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Something in the Way She Moves || Sam (Warfare) || 12

In progress!

Pairing: Sam* (Warfare) x OFC Jolene Johnson *Walsh is the last name I gave him for purposes of this story

Series Warnings: mentions of life in the military/active duty; PTSD and vivid flashbacks; hyper-vigilance; Survivor’s guilt; mentions of death and KIA (Killed in Action); detailed grieving and funeral imagery; chronic physical pain and combat-related injuries; traumatic brain injury (TBI) symptoms; mentions of cancer and parental loss; mentions of childbirth; family dynamics and loneliness; Mature Content: Explicit smut including dominant/submissive dynamics, recording sex/sex tapes, mentions of breeding but not actually doing so (the fantasy of it is hot), remote control vibrator, oral sex, and other sexual encounters.

Word Count: +

Author's Note: Hi loves, welcome back. I recently made a Sam & Jolene specific masterlist that has everything from both books 1 & 2, if that is easier for you to navigate (can be found HERE). Honestly, I don't have much to say, so I'll let you get into it. Thank you for sticking with them through the not so fun medical disasters. Peace and Love ~ Mae

Series Masterlist || Book 1 || Previous || Next (coming soon) || Ao3 LINK

Sam

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Three days post-op, and the novelty of surviving the reconstructive surgery had officially worn off. In its place was the agonizing itch of inactivity. Sam was laying around, unable to move too much through the cocktail of drugs. Not to mention, any time he tried, someone was there with a stern tone telling him not to. In that processing of his new existence, Sam had officially lost it.

Topping it all off, it was his twenty-ninth birthday.

He spent a restless morning hour staring at the ceiling tiles, cataloging the ways he’d marked this day in years past. There was twenty-three, spent eating lukewarm MREs behind the wheel of a Humvee while sand pelted the windshield like buckshot. There was twenty-six, where the celebration was a four-hour trek through a mountain pass with sixty pounds of gear digging into his traps. Those days had been exhausting, dangerous, and brutal… but he’d been moving.

Now, pinned to the mattress, he felt like a specimen under glass. Being transitioned from injured into recovering was its own kind of psychological warfare. His body was a map of trauma, and going from an active-duty soldier to a man who needed assistance to sit upright was a tough pill to swallow. The stir-crazy energy was buzzing under his skin. A frantic need to just go, countered by the reality that he wasn't going anywhere. The recovery ward at Walter Reed was its own meticulously sanitized circle of hell. It wasn't the pain, though the dull, throbbing ache of reconstructed bone and grafted skin was a constant companion that found Sam. It was the slow erosion of his dignity.

Sam had a functional, combat-ready understanding of medicine. He knew how to pack a wound with Gauze, how to tie a tourniquet tight enough to make a man scream, and how to keep a pulse steady until a medevac broke the horizon. But that was the medicine of the living, the moving, and the fighting. This was different. This was the quiet degradation of being a patient.

The realization of his own physical state hit him in slow realizations. He hadn't felt the rush of pressurized water against his skin since the morning of the mission. Something that now felt like a lifetime ago. Since then, his hygiene had been reduced to the cold, impersonal efficiency of sponge baths, mostly from what he could gather, had happened while he was unconscious. First in the transit through Landstuhl and continuing here. Now that he was awake, and more alert for them, the reality of those made themselves aware.

The memory of the previous afternoon was a recurring loop in his mind. It had started with the professional entrance of a nurse whose name he couldn’t even recall. Sam had laid there, stripped of the heavy blankets, feeling the cool draft of the ward air against his skin, quickly hyper-aware of his own vulnerability. The shame had been instantaneous and suffocating when the nurse began the process of cleaning him. There was no malice in her movements, only the efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times, but that was the problem. To her, he was a checklist of hygiene requirements. She likely needed to keep that headspace to do her job and he couldn’t fault her. But, to him, having a stranger’s gloved hands navigating the most private parts of his manhood was an annihilation he hadn’t anticipated. He’d stared fixedly at a water stain on the ceiling, his jaw clamped shut so tight his teeth ached, praying for the floor to open up and swallow the bed whole.

Then there was Jolene. She had been standing by the window, her silhouette framed by the harsh afternoon light. For a long minute, her expression had been unreadable. A mask of forced neutrality as she watched what he imagined she’d witnessed several times now with him asleep. But then her eyes met his. She saw the raw, burning humiliation written across his face, the way his knuckles had turned white gripping the side rails. Without a word of pity, she’d stepped forward, her voice calm as she addressed the nurse. "I can take over. If you show me what needs to be done." At first, a wave of profound relief had washed over him. The stranger was gone. But as Jolene dipped the cloth back into the basin of warm, soapy water, a new, more complex hell settled in.

