back of her throat.

"Sam," she started, her fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. "There’s something... I haven't told you yet. About Friday. The Navy, they're sending someone. A field representative from the PERS office and a medical liaison. They’re coming here, to the house, for a formal evaluation."

She braced herself for the impact. She expected the jaw to lock, the eyes to turn to flint, or for him to pull away in a fit of territorial rage at the thought of a suit sitting in their living room. Instead, Sam just exhaled a long, slow breath, his expression remaining maddeningly neutral.

"I know, Jo," he said casually, his thumb resuming its slow stroke against her temple. "Friday at ten, right? I figured they’d be here by then."

Jolene froze, her heart skipping a beat. She blinked at him, the tears drying on her cheeks as a wave of confusion washed over her. "You know? How? I haven't even brought the paperwork in from the truck yet."

Sam shifted slightly, the bed creaking under his weight, his gaze drifting toward the window where the Virginia sun was beginning to dip behind the pines. "Got a call on Monday," he admitted, his voice leveled out into a low, steady hum. "One of the Chief’s from the Command called my cell while you were at the shop. He gave me the heads-up that the paperwork for the training billet had hit a snag and that the medical board was fast-tracking the home visit."

"You’ve known since Monday?" Jolene sat up fully now, her hands dropping to her lap. She felt a strange, dizzying sensation, like the ground had shifted beneath her. "And you didn't say anything? You just let me sit here and agonize over how to break it to you? Sam, I’ve been losing sleep for three days trying to figure out how to tell you without... without you spiraling."

She searched his face, looking for the anger, the fear, or the stubborn denial that had been his constant companion at Walter Reed. But he just looked tired. Not the medicated tired, but a deep, soulful exhaustion. His calmness was eerie.

"I didn't want to ruin the week," he said simply, reaching out to snag her hand again.

"But Sam, they’re coming to evaluate if you're retainable," she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of the word. "Don't you get it? This isn't just a check-in. This is the start of the exit. How are you so... okay with this?"

"I'm not okay with it," he countered, and for a split second, the old light of the Chief Petty Officer flickered in his honeyed eyes. "But I’ve spent enough time to know you don't jump the gun on a brief. I'm just waiting for the enemy to show up at the door so I can see what kind of fight we’re actually in. Until then, there's no point in us both drowning in the 'what-ifs'."

Jolene stared at him, her mind racing. She had spent weeks acting as his shield, his translator, and his primary defender, only to realize he had been standing in the rain right beside her, watching the same horizon. The shock of his composure was almost as painful as his previous outbursts. It was a reminder that even when he was broken, even when he was boyish and sweet in the margins of a nap, he was still a man who had been trained to endure.

"You're terrifying sometimes, you know that?" she breathed, her hand tightening around his.

"I'm just a man who’s trying to figure out how to function in those small gaps between meds, Jo," he murmured, pulling her back down into the crook of his arm. "The rest of it? We'll handle it on Friday. For now, just stay here."

The weight of the afternoon finally overtook her. Jolene didn’t mean to sleep. She just meant to close her eyes for a second, relaxed by the rise and fall of Sam’s chest and his fingers in her hair. Yet, when she finally jolted awake, the room was bathed in the bruised purple of twilight. 

"Sam?" she croaked, sitting up and finding the other side of the bed empty, and the man she’d fallen asleep on long gone.

She scrambled to her feet, her joints stiff, and hurried toward the kitchen. She expected to find him struggling, perhaps stuck in a narrow turn or frustrated by a high shelf. Instead, she stopped dead in the doorway. The kitchen was warm. The low, golden light of the stove's hood lamp illuminated Sam, who was positioned in his wheelchair by the island. He’d already cleared a space on the counter. Beside him sat an empty glass dish, and the scent of bubbling cheese and roasted chicken was already beginning to fill the air. He’d simply taken the pre-made casserole Loretta had left and managed to slide it into the oven himself.

He looked up as she entered, a rare, genuine smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You were dead to the world. Figured I could handle a thirty-minute bake without calling in reinforcements."

"Sam, you shouldn't have been leaning over the oven door–"

"I’m fine," he interrupted, but for once, it didn't sound like a defense. He looked settled, his posture relaxed as he patted the arm of his chair. "Go sit down."

Jolene watched him, a lump forming in her throat. Seeing him navigate the kitchen with that spark of stubborn competence felt like a promise. Not a grand one, but a small, precious assurance that the man she loved was still in there. Still fighting his way back to her.

As they ate later by the light of the candles on the table, Sam laughed while recounting a story about Chewbacca's antics that day. The sound caught her off guard. It wasn't the strained, obligatory chuckle she'd grown used to hearing over the past few months. It was his real laugh. Warm and unguarded. One that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his shoulders shake. The one she'd fallen in love with. The shadows of the Navy and the pins in his leg seemed to retreat into the corners of the room. For the first time in months, she wasn't studying him for signs of pain or mentally calculating his next medication dose, wondering if he'd overexerted himself. She was simply looking at him.

The candlelight caught the copper tones hidden in his brown hair. A faint scar near his chin she'd somehow never noticed before despite years together. The way his hands moved when he told a story, animated even while seated. The tiny crease that appeared beside his mouth whenever he was trying not to laugh at his own jokes. She found herself collecting those details without meaning to, storing them away somewhere deep inside her. Like a bear preparing for winter. Like part of her already knew there would be another bad day waiting around the corner. Another morning where pain and frustration hollowed him out and left him snapping at her over something insignificant. Another argument started by a misplaced remote or a forgotten refill or a question asked at the wrong moment. Another day where she'd have to remind herself that the man lashing out wasn't the man sitting across from her now.

So she memorized this version instead.

The easy smile. The softness in his eyes. The way he leaned back in his chair with his arms folded behind his head, looking comfortable in his own skin for the first time in what felt like forever.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Each second stretching longer than it should have, as though the universe itself recognized how rare this was and was reluctant to let it pass. Jolene couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so present. Not trapped in the future, worrying about what came next. Not buried in the past, mourning everything they'd lost.

Just here.

Watching Sam tell a ridiculous story about a dog.

Watching candlelight flicker across his face.

Watching him become himself again.

And for a few fragile hours, she allowed herself to believe that maybe they were finally turning a corner. That maybe the worst was behind them. That maybe this version of him, the one laughing across the table, making her stomach hurt from smiling so much, was the man she'd get to keep from now on.

And somehow despite not having the chance to shower, still covered in grease from the shop, and eating reheated chicken and rice casserole, it was the best night they'd had since the world ended.

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

The meeting hadn't been the explosive confrontation Jolene had braced for. Instead, it was something far more corrosive. A bureaucratic drowning. The Medical Liaison had clearly delivered this speech a thousand times. He sat in her father’s living room and spoke about Sam’s life as if it were a ledger that wouldn't quite balance. He hadn't officially stamped the retirement papers yet. Not because there was hope, but because there was procedure.

"Look," the Liaison had said, clicking his pen. "Technically, you're in limbo. We can't finalize medical retirement until you've hit your Maximum Medical Improvement. You have to finish this course of physical therapy before the board can do the final tally. That's regulation."

Sam had leaned forward, his knuckles white as he gripped the armrests of his chair. "I’m at eighty percent mobility on the charts, for my current marker. Well ahead of what they expected, Sir. By the time I finish the last block of PT, I’ll be ready for the Little Creek billet. I just need a recommendation for the waiver until I can finish."

The officer had looked at Sam, not with malice, but with a weary pity that made Jolene’s stomach turn.

"In my experience, Sam, conditions like yours always hit that disability percentage. Even after the harshest PT, even with the best surgeons, or the most hard working soldiers.  The math just doesn't work for a Lead Instructor role. You can’t be responsible for a range or a team if you can’t carry the weight or there’s concern about small shifts causing serious damages. It’s a liability even in a training setting. You shouldn't get your hopes up."

He’d leaned back, spreading his hands as if offering a consolation prize.

"For now, look at the silver lining. You're in active recovery. That means Uncle Sam is still picking up the tab for every hour of therapy, every pill, and every specialist. Use the insurance. Milk the recovery for everything it's worth. But you need to understand that at the end of this road, the result is likely going to be the same. In my experience, I’d assume you’ll be retiring regardless. Use this time to figure out what a civilian Sam Walsh looks like while you are getting paid to focus on getting healthy. Lord knows there are worse places to be in this economy."

Since the door had closed, Sam hadn't moved. He hadn’t spoken. He had wheeled himself to the window that looked out toward the gravel drive and the distant, blurred line of the trees, and he had simply stopped.

Jolene watched him from the kitchen as she handwashed a full load of dishes, because she couldn't bring herself to break the quiet. Sam was catatonic. His hands, usually so restless, were dead weights in his lap. 

Deep down she knew that to Sam, the “silver lining" of free insurance was just a longer leash on a dog that was already being put out to pasture. Jolene wanted to go to him, to press her face into his shoulder and tell him they’d find another way, but for the first time, she felt like she didn't have the right. She was the one who could still walk out to the shop. She wasn’t the one whose career would be dictated by medical percentages.

She watched the sun track across the floorboards, inching toward his motionless chair, and realized that the boyish, sweet man from Tuesday had been buried under his hope clashing with the unfortunate reality of his situation. The fight wasn't over, but as she looked at the hollowed-out expression on Sam’s face, she feared the warrior had finally decided there was nothing left worth fighting for. She decided to give him space, though it felt more like leaving a man to drown in shallow water. Jolene poured her nervous energy into the house, tackling tasks that didn't require her to look at the hollowed-out expression on his face. She lugged baskets of laundry to the machine. She scrubbed the bathrooms until the scent of bleach burned her throat, and she swept the hardwood floors. And when the common housecleaning was finished she undertook those hardly tackled tasks: scrubbing baseboards, going through every kitchen cabinet to purge old spices or cans, and polishing wood furniture.

Every time she passed the living room, she’d steal a glance. He hadn’t moved. The light had shifted from a pale morning yellow to a sharp, midday glare, and Sam remained a statue in the window.

After three hours, she finally tried to break the seal. She approached him with a glass of water. "Sam? It's time for your afternoon meds."

He didn't blink. He didn't even acknowledge she was in the room. When she reached out to touch his shoulder, he didn't pull away, but he didn't lean in, either. His eyes remained fixed on a spot in the gravel drive, and he refused to maintain eye contact. It was as if he’d pulled a shutter down over his soul, and Jolene was on the outside looking at a blank wall.

She felt helpless panic as she retreated to the kitchen, her hands shaking as she pulled her phone from her pocket. She couldn't do this alone. Not this part. She dialed Randy.

"JJ? Everything okay?" her godfather’s voice was warm, but he caught the tension in her silence immediately.

"Randy... the Navy was here. The liaison," she whispered, leaning her forehead against the cool surface of the refrigerator. "He's... he's gone dark, Randy. He won't look at me. He won't move. He’s just sitting there. I can’t get him to take meds or even notice life moving in front of his face."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. Randy understood the weight of that sentence better than anyone. Decades ago, a fall had shattered several of Randy’s vertebrae and mangled his knee, ending his career in the SEALs in one brutal afternoon. He came back and Jolene had watched her father set him straight when he realized that there would be a life outside the Navy.

"He feels discarded, Jo," Randy said, his voice gravelly and knowing. "He thinks he’s a burden now, and he’s mad at the world for proving him right."

"Can you come over?" she asked, her voice cracking. "He won't talk to me. I think... I think he needs someone who’s been in a similar situation."

"I'm already grabbin' my keys Baby," Randy replied. "Don't push him, Jolene. Just let the house stay quiet till I get there. He's grievin' a man who hasn't died yet. That's a lonely kind of funeral." She hung up and looked back toward the living room. The sun was hitting the titanium pins in Sam's leg, making them glint. She went back to finding ways to productively keep her hands moving far away from Sam’s vicinity.

Randy’s old truck rumbled into the drive, and Jolene was out the door before he’d even cut the engine. She met him at the bottom of the ramp, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if she were trying to hold her own ribs together.

Randy climbed out slowly and pulled her into a one-armed squeeze. He didn't ask if she was okay. He could see the shadows under her eyes and the way her hands were trembling. "He's in the same spot," she whispered into his flannel shirt. "He hasn't blinked in an hour, Randy. He won't even look at me. I feel like if I touch him, he’ll just... shatter."

Randy stepped back, adjusting his cap. He looked toward the house, his expression grim and knowing. "He’s in the why me phase, Jo. And the why me phase is real ugly when you've spent your whole life being the one people rely on. You go on and get out of here for a bit. Go to the shop, or go tinker in the barn. I’ll sit with him. We’ll just talk man-to-man."

"I'll give you guys space," she nodded, wiping a stray tear with the back of her hand. "I’ll be in the barn if you need me. I just... I can't watch him look through me anymore."

She watched Randy disappear inside, the screen door clicking shut. She crossed the yard to the barn that housed her personal projects. She pulled the heavy sliding door open, the scent of dust, gasoline, and old leather rising up to greet her. In the center of the floor, under a layer of fine Virginia dust, sat her ’69 Camaro. It was her sanctuary. She walked over to it, her hand tracing the long, aggressive line of the fender. For two hours, she didn't think about medical liaisons or titanium pins. She grabbed a rag and a can of polish and began to work on the chrome, the repetitive motion of her arm numbing the static in her brain. She checked the oil, adjusted a belt, and simply sat in the driver’s seat for a while, gripping the steering wheel and imagining a road that didn't end in a hospital parking lot.

The sun was starting to cast long shadows across the barn floor when the heavy door groaned open again. Jolene looked up, her heart leaping into her throat. Randy was walking toward her, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked tired but the set of his jaw was less tense.

She climbed out of the car, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Is he okay? Did he say anything?"

Randy stopped a few feet away, looking at the Camaro and then back at the house. He blew out a long breath that puffed in the cooling air.

"He’s talkin'," Randy said softly. "Not a lot, and most of it’s cussing at the ceiling, but the ice is cracked. I told him about the day I fell. Told him about how I spent three months wishing I’d just hit my head instead of my back so I wouldn't have to deal with the bullshit that came after. Especially with how much of a bastard it made me towards Loretta. It took a long time to stop thinking death would’ve been a better solution than being angry all the time."

Jolene winced, the honesty of it stinging. "What did he say?"

"He asked me how I stopped being angry," Randy replied, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "And I told him the truth. You don't ever really stop being angry at the way it happened. You just eventually get too tired to hold onto it."

He stepped closer, clapping a hand on Jolene’s shoulder. "He’s exhausted, honey. He’s gonna probably keep seeing everything in front of his eyes with malice because it hurts and he feels useless. But he asked if you were still out here 'poking at that damn Chevy'." The relief that washed over her was so physical she felt her knees weaken. "Go on back in there," Randy nudged her toward the house. "I’m gonna head home and tell Loretta to double the batch of whatever she’s making for Sunday. We’re gonna get through this, Jo. It’s not easy, but he’s still alive and that’s what matters. I know that boy in there thinks the world of you, and that’s not something I take lightly."

Jolene let out a breath. "Thank you, Randy. I didn't know who else to call."

Randy’s expression softened, the hard lines of his weathered face crinkling into something warm and steady. He had that distinct, silver-bearded Kenny Rogers energy under normal circumstances. A kindness and gentleness. Today that look had largely been absent given the depth. He pulled her into a final, rib-crushing hug, "You don't ever have to thank me, JJ," he murmured into her hair. "I’m gonna start poppin’ in more often. Not to hover. Mostly just to be a nuisance. Keep his brain off the leg and maybe be a bit less snappy towards you. I didn’t give him an earful today about it, but he’s gotta reel it back in at some point. He said it himself but that’s my job to make sure it’s winding down as the meds ease up more and more."

He stepped back, his hands resting on his belt loops, and looked toward the house with a thoughtful squint. "And listen. If he starts really struggling, I mean really hittin' the bottom of the well, I’ve got something tucked away at my place I can drop off for him."

Jolene wiped a stray smudge of grease from her cheek, her brow furrowing. "What?"

Randy offered a slow, cryptic wink. "Top secret. Only for SEAL eyes, I'm afraid."

Jolene let out a dry, incredulous scoff, a small spark of her usual fire returning to her eyes. "Oh, for God's sake, Randy. Tell me you aren't planning on dropping off some ancient porn stash for my currently narcotic-brained boyfriend. The last thing Sam needs right now is a vintage collection of Playboy to distract him from his PT."

Randy let out a wheezing chuckle, shaking his head as he turned toward his truck. "Nothin' like that, baby. Give me some credit. It's just... a bit of advice I’ve held onto, if one of us falls off the wagon." He climbed into the cab of his truck, "Go check on him."

Jolene watched the taillights of his truck fade down the drive, leaving her in the deepening blue of the evening. She felt the weight of the cryptic promise Randy held for men who had been broken by the service they loved. She didn't know what that entailed, but as she turned back toward the house, she felt a sliver of hope with that in her backpocket.

She walked up the ramp, the wood solid beneath her boots, and stepped back into the quiet. The house felt different now. She moved toward the living room, ready to find whatever version of Sam Walsh was waiting for her. The screen door clicked shut, but Jolene didn't immediately call out. She silently stalked through the entryway, her boots making barely a sound on the braided rug as she navigated the dimming hallway. She was preparing herself for the worst. Bracing to find him still frozen by the window, or a statue of grief in her father’s old chair.

But when she turned the corner into the living room, the space by the window was empty.

A faint scraping sound drew her eye toward the kitchen. There, bathed in the low amber glow of the under-cabinet lighting, was Sam. He had wheeled himself right up to the counter, his large frame awkwardly angled in the chair as he stretched his arms upward. He was reaching the absolute best he could toward the back of the counter, his fingers straining to hook around the handle of the ceramic coffee canister. Right beside the left wheel of his chair was Chewbacca. The big German Shepherd was sitting completely still, ears alert and dark eyes tracking Sam’s every micro-movement. The dog was keeping a respectful distance, ensuring Sam wouldn't unbalance himself and hurt his leg.

Sam was breathing heavily, his entire focus consumed by the six inches between his fingertips and the counter, so he barely heard the soft scuff of her boots. Jolene didn't say a word. She just closed the distance between them, walking up right behind him. She extended her hand and gently placed her palm against the rigid line of his shoulder.

At the touch, the tension left his frame all at once. Sam let out an exhale and settled back into the cushion of the wheelchair, his arms dropping heavily into his lap. He paused for a beat, letting the dog lean its heavy head against his good knee, before he slowly turned his head to look up at her.

In the dim kitchen light, his brown eyes were wide open. Jolene looked down and saw it all. The fiery anger at a body that wouldn't obey, the profound confusion of a man whose roadmap had been torn up, the stark fear of the unknown, and a deep, heavy sadness that broke her heart. She kept her hand on his shoulder, her thumb lightly rubbing the base of his neck. "What are you doing?" she asked.

Sam looked away for a split second, his jaw working as he swallowed hard, before his eyes locked back onto hers. "I was gonna bring you coffee," he muttered. "You were out in the barn. It's getting cold out. Figured you’d want some."

He got quiet then, the hum of the refrigerator filling the space between them. Chewbacca let out a soft whine, his tail giving one hollow thump against the floorboards. Sam reached up, his large, rough hand covering hers where it rested on his shoulder, squeezing tight enough to let her feel the tremble in his fingers. "I didn't mean to scare you like that, Jo," he whispered, looking up at her with a vulnerability that stripped away every last boundary between them. "Earlier. I just... I didn't mean to scare you."