Having the woman who had seen you at your strongest and who looked at you with desire, now forced to meticulously scrub your groin because you were physically incapable of doing it yourself was a different kind of trauma. Countless times had he recalled the mental imagery of her hand holding his dick, often with his own fist wrapped around it in a base shower halfway across the world, to bring himself pleasure. But the intimacy they once shared had been hijacked by the sterile necessity of a recovery ward. As she worked, her touch was infinitely more tender than the nurse’s had been, but that tenderness only underscored his helplessness. He’d watched focused on the grim reality of his catheter and the skin around it. It was a boundary crossed that they could never un-cross. He hadn't been able to thank her. He’d just closed his eyes and pretended to drift back into a morphine-induced haze, wishing he could scrub the memory of her kindness from his mind as easily as she’d scrubbed the grime from his foreskin.

Then there was the medical reality he’d once studied from the other side. His training had given him a practical, working knowledge of how to patch a man up until the real doctors could take over. He understood the necessity of things like bedpans. He’d even helped men use them in the field without a second thought. But to be the man using one was a different beast entirely. It was a visceral blow to his pride. Every time a nurse entered the room, he felt the heavy weight of his ego pressing down on him. At an age when he should have been at his physical peak, he was trapped in a body that felt like a betrayal of even its most basic needs.

The stir-crazy energy that had been humming was now curdling into a quiet, frustrated resentment. He was a soldier defined by his utility, his strength, and his ability to move through the world with purpose. Without that, he felt like a ghost haunting his own hospital bed. Sam looked toward the window, the overcast Maryland sky offering little in the way of celebration for a birthday he hadn't expected to see. The door to the room creaked open, the sound cutting through his extensive inventory of the ceiling’s imperfections.

"I hope you aren't planning a daring escape," Jolene’s voice drifted in before she did. "The nurses said your vitals look like you’re trying to run a marathon in your sleep."

“Maybe not a marathon, but I’d love a fucking shower," Sam grunted, his gaze finally snapping away from the window to track her as she crossed the room. "The fact Steph made it a mission to personally hide every reflective surface in the room right after they wheeled me up here tells me all I need to know.”

Jolene didn't flinch at the grit in his voice. She simply reclaimed that hospital-issued chair with the cracked faux leather that she’d occupied so consistently it seemed to have molded to her frame. She looked entirely unfazed, her expression carrying that same cool, steady composure she’d maintained while scrubbing his skin the day before. To Sam, her lack of distress was both a relief and a source of quiet agitation. He was drowning in the loss of his own dignity, yet she seemed to view his broken body with pragmatism.

She leaned back, crossing her legs and eyeing him with dry amusement. "Well, if you're worried about your looks, you're not wrong to be. I’ve seen castaways with better grooming habits. You’re starting to look like a very disgruntled mountain goat." Sam felt a spike of heat in his cheeks, his hand reflexively twitching toward the coarse, uneven stubble masking his jaw. "The hall’s head nurse actually pulled me aside," Jolene continued, her tone conversational. "She warned me that if a CO or any brass decides to do a morale walk-through, they’re going to have to perform an emergency shave on you. Apparently, Walter Reed has standards, and homeless isn't on the approved list."

Sam let out an indignant scoff. "Of course," he rasped, the bitterness resurfacing. "God forbid a man with half a dozen titanium plates in his legs forgets to maintain military bearing. I’m flat on my back, pumped full of opiates, and I’m still just property of Uncle Sam. Can’t have the equipment looking rough, right?"

He expected a sympathetic nod or a soft word of comfort, but Jolene just tilted her head, a small, devious smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Oh, stop the oppressed soldier routine," she teased. "Look on the bright side. If we do have to shave you, I’ll make sure to leave you a very distinguished 1970s porn-star mustache. Honestly, I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion you’d look sexy rocking the Selleck stache."

Sam looked at her, his eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge whether she was genuinely entertaining the thought of him looking like a relic from a classic crime drama. "You actually think that would be an improvement?"

Jolene didn't answer right away. Instead, she leaned forward, the familiar scent of her perfume filling the space between them. She reached out, her palms cool and steady as they cupped his face. She pressed her hands over his jaw and chin, her fingers overlapping to mask the chaotic growth of his beard, leaving only the dark shadow of hair on his upper lip exposed to the light. She squinted, tilting her head from side to side. "I don’t know," she whispered, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial hum. "It’s hard to tell. Maybe with a Hawaiian shirt and a Ferrari, we could really sell it. But right now, you just look like you’re about to tell me to get off your lawn."

Sam huffed as a genuine, albeit pained, smile breaking through the mask of his frustration. The absurdity of the moment, with the normalcy of her poking fun at him while he was pinned to a hospital bed, doing more to settle his nerves than any of the heavy-duty sedatives dripping into his veins. As she started to pull her hands away, laughing at the indignant face he was making, Sam’s hand moved. It was a slow, clumsy reach, but he managed to catch her wrist. He guided her hand back toward his face, his thumb grazing the side of her palm before he pressed a lingering kiss to her ring finger.

The cold metal of the gold ring met his lips. It was a small symbol of a life that existed outside the four walls of Walter Reed. He held her hand there for a moment, closing his eyes and letting the simple warmth of her skin steady him. "I’m sorry," he murmured against her knuckles, his voice thick and rough. "I’m being a grumpy bastard. I know I’m not exactly a ray of sunshine on a good day, but being stuck in this bed... it’s doing a number on my head."

Jolene didn't pull away. She softened, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone where the stubble gave way to pale, tired skin. "You're allowed to be a grumpy bastard, Sam. You’ve earned it. But don't think for a second I'm going to let you wallow in it. It’s your birthday, after all."

He opened his eyes, looking up at her with a mix of exhaustion and quiet adoration. "Where is everyone, Jo? Seriously. I expected my mother to be banging down the door by 0800. Why is it just you?"

She let out a gasp, completely theatrical in nature and not at all serious. “Just me? Just the woman who flew halfway around the world to be at your bedside despite a crippling fear of flying? Just the woman who’s been the primary point of contact for every doctor and military liaison in a three-mile radius, balancing your recovery schedule with the absolute headache of making sure your backpay actually hits your account? Just the woman currently acting as a human shield against your mother in all her–”

She cut herself off as his laughter finally bubbled over, the sound rough and genuine enough to drown out her mock horror. “Alright, alright,” he managed, his chest hitching with a faint wince of pain that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Point taken. You’re a saint, Jo. I’m a lucky bastard.”

“Exactly,” she said, her expression softening as she smoothed his hairline, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched the shift of his widow's peak from the regrowth since his last haircut. “The truth is, I’m the only one here because I’m the only one with enough leverage to tell your mother no. I convinced her that after everything the surgeons did to you, what you actually needed this morning was a little peace and quiet. I promised her that if she gave you until noon, I’d personally ensure you weren't a total grumpy asshole by the time the rest of the cavalry rolls up to celebrate.”

Sam raised a skeptical eyebrow, his fingers still tracing the gold band on her hand. “And how exactly were you planning on ensuring that? You’ve got about two hours left to work your magic, and I’m still pretty set on being miserable.”

Jolene shrugged, a playful, dangerous glint returning to her eyes as she leaned back just an inch. “Well, I’d hoped my radiant, sparkling personality would be enough to charm you out of your funk,” she said, her voice dropping into a low, sultry tease. “But if that fails, and you're still determined to be a sourpuss... I suppose I could always just flash you.”

Sam let out a dry, raspy chuckle that quickly caught in his throat, turning into a muffled cough that made his abdominal muscles scream in protest. "Jo," he wheezed, his eyes darting toward the heavy, reinforced door with its small rectangular window. "There are literally armed guards in the hallway and a station full of nurses twenty feet away who can see my heart rate spike on a monitor."

"Then I guess you better start cheering up," she whispered, her smirk widening. "Or things are about to get very interesting for the nursing staff."

Sam looked away, his gaze drifting back to the white tiles of the ceiling, but his mind was already miles away from the ward. It was a strange, frustrating irony. He would have thought that with the sheer amount of trauma his body had endured, that carnal desire would be the first thing to flick off, like a blown circuit. He’d expected to feel like an asexual hollowed-out shell of a man focused only on the mechanics of survival. Instead, the combination of forced stillness and the constant drip of medication had created an agonizing ground for his imagination. Laying there, unable to even roll onto his side, his mind had become a high-definition film of everything he couldn't have.

He found himself fixating on the last time he’d come home from deployment. They hadn't even made it through the front door properly before clothes were hitting the floor. They’d spent three straight days tangled in the sheets of their bed, the world reduced to nothing but the sound of her breathing and the heat of her skin against his. He could still vividly recall the specific weight of her thighs straddling his waist and how soaked she’d felt wrapped around him. He remembered the friction of her nails against the small of his back and the way she looked with his hand wrapped around her throat.

He closed his eyes, and the darkness only made the images sharper. He imagined the feeling of her unzipping that practical jacket she was wearing, the slow reveal of the skin beneath, and the way he’d pull her down until he could bury his face in the crook of her neck. He wanted to feel the frantic pulse in her throat against his lips. He wanted to hear that specific, hitched intake of breath she only made when he touched her just right.

The stir-crazy energy that had been buzzing in his head took on a different, sharper edge. It was a localized ache that the morphine couldn't touch. He opened his eyes and turned his head slowly on the pillow, finding Jolene again. She was watching him, her head tilted, her expression a mix of that trademark dry amusement and something softer. Something that suggested she knew exactly where his mind had wandered. Sam cleared his throat. He didn't say a word as he fixed her with a long, steady look, slowly raising a single, suggestive eyebrow as if to ask if her offer was actually on the table, or if he was just going to have to suffer through his twenty-ninth birthday with nothing but a vivid imagination and a cup of lime Jell-O.

"What exactly are you asking for, Sam?" she murmured, her voice a low, melodic vibration that seemed to bypass his ears and go straight to his nervous system. "Because you’ve got that look in your eye. The one that I have a hard time saying no to."