Jolene reached out with her other hand, her fingers gently cupping the side of his face. His skin was warm, the facial hair along his jaw rough against her palm.

"It’s okay," she murmured, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

She looked past his shoulder to the top shelf where the ceramic canister sat, just out of his reach. Instead of doing what she’d done for weeks and managing the task for him, Jolene simply stretched her arm over his head. Her fingers hooked around the handle, pulling the heavy jar down from the ledge.

But she didn't set it on the counter to start scooping the grounds herself. She lowered it into his lap, placing the weight of the ceramic directly into his calloused hands. "Here," she whispered, keeping her hands over his for a beat. "You make it. I like yours better anyway."

Sam didn't immediately move to open the lid. He just sat there, his fingers curling around the cold ceramic, holding it against his stomach. He stared down at his hands, his breathing slowing until the kitchen was completely silent save for Chewbacca’s heavy sigh as the dog settled flat against the floor. She realized then that in the wake of the Navy liaison’s visit, Sam had completely blown past his afternoon medication window. He’d missed his doses. For weeks, even as the doctors at Walter Reed had started the slow process of weaning him off the heavy-duty narcotics, he had still lived in a perpetual, sluggish fog. That heavy narcotic brain that made his reactions slow and his temper unpredictable.

But right now, the fog was entirely gone. The pain was likely creeping back into his shattered shin, but it had brought his mind back with it. He was fully present, looking at the kitchen, looking at her terrifying sharpness. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple moving in the low light, his grip tightening on the canister until his knuckles turned white.

"The room stopped spinning about an hour after Randy got here," Sam said, his voice dropping into a quiet, raspy register that was entirely devoid of the chemical slur. He didn't look up from the jar in his lap. "The meds... they make everything feel like it's happening under twenty feet of water, Jo. When that guy was sitting on your dad's couch telling me I'm done... I couldn't even think straight enough to argue the way I wanted to."

He finally lifted his head, his gaze locking onto hers.

"I'm sorry I went dark on you," he whispered, his thumb tracing the rim of the canister. "I’m not... I’m not going to be a ghost in this house, Jolene. I’m a bastard right now, and my leg feels like it's on fire, but I'm here."

Jolene leaned her hip against the counter, her posture softening as she kept her eyes leveled with his. The clarity in his gaze was a relief, but it also meant the raw truth of their situation was sitting right there on the wood floor between them.

"Okay," she said calmly, "So, what does being here look like, Sam? What do you want from me right now?" She paused, watching the way his jaw tightened, before she gave him the options she’d been mentally cycling through for days. "Do you want me to just not bring it up? Do you want us to put our heads together and plan a strategy for this evaluation? Do you need help thinking about shifting careers? Or do you just want me to distract you, so we can just focus on the day-in, day-out grind of getting you moving?"

Sam looked down at the coffee canister in his lap, his shoulders dropping. The fierce intensity in his eyes faded into unvarnished honesty.

"I don't know, Jo," he admitted, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Honestly, I don't know." He let out a breath, finally looking back up at her, his expression thick with a vulnerability that made her throat tight. "I see everything you’re doing. Every single day. I wanted to rush back to that Little Creek job so I could be the one taking care of you once I’m back on my feet. I wanted to pull my weight again. I figured... hell, I figured you deserved an extended vacation for everything you’ve put up with since November."

A small, breathless laugh caught in Jolene’s throat, and she shook her head, a genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion. "Sam, I don't need an extended vacation. I’d go absolutely stir-crazy sitting around the house all day."

The moment the words left her mouth, the air in the kitchen shifted.

Sam went quiet. His gaze dropped back to his lap, his posture stiffening as the weight of her phrasing settled over the situation he found himself in. Jolene’s smile vanished instantly. A spike of regret hit her stomach as she realized exactly how those words sounded to a man who had no choice but to sit around the house all day.

"Sam... I'm sorry," she whispered quickly, her hand sliding down his arm to squeeze his wrist. "That was a terrible choice of words. I didn't mean it like that."

Sam didn’t look up immediately, his thumb continuing its slow circuit around the lid of the ceramic jar. But the tension in his broad shoulders didn't harden into the stone she’d grown to dread. Instead, a slow exhalation escaped his nose, and when he finally lifted his chin, he tried to crack a smile for her. It was a faint, lopsided thing that didn't quite reach the dark circles under his eyes, but it was there.

"Hey. It’s okay," he said softly, his voice rough but steady. "I’m going a bit nuts myself staring at the same four walls and the same pine trees out that window. If I have to watch another infomercial or hear the bedroom clock ticking as the hours pass between the ice packs, I’m gonna lose my mind."

Jolene let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since Tuesday, her fingers loosening their defensive grip on his forearm, though she didn't move away. Chewbacca, sensing the shift in temperature between them, shifted his weight with a soft grunt, resting his chin heavily on the footrest of Sam's chair.

"Your godfather," Sam started, his gaze drifting toward the darkened hallway where Randy had exited, "he’s a smart old bastard, you know that? He gave me some advice before he left. Some things I probably needed to hear a month ago." Sam paused, his brow furrowing as a brief shadow of frustration crossed his face. He rubbed his temple with his free hand, the clarity in his brown eyes flickering just for a second against the residual weight of the medication still working its way out of his system. 

"Look, I’m being straight with you right now because the fog is lighter than normal," he murmured, looking up at her. "I’m not entirely sure how mentally present I’m always going to be when I have to take the harder stuff on the bad days. When the pin sites start throbbing and the nerve pain acts up, the meds... they take the steering wheel, Jo. I know I’m a bastard to deal with when I'm under. But right now, while I’m actually sitting in the driver's seat? I need to tell you what he said."

Jolene shifted, leaning her weight against the edge of the counter so she was closer to his level, her eyes searching his face. "What did Randy say to you, Sam?"

Sam set the coffee canister down on his lap. "He told me that during moments like this, when the rug gets pulled out from under a man, it’s important that we both start doing things as a team. Real things. Not just the medical routine of it all." He reached out, his fingers winding through hers, his grip tight. "He said my physical health, the leg, the therapy... that’s obviously a joint effort. We don't have a choice on that. You’re the one holding the bandages and I’m the one doing the reps. But he told me we need to stop walking on eggshells for the rest of the stuff."

Jolene swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, her heart ticking faster. "The rest of it?"

"My career," Sam said firmly, the reality of the situation finally hanging in the air without causing him to flinch. "If Little Creek is off the table, and Uncle Sam is going to push me out into the civilian world at the end of this road, then we don't just sit here and wait for the hammer to fall. We both need to make a plan on what comes next. Together. I need your brain on it, Jo. I need you to help me figure out what the next ridge line looks like, instead of me just brooding in the corner while you handle the grocery lists and praying I don’t cuss too loudly when I shift my leg."

He squeezed her hand, pulling her just an inch closer. "And he told me one more thing," Sam whispered, his thumb rubbing over the back of her knuckles. "He said you’re a Saint till you ain’t." His eyes locked onto hers, dark and demanding and entirely full of love. "I need you to stop harboring the pain of all this alone, Jolene. If I’m going to be useless on a range, fine. If I’m not walking by the end of the year, oh well. But I’m still your man. If you're scared, or you’re angry, or you’re just plain exhausted... you bring it to me. Let me carry my half of the weight. Even if I'm sitting in this damn chair."

Jolene stared at him, her hand swallowed up by the heat of his, the texture of his thumb still working a steady pattern over her knuckles. The absolute clarity in his eyes was blinding. It was the version of Sam Walsh she had been starved for honestly since he left in late June. The commanding man who looked at a problem and wanted to divide the load. She swallowed down the dry ache in her throat, nodding slowly. "Okay," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly before she caught it. "Okay, Sam. I hear you. And I want that. I want to stop hiding it from you."

She took a breath, her chest rising and falling unsteadily. She looked down at their joined hands, then back up into those stark brown eyes, testing the waters of this newfound lucidity. "But if we're doing this... if the fog is really gone right now, and you're in the driver's seat... are you open to hearing me out? Completely? Because if I open that can of worms, I need to know you're actually mentally here to take it in."

Sam’s grip tightened on her hand. His jaw set, but his expression stayed remarkably soft. "I'm here, Jo. Say your piece."

The permission was all it took for the dam to structurally fail. The tears spilled over hot and fast, blurring her vision as a trembling breath escaped her lips. She didn't pull away this time. She let him see her shoulders shake. She let him see the unmitigated exhaustion that had been eating her alive since November 16th turned their lives upside down. "I need you to try," she choked out, her voice fracturing on the words as she leaned a bit heavier against the kitchen counter. "I need you to try the absolute best you can, Sam, to stop being so snappy with me."

Sam flinched, a subtle tightening around his eyes, but he didn't interrupt. He just held onto her.

"I know it’s not your fault," she pleaded, the words tumbling out in an emotional rush, raw and bleeding. "God knows I know you’re in agony, and I know your whole world just got blown to hell. I don't blame you for being angry. But it is so damn hard to work my ass off every single day, running back and forth to the shop, managing the bills, scrubbing the grease off my skin just to come home and then scrub the bathrooms, constantly worrying myself sick about making sure you have exactly what you need, only for every single thing I do to be met with mild hostility. Or for you to just fly off the handle over the smallest, stupidest things."

She wiped at her face with her free hand, but the tears kept coming. The accumulated pain of the last fourteen weeks was pouring out into the space between them.