Sam didn't look away. The honesty of the moment, stripped of the polite veneer of a hospital ward, felt like the only real thing in the room. He let out a breath, his fingers twitching against the thin hospital sheet. "I just want to fucking see a pair of tits, Jo," he rasped, the profanity sounding like a prayer. "Is that too much to ask? It’s been since the end of June. Since that morning in the kitchen before I headed to base."

His mind flicked back to that morning, with the light hitting the hardwood. The way she’d looked in nothing but one of his oversized t-shirts, and the way he’d memorized every curve as if he knew he’d need to live off the memory for half a year.

"Before shit went sideways..." He trailed off, his gaze darkening with the weight of the months he’d spent in the dust. "I spent months in a literal hole in the ground, jerking it to the thought of you naked. Just the memory of how you look when the light hits you. It was the only thing that kept me from losing my mind out there. Now I’m back, I’m three days out of a major overhaul, and I’m staring at a drop ceiling instead of you. It’s its own brand of torture."

He looked at her, his expression raw and unfiltered, stoicism completely eroded by the sheer, desperate hunger of a man who had been starved of his own life for too long. He wasn't just asking for a thrill; he was asking for a reminder that he was still a man, still hers, and still capable of wanting something that wasn't a dose of morphine or a clean bandage.

Jolene’s smirk didn't vanish, but it softened into something that acknowledged the edge of his frustration. She glanced over her shoulder at the small window in the door, then back at the heart rate monitor where his pulse was already starting to climb in steady, rhythmic pips. "You're a menace, Sam," she whispered, her hand sliding up from his cheek to the slightly grown out fringe at his temple. "You know the nurses are going to come running in here the second your heart rate hits triple digits. They’ll think you’re having a pulmonary embolism, and I’ll have to explain that you’re just a pervert."

"Let 'em come," Sam countered, his voice a rough, determined shadow. "I'll tell them it's a medical necessity. Tits are the ultimate morale boost. Well that and a nice ass, but that’s a bit harder to whip out with your jeans that tight. I’ll settle for tits. So, whenever you’d like…" He raised that eyebrow again, mockingly settling back into the pillows and gesturing for her to proceed. He was pinned to the bed, he was covered in scars, and he was currently dependent on her for the most basic human functions. But in this one arena, he was still the man who knew exactly how to push her buttons.

Jolene let out a soft, huffed laugh, her fingers tracing the line of his collarbone just above the edge of his snap on shirt. She stood up slowly, the movement almost feline like in nature. She didn't go for the door to lock it, but she stepped into the narrow blind spot between the bed and the heavy equipment locker, shielding herself from the direct line of sight of the hallway window.

Sam watched, his breath hitching in his chest, as she reached up under the hem of her soft knit sweater. She unclipped the latch of her bra. He watched the subtle shift of her shoulders, the way her collarbones caught the overhead light, before she fished the scrap of black lace out from her sleeve and dropped it directly onto his palm. It was still warm from her skin, smelling faintly of her perfume. Then, she glanced over her shoulder at the hallway, ensuring the trek of the nursing staff was at a safe distance, before she turned back to him. With a defiant tilt of her chin, she hooked her fingers under the hem of her sweater and lifted it. For the first time since that humid morning in June, Sam saw her.

A vision of soft, pale skin. Her breasts were full yet perky. That perfect, sloping shape he had memorized in the dark. They were tipped with deep, dusky rose, her nipples already puckering in the cool air of the room. To Sam, they were the most beautiful things he had ever seen. A vivid reminder of the life he had almost lost. He stared, his pupils dilating until the brown of his eyes was nearly swallowed by black, his gaze tracing the familiar curve and the slight, endearing asymmetry he could spend a lifetime worshiping.

He didn't even realize he’d let the black lace bra slip from his fingers, the fabric settling onto the white sheets. His hand, still shaky from the trauma of his injuries, reached out. It felt like sacrilege to touch something so perfect with hands that had spent the last week tangled in IV lines, but he couldn't help himself. He cupped the weight of her left breast in his palm, his fingers spreading wide to take in as much of her as possible. The softness was a shock to his system. He looked up, his dark brown eyes catching the shimmering, mossy green of hers. Jolene didn't look away. She didn't look pitiful or sad. She looked at him with the same fierce, hungry devotion she always had. She leaned into his touch just a fraction and gave him a slow, wicked wink.

Sam’s fingers flexed, squeezing the soft, yielding flesh with a sudden strength that surprised them both. "God, Jo," he rasped, "You have no idea. Your tits are fucking spectacular. This is the most human I’ve felt in weeks."

Jolene let out an indignant scoff, though the flush creeping up her neck betrayed her. "You're a pig, Sam," she whispered, reaching down to swat his hand away.

But Sam wasn't letting go. He hooked his thumb over the swell of her breast, his grip tightening as he pulled her a fraction of an inch closer to the bed. "Maybe but I’ve been starving for months," he countered, his gaze never leaving hers. "Don't you dare pull away now. I’ve earned at least five more minutes of this." The heart rate monitor beside his head began to beep with a new, frantic urgency. The beeps came faster and faster as his adrenaline spiked, but Sam didn't care about the nurses. He just cared about the woman in his hand.

"Two minutes, Sam," Jolene whispered, her voice strained with a mix of genuine warning and the heat of the moment. She glanced back at the door, where the shadow of a passing orderly flickered across the frosted glass.

Sam didn't let go. If anything, his fingers sank deeper into the soft, yielding curve of her breast. "You’re a cruel woman, Jolene," he growled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to settle in his own chest. "Bringing a starving man to a banquet and telling him he only gets a sniff." He gave her a gentle tug, but with the undeniable authority of a man who was used to getting his way. "If I've only got two minutes left, at least let me do what I want with them."

Before she could protest, Sam leaned forward as much as he was able, his breath hitching as he pulled her flush against the side of the hospital bed. He wrapped his lips around her nipple, and Jolene let out a sharp sigh, her head falling back as her fingers clutched the back of his head, holding him there instead of pushing him away. "Sam," she breathed, her voice trembling. "I think this feels more like a gift to me than it does to you."

Sam shook his head against her, a low, muffled hum of disagreement vibrating against her skin. He didn't have the words to explain it yet, but as he focused on the heat of her body, a strange, profound clarity settled over him. He was a Petty Officer in the United States Navy. He was a patient in the most prestigious military hospital in the world. He was a man with a leg that might never carry his full weight again, held together by titanium, prayer, and the sheer stubbornness of the surgeons who had spent hours digging shrapnel out of his muscle. He was surrounded by the smell of antiseptic, the hum of life-support machines, and the looming shadow of a career that was over.

But sitting there, in the middle of a government-funded recovery ward, with the taste of his girlfriend on his tongue and her heart racing against his palm, was the most effective morale boost he could have ever hoped for. It wasn't just about the sex or the physical release. It was the defiance of it. It was the reminder that beneath the hospital gown, the bandages, and the "property of Uncle Sam" regulations, he was still a man capable of wanting, taking, and feeling.

The clarity of that moment was broken by a sharp intake of breath. Jolene gasped. She pulled back, her face flushed a deep, beautiful rose that reached all the way to the roots of her hair. Her eyes dropped to his face, narrowing with scrutiny. "Jesus," she muttered, reaching up to gingerly touch the sensitive, reddened skin of her chest. She looked back down at him, her expression shifting from desire to a dry annoyance. "Sam, seriously. That beard has got to go. I feel like I’ve been worked over with a piece of low-grit sandpaper."

Sam let out a rough, indignant scoff, sinking back against the pillows as the adrenaline began its slow, shaky retreat. "Oh, I’m sorry," he rasped, his voice still thick with the remains of his growl. "I’ll be sure to tell the surgeons that their priority should have been my grooming habits instead of, you know, my femoral artery."

Jolene didn’t pull away as he expected. Instead, she leaned back in, her fingers reaching up to slowly stroke the coarse hair of his untamed beard. She explored the texture, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw where the hair grew thickest, nearly hiding the hollows of his exhausted face. She let out a long, heavy sigh. "I don't know," she murmured, her eyes tracing the jagged, unkempt map of his face. "If you didn't look like absolute shit from being stuck in this hospital, I think I could actually get used to it."

Sam let out a dry, hacking laugh that made his ribs ache. "You literally just told me I look like a disgruntled mountain goat and that it needed to go. Make up your mind. Am I a castaway or is this growing on you?"

"Both," she countered with a playful roll of her eyes, her palm lingering against his cheek. "It’s just... different. It’s not something I’ve ever seen on you before."

Sam tilted his head as much as the pillows would allow, his dark eyes tracking the way she seemed almost fascinated by the ruggedness he usually had to scrape away every morning at 0500. He found a strange, grim sort of humor in the fact that nearly dying was the only thing that had finally allowed him to break the grooming standards he’d lived by for years.

"Well, there’s a reason for that," he pointed out, his voice dropping into that low, matter-of-fact tone he used when explaining the mundane realities of the Teams. "Uncle Sam isn't big on beards. Anything longer than some stubble and you're asking for a lecture on professionalism and maintaining proper mask seals. You haven't seen it because I haven't been allowed to have it since I was twenty-one."

He looked at her, watching the way her fingers moved through the hair. It was a bizarre intimacy. One of the few parts of him that wasn't bandaged, scarred, or hooked to a machine, yet it felt like a brand new discovery for her. "I guess I never thought about it," she admitted, her voice softening. "You've always just been... clean. Or at least scruffy. Seeing you like this, all overgrown and feral... it makes you look less like a Petty Officer and more like a man who doesn't have to answer to anyone."

"Except my girlfriend," Sam grunted, though he didn't pull away from her touch. "And apparently she thinks I’m a wire brush."

Jolene smirked, her thumb catching on the corner of his lip. "Exactly. And don't you forget it."