"Your words hurt, Sam," she whispered, her chest heaving as she forced herself to look straight into his eyes, wanting him to feel the weight of it. "Even when the narcotics are talking, even when you don't mean them, or you don't remember them the next morning... I remember them. Because I'm still hearing your voice say them to me. Then I’m the one who has to sleep next to you with the echo of it ringing in my ear."

She let the silence hang for a moment, lingering in the ache of the kitchen, before the specific memories rushed to the surface.

"Like last Tuesday," she said, her voice trembling. "I spent forty-five minutes rearranging the living room furniture just so your footrest wouldn't catch on the rug when you turned around. You wheeled in, looked at the couch, and just snapped at me to 'stop treating the house like a hospital ward’ and ‘leave my dad’s shit alone.' You didn't even look at me for the rest of the night. You just sat in the dark till you were too tired to fight me when I helped you to bed."

Sam’s throat swallowed hard, his eyes dropping for a fraction of a second as the memory slowly made it through the cleared fog of his mind.

"And two days ago," Jolene continued, a fresh sob catching in her throat, "when I brought you the ice packs for your shin. They weren't cold enough because the freezer door had been left unlatched, and instead of just letting me run down the road to the gas station for ice, you slammed your hand down on the armrest and barked that if I was 'too busy at the garage to mind the simple things at home, you'd just do it your goddamn self.' You know you couldn't get up, Sam. You knew it. But you made me feel like I was failing you because a block of ice melted."

She pulled her hand from his, not out of anger, but because she needed to press both her palms to her face, hiding the ugly sob that tore out of her throat. Chewbacca whined louder, shifting his heavy front paws onto her boot, trying to bridge the gap.

"I am trying so hard," she wept into her hands, her voice muffled and small. "I am stretching myself as thin as I can go, and most days, I feel like I'm walking into a minefield just trying to bring you breakfast. I can handle the Navy and all its red tape, Sam. I can handle us figuring out a new life. But I cannot handle you treating me like I'm the enemy when I am the only one standing in your corner."

"Jo, look at me. Jo, please–" Sam’s voice cracked, the command completely replaced by a panicked edge. He reached for her, his hands awkwardly tracking up her forearms to pull her palms away from her face, but Jolene wouldn't let him. She couldn't. If she looked at him now, if she saw the devastating regret she knew was burning in his eyes, the anger that was keeping her upright would dissolve, leaving her with nothing but the exhaustion.

"No, Sam, just let me finish," she sobbed, her words coming out in a suffocating rush against her wet hands. "Let me just say it, because tomorrow the nerve pain is going to spike again, or the doctors are going to change the dosage, and you’re going to go back under enough meds to sedate a horse and I’ll have to lock this all back up."

"Jolene, please," he pleaded, his fingers tightening around her wrists, trying gently but firmly to pry her hands from her eyes. He was pulling himself up as far as the wheelchair allowed, his good leg straining against the footrest, the sheer panic of seeing her break entirely overriding his own boundaries. "I didn't realize–God, Jo, I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry–"

"You told me to take my ring off last night," she cut him off, the memory ripping out of her. She finally let her hands drop, her face blotchy and soaked, her eyes flashing with agonizing hurt that made Sam physically recoil. "The pins in your leg were throbbing, and I was just trying to gently rub the tension out of your thigh because the muscle was spasming so bad. My hand brushed against your skin, and you grabbed my wrist so hard it left a mark. You looked me right in the eye and told me to take it off because the feeling was driving you crazy, and that you didn't need a reminder of what a mistake it was to tie me to a cripple."

Sam froze, his face draining of color. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. The memory was clearly a blank spot in his narcotic-brained haze, but seeing the trauma of it written in the lines of her face made it undeniably real. "I went into the bathroom and I took it off," she whispered, her voice suddenly dropping from the high peak of hysteria into a dead, flat hollow that was infinitely worse. "I sat on the edge of the tub and stared at my bare finger for an hour, wondering if you actually meant it. Wondering if every time you look at me, you just see a prison sentence. You don't even remember saying it. You woke up three hours later and asked me to grab you some water like nothing happened. But I remember."

She took a step back, her boots dragging on the floorboards, pulling out of his reach. The space between them felt miles wide now, populated by the ghosts of a dozen different arguments she had quietly swallowed for the sake of his recovery.

"You're right. Randy is right. I am a saint until I ain't," she choked out, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping her lips as a fresh wave of tears tracked down her chin. "But I'm at the end of it. I am completely empty, Sam. I don't have any more grace to give you when you're being a jackass. I don't have any more strength to pretend that it doesn't kill me a little bit every time you look through me like I'm just the nurse who handles the bedpans."

Sam’s gaze dropped instantly, his eyes frantic as they tracked the movement of her retreating hand. His calloused fingers blindly reached through the dim light until his palm caught her wrist. He didn't squeeze this time, likely terrified by her recounting of what happened previously to test his own strength, but his fingertips brushed over the back of her hand, tracing the base of her ring finger.

The skin was smooth. Bare.

The gold promise ring that he’d bought with his deployment bonus, was gone.

A devastating shockwave seemed to pass through Sam's entire frame. His hand began to shake violently against her wrist, his fingers curling inward as if he had just touched an open circuit. The unvarnished clarity that the missed medication had brought wasn’t just a window into his own mind anymore. It was a mirror reflecting a monster he didn't remember becoming.

"Jolene." The word was barely a breath. He stared at her bare hand, his chest heaving as the absolute horror of what he had done finally penetrated the neurons trying to fire in his brain. He hadn't just snapped at her, or been a bastard about a melted ice pack or a rearranged couch. He had fundamentally weaponized the one thing that was keeping them anchored in the storm. He had made her strip off his promise because he’d made it feel like a shackle.

The tough, unyielding Chief Petty Officer who had survived a blast in the dirt completely disintegrated in the wheelchair as Sam turned into an absolute wreck right before her eyes.

A sob ripped out of him, the sound so raw and guttural it made Chewbacca instantly stand up, the dog's ears pinning back in deep, anxious confusion. Sam’s head dropped into his hands, his broad shoulders shaking so violently that the ceramic coffee canister fell and crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces. 

"Oh God, Jo... no," he wept, his voice thick and ruined as he pressed his face into his hands. "No, no, no... God, please, Jolene..."

He reached out blindly again, his arms trembling as he tried to bridge the distance she had put between them, his fingers grasping at the fabric of her shirt, at her wrists, wanting to pull her back but terrifyingly aware that he might not have the right to touch her at all. The tears spilled over his thick fingers, tracking through the rough stubble of his jaw.

"I didn't mean it," he choked out, his head shaking back and forth in a desperate denial of his own subconscious words. "I swear to you, Jolene, I don't remember... I don't remember saying it, but I know you wouldn't lie to me. I know I said it. God, what did I do to you? What am I doing to you?"

He lifted his face, and the sheer, unmitigated terror in his eyes was almost too much for her to look at. The clarity was a curse now. It was forcing him to feel every ounce of the burning pain in his leg alongside the crushing weight of his own failure as a man. He looked down at her bare finger again, his breath hitching in a panicked, suffocating cycle.

"I look at you and I see everything I ever wanted," he whispered, his voice cracking wide open, completely ruined by the tears. "I see the only good thing I’ve got left. I’m just so scared... I'm so goddamn scared that I'm dragging you down with me, and instead of telling you that, I... I took it out on you."

He slumped back into the chair, looking smaller than he ever had, his hands dropping to his lap where they hovered over the cold ceramic jar before it fell to the floor.

"And it's not just the house, Sam. It's everything outside of it, too," Jolene continued, the momentum of her heartbreak carrying her forward, refusing to let the dam close back up now that it had finally broken. She swiped a furious hand across her wet cheek, her voice trembling but relentless. "I'm the one who sits on the phone with your mother every single Sunday. I'm the one who had to hold her hand in that sterile, white waiting room at Walter Reed while you were back in surgery for the third time, listening to her cry because she thought her boy was going to die on an operating table."

Sam didn't look up, but his shoulders hitched, another breath catching in his throat as he listened to the reality of the weight she had been carrying entirely on her own.

"And do you know what she tells me, Sam? Every single time I call her with an update on your physical therapy, or your meds, or what the doctors said about the nerve damage?" Jolene’s voice cracked. "She sighs into the receiver and says she just wishes we would get married already. She tells me that this whole situation – the lifting, the driving, the middle-of-the-night panic attacks, the bureaucratic nightmare of the Navy – is just a hell of a lot of weight for just a girlfriend to carry."

She let out a harsh, breathless laugh that sounded incredibly lonely in the shallow light of the kitchen.

"And god help me, Sam... I agree with her. I sit there on the phone, nodding in the dark, because she’s right. It is a lot. Title aside, the whole goddamn situation is so much. The sheer size of it is crushing me. It doesn't matter if I'm your girlfriend, or your wife, or a saint. There is too much pain in this house for one person to manage without any help, especially when the person I’m doing it for is treating me like I’m the one who put that fucking shrapnel in your leg." She looked down at her bare ring finger, before looking back at him. "I am drowning, Sam. And I can't keep pretending I'm swimming just so you don't have to look at the water."

Sam’s head remained bowed, his large forehead pressing against his steepled fingers as he listened to the brutal, unvarnished truth of what he had become. The silence that followed her words was suffocating, broken only by the ticking of the kitchen clock.

Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered his hands. His face was a map of devastating grief, the skin around his brown eyes raw and swollen from the tears he usually refused to shed. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin, fragile, and terrified. "Do you..." He swallowed hard, his throat clicking in the quiet. He couldn't even look her in the eye as the question ripped out of him. "Do you not want me anymore, Jo? Is that what this is? Do you want an out?"

Jolene didn't even hesitate. The exhaustion, the anger, the bitter memories. All of it instantly took a back seat to the sheer instinct of loving him. She crossed the small gap between them, mindful of the large chunks of shattered ceramic and spilled coffee grounds. Her boots scuffing the wood, and dropped heavily to her knees directly in front of his wheelchair. Chewbacca shifted back a few inches, giving them space as Jolene braced her hands on the cold metal armrests of his chair, forcing him to look down at her.

"Absolutely not," she said fiercely, her voice thick with fresh tears but utterly unyielding. "Don't you dare think that, Samuel Walsh. I am not looking for an exit sign. I am right here. I’ve been right here the whole damn time."

She reached up, her fingers digging into the fabric of his gym shorts just above his good knee, her forehead against his thigh for a brief, desperate second before she pulled back to look into his shattered eyes. "But I don't know what you want anymore, Sam," she whispered, her voice fracturing on the admission. "That’s what’s killing me. I don't know where I fit in your life right now. Every time I walk into a room, I feel like you don't see me anymore. I feel like you only see a nurse. Someone who brings the ice packs, someone who times the narcotics, someone who monitors the physical therapy charts. I feel like the man who used to look at me like I was the center of his universe now just looks at me and sees a chore he's forced to rely on."

A single tear tracked down her nose, dripping onto his hand from where it had caught her cheek.

"I don't want out, Sam," she choked out, her gaze locking onto his with a desperate plea for reassurance. "I just want my boyfriend back. I want the man who talks to me, even when the news is bad. I can't keep living with a drill instructor who only speaks to me to bark orders or snap because he's hurting."

"I don't deserve you," Sam whispered, the words falling flat and hollow into the space between them. He didn't pull away from her touch, but he went entirely rigid, his eyes fixing on the cabinet hardware behind her head because he couldn't bear the reflection of his own failure in her eyes anymore. "Maybe... maybe it is better if you just leave me, Jolene."

The cold detachment in his tone was worse than the shouting. It was the sound of a man executing a retreat because he thought the position was already lost.

"I can call my folks," he started rambling, his speech gathering momentum as his brain raced to build an exit strategy out of their heartbreak. "I’ll call my mom tonight. They can drive down from Connecticut this weekend, pack up my stuff, and we can transfer my physical therapy to the naval clinic up there. Or hell, I can just move back into the transient lodging on base at Little Creek. The Navy has rooms equipped for this. I can find a buddy to help me out, get a medical liaison to assign a real corpsman to handle the charts, and you can get your life back. You can go back to the garage full-time without having to–"

"Sam, stop. Just stop!"

Jolene grabbed his wrists, squeezing hard enough to physically interrupt the cadence of his voice. A sickening wave of regret washed through her mind as she stared up at him. God, I shouldn't have said anything, she thought, the panic rising hot in her throat. I shouldn't have opened my mouth.

She had wanted him to see her pain so they could carry it together, but his soldier’s brain had done exactly what it was trained to do: Identify the liability and eliminate it. He wasn't hearing a partner asking for a course correction. He was hearing a casualty report, and his immediate instinct was to remove himself from the field so he’d stop bleeding all over her. She had been so desperate to break through the narcotic fog and the anger that she hadn't realized how fragile the foundation beneath him actually was.

"I promised you," Sam choked out, as a fresh, heavy sob, pinning his shoulders back against the wheelchair. He didn't look down at her, but his fingers twitched against her wrists, his grip weak and trembling. "The last time we had a real fight, back before the deployment, when I got stupid and tore off when you were asking questions. I swore to God and I swore to you that I’d never shove you again. I promised you that if things got hard, if the shit hit the fan, I wouldn't do this. I wouldn't push you away."

He finally dropped his chin, his face completely ruined by the tears as he forced himself to look down into her eyes, his breathing coming in shallow catches.

"But I’m drowning in it, Jo," he wept, the admission ripping out of him. The truth made Chewbacca nudge his wet nose against Sam's hand. "Every single morning I wake up and I hear your boots hitting the floor before the sun’s even up. I lie there in that bed, entirely useless, listening to you brew the coffee, listening to you feed the dog, hearing the front door click shut because you’re running out to the shop to log hours before you have to come back and drag me to therapy or scrub my skin. I sit by that window all day long and I just... I suffocate under the guilt of how hard you are working to keep a roof over a man who can’t even stand up to kiss you properly."

His fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt at her shoulders, holding onto her like a drowning sailor clenching a piece of driftwood.

"The guilt is turning into something ugly, Jolene," he whispered. "It's making me resent you. Not because of anything you’re doing wrong, but because you’re doing everything right. You’re being perfect. You’re being the saint Randy said you were, and every time you smile through the exhaustion or tell me it’s no trouble to change the ice packs, it just reminds me of what a pathetic, broken shadow of a man I am right now. I snap at you because if I can make you angry, if I can make you fight back, then at least you aren't just a nurse pitying a casualty. At least then I feel like I'm still something you have to reckon with, instead of just a chore on your checklist."

Hearing him speak those words – unearthing the toxic, twisted logic that his pride had built out of his own helplessness – shattered whatever distance she had tried to maintain. She didn’t pull away from his grip on her shoulders. Instead, she leaned into it, burying her face into his knee for a fraction of a second before pulling back up, her hands moving to cup the sides of his face, her fingers sinking into the thick, rough stubble of his jawline to force his eyes to lock onto hers.

"You fucking listen to me," she sobbed, the profanity ripping out of her, “I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry that this whole goddamn situation sucks. I hate seeing you in this wheelchair. I hate the Navy liaison. I hate every single piece of metal they screwed into your bone. But don't you ever tell me you're a shadow of a man, and don't you dare think I look at you and see pity."

She squeezed his face, her fingers catching the hot tears tracking down his cheeks.

"You think I lie awake in that bed counting the chores? You think I’m resentful because I have to do the heavy lifting right now?" Jolene shook her head violently, a fresh wave of tears blurring her vision until the amber light of the kitchen turned into a fractured smear of gold. "Sam, I am so fucking grateful that you are in that bed. Every single morning when my alarm goes off and the room is still dark, the very first thing I do is hold my breath until I hear you snore. I listen for the heavy chest-rattle of you breathing next to me, because every time I hear it, it means you are not in the ground. It means you survived that horrible fucking day in Iraq. You survived the surgeries that would make it so I couldn’t eat for days. And you came back to this house. Having you here, broken, angry, narcotic-brained, whatever version of you comes through that door, is enough for me. It is always going to be enough."

The mention of the finality of death, brought the real edge of her grief screaming to the surface. The shadow that had been hanging over the house since November wasn't just the specter of Sam's involuntary retirement. It was the heavy, hollow ache of neither of them willing to admit how close he’d come from losing his life.

Her voice dropped, fracturing entirely into a small, ruined weep that sounded like a child lost in the woods.

"I couldn't have managed if you left me too, Sam," she choked out, as her shoulders hitched in violent sobs. The confession bled out of her, carrying the weight of the grief. "My dad... my dad is already gone. His boots aren't by the door anymore, his coats are still hanging in the hall, and I walk into the garage every single morning and I have to look at his empty workbench. I am still drowning in the middle of losing him. If you had died over there, or if you call your folks and pack up your gear and leave me in this empty house now... I won't survive it. I can't do it. So don't you run away to Connecticut, and don't you dare go back to base housing," she whispered into the dark fabric of his shorts, her voice trembling against the steady heat of his leg. "You stay right here in this shitty situation with me. We'll figure out your career, and we'll scream at each other every day if we have to. But you have to let me keep you."

Sam’s arms came down around her like a collapsing scaffold, his large, heavy frame bending forward out of the chair until his chest was pressed completely against her back and shoulders, burying his face into the crook of her neck. He held her with a terrifying, desperate strength, his hands fist-fucking the fabric of her flannel shirt as if he were trying to pull her straight into his skin, to anchor both of them to the floorboards so the house would stop spinning.

The distance he had tried to build to protect his pride was entirely gone. He was weeping openly now, the heavy, silent sobs of a soldier who had finally run out of trenches to hide in. The heat of his breath and the wetness of his face soaked into the collar of her shirt, his rough beard scratching against her skin as he shook.

"I’m sorry," his voice vibrating directly against her collarbone. "I’m not going anywhere, Jo. I’m right here. I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands coming up to clutch the sides of her face. His palms were trembling violently, his thumbs sweeping across her cheekbones to smear the tears that wouldn't stop falling from her eyes. The stark, unvarnished clarity in his brown gaze was absolute now, stripped of every ounce of the narcotic fog, leaving nothing but a fierce, burning focus that she hadn't seen since the day he deployed.

"Listen to me," he commanded softly, his forehead dropping down to press hard against hers, closing the universe down to just the space between their lips. "I am going to do better. I’m going to stop being so fucking grumpy. Do you hear me, Jolene? I am going to do the reps, I am going to do the therapy, and if I have to crawl across the floor of that clinic on my hands and knees every single day, I am going to get back on my feet for you."

He let out a shallow breath, his fingers sliding into her hair, gripping her tight enough to make her feel the solid, unyielding reality of him.

"And I am going to marry you," he whispered, the promise hanging in the kitchen like an iron vow, heavy and undeniable. "As soon as I can stand up on my own two feet to look you in the eye in front of a preacher, I am making you my wife. We aren't doing this 'just a girlfriend' shit anymore. My mom is right. You are my future, Jo. You're the only future I want."

He kissed her forehead, then her eyelids, his lips rough and salty with their shared tears, before he pulled back just an inch to look down into her blotchy, exhausted face.

"I am going to be better to you," he vowed, his voice cracking wide open with the weight of his regret. "No more snapping. No more barking. When the pain gets bad and the meds take the wheel, I will bite my own tongue until it bleeds before I let another cruel word slip out to hurt you. I’m going to let you see the dark stuff, and we’re going to face this together, but I am done treating you like garbage. I promise you, Jolene. I swear it on Mike and your dad's memory. I’m staying right here with you."