Sam let out a long, grounding breath, his eyes tracking the way she slipped her arms into her sweater, reattaching the black lace of her bra away from view. "Did you really manage it?" he asked, his voice low and private. "Get us a morning free from my mother? Because if you did, that’s a medal-worthy feat of diplomacy."

Jolene flashed him a tired but triumphant smile. "I promised I did. It took two cups of cafeteria coffee and a very firm lecture about your blood pressure, but she finally agreed to let you rest in exchange for the possibility of you being more energetic later." She paused, her expression shifting into something a bit more tentative as she leaned against the railing of the bed.

"How’s it been going?" Sam asked, his voice dropping into a more serious tone. "When I’m out of it. When the meds have me in the clouds."

Jolene let out a soft huff of a laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "It’s a circus, Sam. Stephanie has been going a tad nuts trying to finalize her summer internship plans while simultaneously trying to keep your mother in line. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard her tell your mom to just breathe and sit down in the last forty-eight hours." She moved back to her chair, her eyes dancing with a sudden, unexpected spark of amusement. "Actually, I’ve found a bit of a sanctuary with your dad. I’ve been playing cards with him. He doesn’t expect much in the way of conversation, which is a godsend right now. We just sit there, play Rummy. It’s like an odd mirror into what you’re going to look like when you’re older."

Sam recoiled, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline as he let out an indignant puff of air. "Please don’t tell me you’re getting the hots for my dad now."

Jolene’s laughter was bright. "Oh, stop it," she gasped, swatting at the air between them. "I’m just saying, if you take after your dad, you’re going to age like fine wine, Sam. The bone structure is identical. Which, honestly..." she trailed off, her gaze drifting back to his rugged, unkempt jawline with a renewed sense of appreciation. "Is why the beard might be the way to go. If you're going to look like a silver fox in twenty years, we might as well get a head start."

Sam grunted, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips. "Fine wine. Right. I'm currently more like a corked bottle of vinegar, but I'll take the compliment." Sam muttered, his thumb tracing the gold band on her finger one last time before he reluctantly let her hand go.

Jolene leaned back, her elbows resting on the armrests of that battered vinyl chair. She looked at him, her gaze traveling over the mountain of pillows propping him up and the tangle of tubes. “I have to be honest, Sam,” she said, her voice dropping into a softer register. “Your birthday kind of snuck up on me this year. Between the flight to Landstuhl and the paperwork and the sheer volume of coffee I’ve consumed in this zip code, the date just didn’t register until yesterday. So, if you have any requests, and I mean things that aren't sexual in nature, you pervert, lay them on me. I can try to slip out while your mom is distracted and hunt something down.”

Sam shifted, the movement sending a dull, throbbing reminder of his reconstructive surgery through his thigh. He looked at her, and for the first time in three days, he didn't just see his girlfriend. He saw the toll the last month had taken. There were shadows under her green eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. Her frame seemed almost hollowed out, as if the stress of his survival had been fueled by her own physical reserves.

“Jo, I don’t know what to ask for,” he said, his voice reaching a rare point of absolute sincerity. “You’ve already done more for me in the last month than anyone has a right to ask of another person. You flew across an ocean for a man who was barely conscious. You’ve been my brain when mine was fried on meds. Anything in a gift bag isn't going to come close to that.”

Jolene frowned, a flicker of stubbornness crossing her face. “Don’t do that. Don’t be a noble martyr. Just give me something, Sam. Anything you want. A specific candy? A book? Name it.”

“I really don’t need anything,” he doubled down, his jaw setting in that familiar, stubborn line.

She let out a sharp, frustrated huff, her shoulders tensing. For a moment, the playful banter was gone, replaced by a raw edge of irritation that took him by surprise.

“Why does it matter so much?” he asked quietly, his brow furrowing. “It’s just a Tuesday in a hospital bed, Jo. Why are you getting worked up over a gift?”

“Because I want things to feel normal for five fucking minutes!” she snapped, the volume of her voice jumping before she caught herself and glanced toward the door. She leaned forward, her voice a whisper. “I want to do something that people do on birthdays. I want to make you feel better than what is currently happening. I want to be the girlfriend who buys a thoughtful gift. Not the woman who knows the exact hourly output of your catheter. I need it to feel normal, Sam.”

Sam went quiet. He watched the way her hands trembled slightly in her lap, the way she was desperately trying to claw back some semblance of their old life from the sterile jaws of Walter Reed. He didn't fully understand the logic. To him, her presence was the only thing that kept the walls from closing in. But he could see that his refusal was just another thing he was taking away from her. He looked at the overcast sky through the window, thinking. He searched for a request that would satisfy her need to provide, but his mind kept coming back to the way she looked: fragile, exhausted, and running on fumes.

“Okay,” he finally said, his voice low and steady. “I have a request. But you have to promise you’ll follow through.”

Jolene sat up straighter, her expression guarded but hopeful. “Anything.”