The air in the kitchen remained thick, heavy with the dust of the foundation they had just violently cleared away. Neither of them knew how to end the conversation. There was no clean transition out of a collapse of that magnitude. The silence stretched, turning clumsy and fragile, the kind of quiet where the slightest sudden movement might shatter the truce. Jolene stayed on her knees, her hands still resting on the dark fabric of his shorts, her breathing slowly leveling out into shallow, trembling hitches. Sam kept his palms flattened against her cheeks, his thumbs tracing the dry, salt-crusted tracks on her skin, his brown eyes searching her face with an intensity that felt almost intrusive in its nakedness. They were stuck in the wreckage of the truth, entirely exposed, waiting for the ambient heat of the argument to cool into something they could actually live in.

Then Sam’s gaze flickered downward, his eyes tracking the movement of her shoulder as she shifted her weight against his good knee. His focus landed once more on her bare left hand. He swallowed hard, the rough line of his jaw tightening as he forced his hands down from her face, his fingers searching blindly for hers.

"Jo," he whispered, the quiet register of his voice cracking on the single syllable. "Where is it?"

Jolene blinked through the residual sting in her eyes, her head dropping slightly. "Sam, don't worry about it tonight. Let's just–"

"Where's the ring, Jolene?" he repeated, louder this time, though the command was entirely stripped of the old irritation. It was just a plea now, a desperate necessity from a man who needed a tether to the promises he’d just made in the dark.

She let out a small breath and pointed a trembling finger toward the bedroom. She stood without thinking, leaving him and the weight of the argument behind as her feet autopilot to collect it. When she made it into the lamp lit room, she saw it was sitting in a small glass dish on the top of the dresser. When she turned around, he was in the entry way to the bedroom.

Sam didn't look away from her face, his fingers awkward and heavy as they fumbled with hers until they finally hooked around the gold band. He brought it down into the space between them, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. The metal was cold from the draft by the window. He looked down at it, his lip trembling against the rough grain of his mustache, before he lifted his eyes back to hers. The absolute, unvarnished terror of losing her was still swimming in his pupils once more.

"Let me put it back on," he whispered, a plea that broke her heart all over again. He didn't wait for her to answer, his hand shaking violently as he took her left wrist and turned her palm toward the ceiling. "Please, Jo. Let me put it back."

Jolene looked at the band, then at the desperate, sweating line of his forehead. The weight of what they were doing with the sheer, terrifying scale of the recovery still waiting for them over the coming months, the board evaluations, the doses of the heavy medicine that would soon demand to be taken, all settled back into her bones. She knew this clarity was temporary. She knew that by midnight, the nerve pain would likely have him screaming or the narcotics would drag him back under to the point he wouldn't remember the color of her eyes. But right now she didn't move away. She opened her fingers, and let his trembling hands guide the gold back home.

Tag list? Just ask babes

The living room was too quiet. The credits of the movie you’d put on had just started rolling, the sound of little more than a hum under the weight of everything unsaid. You stretched out on the couch, legs tucked up beneath you, half watching Jake lean forward to shut the TV off.

“What time do you have to be on base tomorrow?” You asked. You tried to make it seem light, but the words snagged just a little in your throat.

“Five thirty.”

He leaned back against the cushion. His head tilted toward you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Guess that means I shouldn’t waste what time I have left with you sleeping.”

You laughed, but it was a little too soft and the look Jake gave you told you he noticed. “You know you’ll regret that decision when you’re on the boat tomorrow.”

Jake shifted closer, his knee brushing yours, and his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face. The pad of his thumb swept across your cheek.

“Don’t think I’ll ever regret a decision that gives me more time with you. Especially when we have all night together.” The words were soft but the gravity behind it…you could feel how much he meant it.

“Well aren’t you just a real life Romeo,” you smiled.

His lips curved into a grin before he closed the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours. You reached out, your hand finding his shirt as his fingers clutched at the fabric. His hand slid from your jaw down your neck. The other tugged you closer until you were half sprawled against him, your knees tangled with his.

The kiss broke only long enough for him to tug his shirt over his head. You caught the flicker of muscle in the dim light of the living room before he pulled you back to him.

He lifted you easily, hands gripping your thighs, carrying you to the bedroom. You let out a laugh as your back hit the sheets of the unmade bed. But the sound died quick when his mouth returned to yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip.

Your clothes scattered fast. None of it was neat. He cursed when you fumbled with his jeans, then shoved them and his boxers down himself, leaving him bare and already hard against your thigh. You dragged him closer, nails digging into his shoulders.

The first thrust was rough. Almost desperate. Like he couldn’t stand the thought of wasting another second not being inside you. The moan that ripped from your throat was met with a groan of his own.

There wasn’t finesse to it. The pace was driving, relentless, every stroke landing. You both knew this might be the last time for a long while. But neither of you wanted to think about that right now. You clutched at him, matching his rhythm, your legs locking around his waist.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “You feel so good.”

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your neck before biting down just hard enough to make you grasp. He groaned at the sound. Your breath soon was coming in sharp little gasps against his ear. He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat slicking between you. Every muscle in his body straining like he was holding back just for you.

“Jake, I–” your words broke off in a cry when his hips snapped harder, hitting the spot that made your whole body seize. His hand slid down, fingers finding your clit with maddening precision, circling until the pleasure tipped sharp and sudden.

You came around him, nails clawing at his back, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as your body clenched tight. The sound pulled a guttural curse from him as his thrusts turned more erratic.

“Can’t…fuck…” his grip tightened on your hip. Two more ragged drives and he was gone with you, spilling into you with a rough, muffled groan against your neck.

For a long moment neither of you moved. Just laid there, bodies tangled, holding onto each other. You were still catching your breath when he eased back, propping himself up on an elbow to look at you. His chest rose and fell hard, sweat glistening along his collarbone, but his eyes were steady and fixed on you like he didn’t want to miss a single detail.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your damp cheek. His thumb lingered, tracing the line of your jaw as though he was trying to memorize the shape of it.

You figured Jake would roll away. Call it a night. But instead he leaned in and kissed you again. Slower this time. Softer too. Like the urgency had bled out of him, replaced with something more deliberate.

When he shifted back over you he was a little more careful. He slipped back inside of you and this time his hips moved in a rhythm that wasn’t about chasing a release but about feeling every inch of you. Savoring every bit of you.

You gasped at the sensitivity but you weren’t about to stop him. He laced his fingers through yours, pressing your hands into the sheets beside your head, keeping you pinned there while he moved with a steady grind. His gaze never left yours, even when you tried to look away.

“Don’t,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your chin, then the hollow of your throat. “Look at me. I want to remember you like this.”

It wasn’t long before your body was trembling beneath his. He whispered your name like it was both a prayer and a curse. His mouth traced a path across your skin as if committing you to memory in every possible way.

You rolled your hips up to meet him, taking him deeper, and his jaw clenched hard.

“Yeah, just like that. Feel so perfect for me.”

The tempo of Jake’s hips held steady. Each roll of his hips was like he was trying to stretch the moment out. Like he was trying to make tonight last just a little bit longer.

You squeezed his hands tighter, your fingers woven together, knuckles white against the sheets. Your back arched, a broken sound catching in your throat. “Jake–”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice wrecked but sure, forehead pressed to yours. His thumb slid over your knuckles, anchoring you even as your body trembled beneath him.

The release crept up like a tide, then crashed over you all at once. You gasped his name, every nerve lit, your body clutching around him so tightly he choked out a groan. He buried himself deep, hips grinding slow and hard, until he was undone with you. His jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut, moaning into your mouth as he came inside you for the second time.

This time there was no collapse, no frantic scramble for breath. He stayed inside you, chest pressed to yours, kissing you through the shudders. 

When the tremors finally eased, he eased down onto his side, pulling you with him so you stayed tangled together. His hand traced lazy patterns along your spine, the silence heavy but soft.

“You know,” he said after a long beat, voice low and rough, “if the sun never came up, I think I’d still be right here.”

You buried your face into his chest, trying to ignore the ache in your throat. “Don’t say that.”

“I mean it,” he whispered into your hair, holding you tighter, as if the words could stretch the night just a little longer.

The room had gone quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing against your hair. You’d thought the silence would be comfortable, but the weight of the clock kept pressing in, reminding you both of the hours slipping away.

Jake’s hand kept moving absentmindedly along your spine, like he couldn’t stand to stop touching you. After a long moment, he exhaled, voice rough in the dark.

“I fucking hate leaving you.”

The words sat heavy in your chest. You tipped your chin up, meaning to tease, to keep the edges lighter. “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll finally get some peace and–”

But your voice broke on the last word, betraying you. You pressed your lips together, but it was too late. He heard it. His forehead pressed to yours before you could turn away, his thumb brushing softly across your bottom lip like he could smooth the crack out of your voice. His eyes were steady, burning even in the dim light.

“I’ll miss you,” you admitted, barely more than a whisper.

Something in him shifted at that, like the words hit a place he’d been trying not to acknowledge. His thumb traced your mouth again, slower this time, and his voice dropped to a raw whisper.

“You’re the only thing I’ll be thinking about when I can’t sleep over there.”

Your chest tightened, the ache mixing with the warmth spreading through your body. You swallowed hard, blinking fast to hold back the tears. Then you kissed him. A gentle, lingering kiss.

* * * *

The first threads of light slipped through the blinds long before either of you had really slept. You’d dozed, tangled in his arms, but every time you stirred you found him still awake, watching you like he was trying to drink in every second.

By the time the alarm went off, the weight of goodbye was already thick in the air. He silenced it with a rough swipe, then leaned down to kiss your shoulder, slow and lingering.

“Morning already,” he muttered, the words almost bitter.

You rolled onto your back, blinking against the pale dawn. The sight of him sitting there, hair mussed, eyes heavy but still soft on you, made your chest ache. “Guess the sun didn’t listen to us.”

He gave a quiet laugh at that, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he bent to kiss you again. Just once, but deep enough that you felt it all the way down to your ribs.

Getting dressed was a blur. He tugged on his clothes in silence, pausing only to glance at you like he wanted to memorize how you looked wrapped in his sheets. When you pulled on your hoodie, he stepped close, catching your wrist before you could shove it into the sleeve.

His hand lifted to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheek, and for a moment he just looked at you. No jokes. No bravado. Just that raw, quiet honesty you rarely saw from him.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he said, steady but low, like a vow.

You nodded, throat too tight to answer. The last kiss at the door was softer than any of the ones before, tasting faintly of coffee and salt from tears you hadn’t realized you’d let fall.

An hour later you pulled up to a silver Airstream trailer on a dirt road outside of the city. It was almost 2am. You had never seen it before. The last time you met Colter, which was also the first time, you had hooked up in your hotel room. His ridiculously big GMC Sierra was parked in front of it, confirming you were in the right place.

You parked your car behind it and walked up to the Airstream. Colter had already seen you pull up and opened the door for you. His face lit up when he saw the smile on your face.

“Come in” he smirked, holding his hand out; he was still wearing the suit, but his tie was loosely hanging from his collar. You climbed up the steps and looked around. The inside of the trailer was cozier than you had expected. Colter closed the door behind you.

“Do you want a beer?” he asked taking a sip from his own.

“Sure” you replied still inspecting the trailer. It was warm inside and it smelled like Colter. A scent of wood, herbs, vanilla and citrus wrapped around you, making you feel at ease. You took the beer Colter was holding and leaned against the table. Colter sat down on his bed.

“How did it go?” you asked regarding the reunion of the family Colter had worked for.

“Great, I think she’s gonna be okay” he nodded.

“You’re doing a good thing.” You praised him. “Helping all these people.”

“I like to think so” he replied.

“I know so.”

Colter couldn’t help but smile at your approval. He felt comfortable with you.

“You know, I was hoping you’d still be wearing this dress” he smirked sizing you up, his eyes following the way the dress hugged your body. You hadn’t changed out of it, partly because you had seen his look at you in it before. You had exchanged your heels for sneakers, and it didn’t quite add up to the whole look, but you’d be out of the shoes and the dress soon anyways.

“Can’t really blame your professor for staring” he continued to flatter you.

“Except it’s not really appropriate to look at a former student like that” you huffed taking a sip of the beer. Colter got up walking towards you, putting his beer down on the counter.

“Thanks again for saving my life” he said with a breathy voice when he was only a few inches away from you. You took a shaky breath.

“You’re welcome” you almost whispered, watching Colters face closely. His eyes were looking back and forth between your eyes and lips. Your heartbeat fastened. He closed the distance between you, leaning in but not all the way as if to wait for you to close the final distance to give him permission to kiss you. You did, and your lips met his softly. He tasted like beer and mint. One of his hands found its way to the small of your back, pulling you closer to his body. The warmth of him immediately wrapped around you. His other hand took your beer bottle from you and set it down on the table behind you. Your hand once again found its way to the back of his neck, just like it did in the professor’s office. The other hand rested on his biceps, feeling the muscles flex under the fabric.

He pulled away his breath heavy. His lips wandered to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses. You hummed in pleasure, your hand buried in his hair.

“I’ve been thinking about getting you out of this dress, the moment I saw you tonight” Colter whispered, his pupils dilated.

“What are you waiting for?” you asked looking up at him, your face flushed. His eyes darkened with desire and his lips crashed with yours, hungrier this time. You pushed the suit jacket from his broad shoulders and pushed him backwards towards the bed. He helped you with unbuttoning his shirt and pulled away for a moment to take it off, giving you a second to take in his bare muscular chest, watching his muscles flex, as he swirled you around.

You drew air in sharply as his hot breath met the delicate skin of your neck, and you tilted your head to give him better access as he lightly sucked on your skin. He slowly unzipped your dress and unclasped your bra. He slid your dress and bra straps over your shoulders, exposing your chest. Colter continued to place kisses on your neck and shoulders. One of your hands reached up to his head, your nails scraping over his scalp. He cupped your boobs with both hands lightly circling your nipple with his thumb. You turned back around in his embrace, stepping out of your dress and shoes, pushing him to sit down at the foot of the bed. He watched you climb on top of him, straddling his lap in nothing but a black lace thong. His hands ran up your spine, leaving goosebumps. He buried one of them in your hair, which had fully resolved from the bun that had been there earlier and pulled your face to his to reconnect your lips. You slowly started grinding your hips on top of his and could already feel his boner against you. A low moan escaped his throat, amplifying the throbbing in your pussy. Scooting back a little you unbuttoned Colters pants, but he stopped your hands. He wanted to lead this time, he wanted to make you feel good with him. He led both your arms back around his neck for you to hold on and with a swift movement, his strong arms around your waist, flipped you on your back, him now leaning over you. You breathed shakily and moaned a little as his mouth trailed down to your chest. He stopped at your nipple and sucked on it, his tongue circling. With his hand he stroked over the other one. He slowly moved further down your stomach, his breath causing goosebumps. He kneeled on the ground at the foot of the bed pulling your core closer to him. He placed a kiss on your pantie covered clit with a low hum, before pulling it down your legs, kissing the inside of your thighs.

You moaned again, making Colter smile.

“Keep making that noise” he hummed. He placed himself in between your legs, placing your legs over his shoulders and his hands firmly on your hips. You drew in a sharp breath as his mouth met the sensitive skin of your clit and he started sucking on it. First gently, then massaging it with his tongue sending waves of pleasure to your core.

“F*ck” you moaned, throwing your head back and burying one of your hands in his hair, the other one gripping the sheet. Colter replied with another low hum and the vibration spread through you. He slipped one finger inside of you easily. It turned him on even further feeling how wet you were for him and added another finger stroking your walls, that clenched around him. Your legs trembled, and you lifted your hips, begging for more. He quickened the pace in which he moved his fingers in and out of you, his tongue running through your folds hungrily. You breathed heavily getting closer to your climax. Colter had to pull himself together to not start touching himself to your pleasure. He wanted to make you cum first before allowing himself to feel the pleasure of f*cking you to a second orgasm. Your moaning intensified.

“Don’t stop” you breathed. He wasn’t planning to anyway and kept going until he felt you clench and pulse around his fingers. Your fingernails scraped over his scalp, lightly pulling on his hair. The pressure in your core came to a peak, and Colter looked up at you, throwing your head back and moans crossing your lips. He pulled out his fingers as you had come down and finally took off his pants. Your eyes followed his every move and wandered from his lust filled eyes to his muscular chest and abs and down to his dick.

You scooted away from the edge of the bed as Colter crawled over you in between your spread legs. You reached down to his dick pumping up and down a few times as his lips crashed on yours. He moaned into the kiss, biting your lip as he pulled away heavily breathing. He reached over to his nightstand and pulled out a condom from the drawer.

“Let me” you whispered, taking it from him. While you fumbled with the packaging his lips came back to working the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving little marks. You reached between your legs, pumping his cock a few times before rolling down the condom. He groaned in your neck and slipped his cock through your wet folds a few times before guiding it to your entrance. He lifted his head looking into your eyes, his pupils dilated, cheeks flushed and breath heavy. You met his gaze with a soft nod.

He slowly pushed inside you and locked your lips again, drowning your moan. He gave you a moment to adjust to his size, rubbing your already sensitive clit in the meantime. You pressed your hips into his, signalling him that it was okay to move, and he didn’t loose a second but rather started thrusting into you. At first slow and steady but quickly picking up the pace as he grew closer to his own orgasm burying his face in the crook of your neck, whispering curses into your ear.

“Colter” you panted making him pause and looking at you, breathing heavily.

“Lay down” you commanded nodding at the space beside you. He smirked, following your order. You straddled his lap and lowered yourself on him. Colters hands dug into your hips. You started moving on top of him, throwing your head back in pleasure, feeling his dick pulsate inside you hitting your G-spot. He groaned in pleasure moving his hips with yours. Your nails dug into his chest as you quickened the pace to bring yourself and him closer to your climaxes. It didn’t take long to send both of you over the edge. Feeling your walls clenching around his dick and seeing your face in pleasure caused Colter to not being able to hold it in any longer. You could feel his dick twitch inside you and looked down at him, his eyes closed as he tried to steady his breath. His hands were still holding onto your thighs, steadying them as they trembled from your orgasm. You leaned over him planting a soft kiss on his lips, which he returned with a smile.

He opened his eyes as you pulled away and sat up, you still on top of him. You climbed off him, falling back in the sheets. That was even better than the first time. He got up, cleaned himself up and gave you a towel to do the same. You wiped away your own wetness.

“I’m glad you came over” Colter smirked leaning down to you his face only inches from yours.

“Yeah, me too” you replied once again connecting your lips for a soft sensual kiss. He pulled away with a smile, grabbing his beer from the counter and finishing it in one gulp.

“Can you grab me my phone from my purse?” you asked him. You ran your hands through your hair and pulled the blanket over your naked body, now that Colter wasn’t close to you anymore it had gotten colder. He saw you covering up and pouted walking over to you, handing you your phone. You checked if you had any messages, you didn’t but then again it was just past 3am. Colter lied down beside you, crawling under the blanket with you, checking his own phone on the nightstand for the time. He held out his arm for you to scoot closer. You put your phone aside and propped your head up on your hand.