"I want you to get out of this building, Jo," Sam said, his voice dropping into a low, commanding tone that lacked any room for negotiation. "And I don’t mean a lap around the parking lot or another cup of that burnt sludge they call coffee in the cafeteria. I want you to go meet Victoria and Elijah. Go into the city. See if Kaitlyn can meet up with you two. Go find a place with tablecloths and actual china instead of plastic or paper."

Jolene opened her mouth, her brow furrowing as she started to protest. "Sam, I can’t just–"

"Stop," he interrupted, lifting his hand just an inch off the bed to cut her off. "I’m serious. Look at me. I’m out of the danger zone, Jo. The surgeons are happy, my vitals are steady, and right now, I’m basically just a very expensive, very disgruntled sack of potatoes taking up space, hoping to not throw a clot so I can start PT. There is absolutely nothing for you to do here for the next six hours except watch me doze off."

He paused, his dark eyes searching hers, noting the way her shoulders seemed perpetually hunched, as if she were bracing for a blow that had already landed. The hollows beneath her cheekbones were more pronounced than they’d been and it twisted something in his gut that no amount of pain medication could numb.

"Go let someone else take care of you for a bit," he urged, his voice softening. "Get a real meal. Take a shower that lasts longer than five minutes and spend time without looking at your phone every thirty seconds. If you’re so hell-bent on getting me a gift, then go buy yourself something pretty. Come back looking all dolled up. Even if that’s just a nice pair of jeans. If you feel good, I’ll feel better."

Jolene looked down at her lap, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater. "I don't like leaving you here alone with all... this," she gestured vaguely to the room.

"I’m not alone. I’m surrounded by the finest medical minds the taxpayers can buy and a mother who will likely try to feed me through a straw if I take too long to chew," Sam countered with a dry, lopsided smirk. He reached out, hooking his finger under her chin to tilt her face back up to his. "I mean it, Jo. It’s killing me to see you like this. You’re sitting in a chair that’s probably turned your spine into a question mark. I need to know that you’re taking care of yourself, too. Because when I finally get the green light to get out of this bed, I’m going to need you at a hundred percent to keep up with me."

He saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes start to give way to a weary acceptance. She let out a long, shaky breath, the tension finally beginning to bleed out of her frame.

"A long shower?" she whispered, the idea seemingly more luxurious than any jewelry he could have mentioned.

"The longest," Sam promised. "And a steak. And a glass of wine. Go be a person again for an afternoon. That is the only birthday present I want."

Jolene leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his for a brief, quiet second. "You’re a very bossy patient, Samuel."

"I'm a SEAL, Jo. We're big on mission objectives," he rasped, his eyes closing as he savored the scent of her one last time. "And your objective for the next few hours is to forget this ward even exists."

Jolene pulled back just enough to look at him, her fingers tracing the edge of his hospital blanket. "Something pretty, huh?" she echoed, a faint, tired spark of her usual playfulness returning to her gaze. "You have something specific in mind, Petty Officer? Because my fashion sense has been limited to whatever is clean at the bottom of the suitcase for the last month."

Sam gave a weak shrug, the movement stiff but his expression unwavering. "You could wear a burlap sack with Property of the U.S. Navy, stenciled on the back and I’d still think you were the sexiest woman alive. You know that. I just want you to feel you again, not just an extension of this bed rail."

She bit her lip, her gaze drifting toward the door. "I'll go," she said, the word sounding like a difficult concession. "But I’m going to keep it brief. I’ll be back by this evening. Your mother has something planned for six o'clock, and if I’m not here to run interference, God knows what she’ll do."

Sam let out a long, theatrical groan, his head sinking deeper into the pillow as he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "A party. Great. I can’t wait to be shoved into a cardboard paper hat and have a digital camera shoved in my face to document the absolute worst days of my life. I’ll probably be expected to blow out a candle on a cupcake I’m not even allowed to eat yet."

"I'll make sure the hat is at a jaunty angle," Jolene teased, though the reluctance was still etched into the corners of her mouth. She didn't move to stand up yet, her hand still anchored to his, her thumb tracing the scarred knuckles of his hand. Sam reached out, capturing her hand fully in his and pulling it toward his face. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand, a prolonged, heavy kiss. As he held the kiss, he looked up at her, his dark brown eyes locking onto her green ones. From this close, the lights of the room were unforgiving. He could see the faint tremor in her fingers and the way her edges were visibly fraying. She was a woman who had been running on pure adrenaline and devotion for weeks, and Sam could see the exact moment the fuel was going to run out if she didn't find a way to vent the pressure.

For days, he’d been a passive recipient of care, a broken machine being tinkered with by specialists, but forcing Jolene to prioritize herself felt like a mission. It was a directive he could actually execute from a hospital bed. Seeing her hollowed-out expression was a sharper pain than the ache in his leg. He needed her to be more than just his shadow in this room. He needed her to be a person again, even if it was only for an afternoon. If she didn't leave, she would break, and if she broke, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to carry them both from a prone position.