“You know, if I keep helping you with doing your job, you’ll have to start sharing the reward with me” you smirked running your fingers over his chest in little patterns.

“Oh, and I thought I just made us even” Colter replied huskily.

“Oh no, that was for me saving your life, for getting you the information to find Jessie, you still owe me” you elaborated, and Colter left out a raspy laugh.

“I’ll treat you to dinner next time” he said absently stroking your lower back with his fingers.

“Y/N?” Colter didn’t expect to see you again so soon. The last time he had seen you which was also the first time you had met, was a couple hundred miles away. You had helped him with a case because you knew some details about a woman who had disappeared. The end of the job had resulted in the two of you hooking up at your hotel room. He had to suppress a smile while thinking of that night.

“You clean up nicely” you complimented him, eying his black-tie look. He looked damn handsome. You also couldn’t help but remember how his hands roamed all over your body the last time you had seen him.

“Well, you’re one to talk, you look stunning” his gaze wandered over your body. Having him look at you like this was so much better than your professor. You were wearing a black evening dress with a slit and a modest neckline. Your hair was gathered in a bun at the back of your neck. Your make up was stronger than usual.

Colter cleared his throat. “I didn’t expect to see you here” he said and took a sip from his beer.

“I could say the same” you replied with raised brows.

Colter moved a little closer to you. You could smell his cologne. “I’m looking for a student, she went missing three days ago and I’m pretty sure her professor has her locked up somewhere” he told you in a hushed tone.

“Why would he do that?”

“Because they had an affair and she threatened to tell” he explained, taking another sip of his beer as if they were talking about the weather.

“Which professor?”

“Cameron Rodney, he teaches History” Colter said. “I thought he would be here, and I could follow him to wherever he keeps her.”

“I think I know where his office is” you thought aloud.

“Well, shoot” Colter said eagerly.

“If anything, I’ll show you, you won’t find it without me, took me weeks to find my way through this place.”

“Y/N…” he started but you interrupted him. He didn’t want to put you in danger, like the last time you helped him with a job.

“No point in arguing Colter” you stated and took the bottle from his hands, put it on the counter and lead him away from the crowd. He sighed and followed you into the hall, unable to not glance at your ass.

“You know you didn’t tell me what you were doing here” he said as he caught up with you.

“I was invited. I studied here and a friend of mine works here now, so he makes sure I get invited to the events with free booze and food” you smiled. Colter nodded amused. You took a few turns and walked down another corridor.

“This should be it” you said pointing to a door. A sign on the door confirmed what you said. Colter rattled the doorknob; it was locked of course. He took a few steps back.

“Hey, hey, you’re not going to kick the door in” you said your hand on his chest to hold him back. Colter rolled his eyes.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Do you not know how to pick a lock in your line of work?”

“I do, but I don’t have any tools with me” he shrugged.

“Good thing, you have me” you smiled and pulled out two bobby pins from your updo, releasing a few strands of hair. “Will this work?”

Colter took them and started picking the lock, it took a few minutes but eventually it clicked, and the door opened. You followed him inside and silently closed it behind you. He pulled out a flashlight and started looking around.

“What exactly are we looking for?” you asked using your phone as a flashlight.

“Anything that might tell us where he is keeping her” Colter told you going through folders on a sideboard. Minutes passed as the two of you kept searching the office for hints.

“You know…”

“Sshh, someone’s coming” Colter whispered, putting a finger to his lips, so you would keep quiet. He looked around the room to find a place to hide the both of you. Your heart began beating faster. The steps in the hallway grew closer. Colter cursed at the lack of hiding spots in the room, but you had a better idea.

“Okay, come here” you commanded, seating yourself on the desk and pulling him in between your legs before loosening his tie.

“What are you…” he started but you stopped him by pulling his face to yours. It was like the air was kicked out of his lungs when you pressed your lips on his. His hands instinctively found their way to your thighs on either side of him, while your own hand was cupping his cheek, and the other one was pulling him close at his neck, buried in his hair. The door to the office opened, and the light turned on.

“Hey, this is a private office, get out of here” a security guy said shaking his head at the two of you. You pulled away from Colter in a hurry, got up and adjusted your dress. Colter cleared his throat and turned around.

“We’re really sorry” he said huskily and took your hand to lead you out of the room, your face flushed and with a smile on your lips. As soon as you stepped out of the building and headed towards Colter’s car, he looked at you, smirking.

“Good idea” he pursed his lips.

“Thank you” you winked at him. “I’d say this was a success.”

“We didn’t really find any evidence” Colter frowned.

“Check your pocket” you simply said with a proud smile. Colter pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and smirked when he saw what it was.

“So that was what your hand was doing there, I thought you were going for something else.”

“I still might.” You gave Colter a playful look and headed for the passenger side door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Colter asked his brows drawn together.

“You didn’t think I would just find the location for you and then not come check it out, did you?” you asked in disbelief.

“Well, don’t you have to get back inside?”

“And do what? Let myself be gawked at by my former professor for a little longer?” you scoffed.

“I don’t want you to get hurt” his expression turned soft.

“Don’t worry, I can handle it, I have last time” you smiled, opening the door. Colter sighed, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“No, last time, you got one over the head” he scoffed and started the car. You rolled your eyes at him.

A few minutes passed. His phone lit up with an incoming call: Bobby.

“Hey Bobby, talk to me” Colter answered the phone on loudspeaker.

“Hey C, so I can’t find anything connecting our guy to these offices he is renting according to that receipt” Bobby sighed.

“He’s probably paying cash for it, no point in having a secret office if anyone can track you there” you suspected.

“Who’s this?” Bobby asked.

“Y/N Y/L/N” you introduced yourself.

“Y/N is helping me out” Colter added.

“Hang on, Y/L/N as in the author of…” Bobby concluded.

“Yup” you interrupted him.

“That’s awesome, any chance you can send me a signed copy of your latest book, I couldn’t get my hands on it yet” Bobby asked.

“Sure, I…”, Colter interrupted you, “Listen guys, I hate to break up this wholesome fan moment, but we do actually have a missing girl to find.”

“Sorry C, I don’t have anything for you, not even his phone was at the building.”

“Okay, thanks B, I’ll let you know if we need anything.”

“I’ll have Colter send you my number” you hurried to say before Colter could hang up.

You arrived at the building complex a few minutes later.

You followed Colter quietly, which was a task in itself since you were wearing heels. You made it up to the office. The door was locked, and Colter shot you a questioning glance, you nodded in approval. He kicked it open and entered his gun raised. The room was empty.

“Sh*t” he cursed and ran his hand through his hair.

“It doesn’t make sense” you said looking around the room. It was basically empty except for a desk, chair and cupboard. You walked to the cupboard and rattled the handle, it was locked. You looked at Colter and saw you were both thinking the same thing. There was something in there he didn’t want to be found. Colter walked over to you and with a strong pull the lock ripped. The cupboard didn’t have a back panel, instead it was placed to cover a door to a storage room. On the ground was a bag.

“This doesn’t look like it belongs to Professor Rodney” you stated the obvious. You exchanged glances with Colter.

“Call 911” he said, and you fished out your phone stepping a few steps away from him. He kicked in the door and shone his flashlight inside. A girl was cowering in the corner looking up in panic. You could hear Colter say softly “It’s okay, your father hired me to find you, I’m here to take you home.” Your heart fluttered at how caring his voice was and watched him help the girl out of the closet and over to the chair. You gave the police your location and what had happened and hung up, heading over to the student.

“Hi, I’m Y/N, you’ll be okay” you tried comforting her with a smile. She looked absolutely exhausted but nodded. Colter sighed and watched you, taking his phone out. You could see that he was frustrated that you hadn’t found the professor responsible.

“Colter!” you called out. It was only a split second in which you saw a metallic reflection behind him and with instincts you didn’t know you had pushed him aside, both of you tumbling to the ground. A bang followed by a shattering noise and a scream echoed through the empty room. Colter recovered quickly and took a single shot himself. He hit the shooter in his right shoulder making him drop his gun and stumble backwards. Colter got up quickly, kicking the gun away and planting himself in front of you and the girl.

“Don’t even think about moving” Colter growled at the professor, then glancing down to you.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice immediately softer.

“Yeah” you said getting up and walking over to the girl taking her hand.

You waited until the police came and cuffed Rodney and lead the girl outside. You followed them outside and to Colter’s car.

“What were you thinking?” Colter called out.

“Excuse me?” you retorted turning around to him in disbelief.

“Throwing yourself in front of a bullet? Are you f*cking crazy?” Colter replied still agitated.

“Oh, I’m sorry, here I was thinking I just saved your life” you threw your hands up in defence.

“You could have caught a bullet.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t. Starting to regret not letting you catch one though.” You scoffed. Colter sighed his jaw clenched. You tilted your head anticipating his response with raised brows. He bit his lip.

“Thank you” he finally replied, taking a step closer to you.

“Was that so hard?” you smiled, the anger leaving your face. You couldn’t have stayed mad at him anyways.

“I'll take you back to your car” he said and opened the passenger door for you. You nodded and climbed in.

He wasn’t used to someone risking their life for his, it was usually the other way around. He threw glances at you the whole drive over to the university where your car was parked. He pulled up next to it.

“So, this is goodbye?” you asked Colter trying to read his face.

“Well, um… I want to see Jessie home” he replied.

“And collect your reward?”

“It’s not about that.”

“Right” you nodded, not ready to say goodbye to him.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll make sure Jessie gets home and then meet you at your place in an hour” he suggested, a cocky sparkle in his eyes.

“Oh, no” you laughed, causing a look of confusion on Colters face, his smile fading. “I’m staying with my parents so, no. But… send me the location of your trailer and I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

Colter scratched his beard and nodded, the smile returning to his lips. “Deal.”