Jolene chewed on her lip, her eyes darting toward the door as if she could already hear the rustle of the party supplies his mother was undoubtedly stockpiling. "Are you sure Sam? Your mom... if I'm not here to be the buffer, she’s going to overwhelm you."

Sam let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, squeezing her hand one last time before letting it go. "Let her. Let her bring the balloons and the bad jokes and the 'remember whens.' I don't care, Jo. I really don't. I can handle my mother's brand of overbearing love for a few hours if it means you get a moment of peace. Being a buffer isn't your job description, and I'm tired of watching you work the overtime shift."

He watched her stand, the vinyl of the chair let out a final, groaning sigh as she finally broke her vigil. He felt a pang of sudden, sharp loneliness at the prospect of her absence, but it was outweighed by the satisfaction of seeing her actually grab her coat. "Go," he said again, a faint, tired smirk touching his lips as he watched her linger by the bed. "And if you come back before I've had a chance to miss you, I'm going to be very disappointed in your ability to follow orders."

Jolene finally laughed. "I'll get the steak. And I'll try, keep in mind try, to stay away until five."

"Make it six," Sam countered, closing his eyes as the door handle finally turned. "I've got a date with a paper hat and some lukewarm Jell-O. I'll be fine."

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

The adrenaline of the morning had long since bled out, replaced by a grueling, slow-motion marathon of family affection and medical indignity. By 1500, Sam was already hitting a wall. He’d been awake, or fitfully drifting, for three hours of "celebration”. The absence of Jolene felt like an intense ache in his sternum. He wondered where she was. He imagined her sitting in a booth, the condensation on a cold glass of white wine dripping onto a varnished table top. He hoped she was laughing at something Victoria said, something that had absolutely nothing to do with wound debridement or the heroic narrative everyone kept trying to pin on him.

His mother had made her grand entrance at noon, a whirlwind of floral perfume and maternal anxiety that had literally shaken him awake. "Happy birthday, my brave boy," she whispered, her voice cracking.

She’d brought the cavalry, in the form of a literal mountain of mail. The local church group back home had apparently launched a "Happy Birthday, Sam" campaign, and he’d spent a solid hour flipping through cards from people he barely remembered. The sentiments were relentlessly repetitive: Thank you for your service. Praying for a speedy recovery. You’re our hero. After the twentieth card featuring an American flag or a generic sunset, the words started to blur into a beige noise. It was a suffocating reminder of the version of himself the world wanted rather than the man who was currently wondering if he’d ever be able to have sex standing up again.

Lunch had been an uneventful affair, interrupted only by the singular, blessed moment of silence when the nurse arrived to change the bedpan. His mother had been ushered out for that, a small mercy that Sam had leaned into with grim gratitude. Through the chaos, Stephanie had been his savior. She’d claimed Jolene’s cracked leather chair, her knees pulled up to her chest and a heavy charcoal pad balanced on her lap. He’d asked her earlier in the week to find a way to liven up the beige, soul-sucking walls of the ward, and she’d finally delivered.

"Check it out," she’d murmured around 1400, flipping the pad around as she showed him several sketches she’d managed that afternoon.

She’d depicted Zeus, Hades, and Athena, with lines sharp and deliberate. She had painstakingly mimicked the specific, weathered wood-cut style of the Poseidon tattoo on his ribs. The one he’d gotten after finishing BUD/S. Seeing the gods of the sky, the underworld, and wisdom rendered in the same aesthetic as his own skin made him feel, for a fleeting second, like he still owned his body. It was a piece of him that wasn't broken. "Thanks, Squirt," he’d rasped, reaching out to trace the line of Athena’s shield. "It’s perfect."

But even with the artwork and the cards and his mother’s slightly more subdued hovering, the room felt hollow. He kept glancing at the door, expecting the click of Jolene’s boots. He missed the way she didn't look at him like he was made of glass. He missed the dry, biting wit that cut through the saccharine hero talk. And as he threatened to doze off again for another thirty minute nap he recalled the events of the day before.

The memory hit him with a heavy, cinematic clarity, cutting through the sterile haze of the present. It was from two nights ago, shortly after the chaos of post-op had settled into the grinding, stagnant reality of the recovery ward. They had finally moved him into the room he was expected to inhabit until he was stable enough for the outpatient housing. The room had been dim, the only light provided by the flickering blue glow of a muted television. Sam had been pinned to the bed, the stir-crazy itch already beginning to fester in his marrow. His mother was perched on the edge of a guest chair, while Jolene occupied her usual territory in the cracked leather seat.

At some point during a mindless nature documentary, the silence of the room had shifted. Jolene had finally succumbed to the weeks of bone-deep exhaustion, her head drooping until it came to rest against Sam’s bicep. She was out cold, her breathing deep and rhythmic, her hand still loosely curled near his hip. Sam had looked down at her, his heart doing that strange, painful roll, and began to lazily thread his fingers through the stray curly locks of her hair.

His mother had cleared her throat, the sound sharp in the quiet room. She didn’t look at the television. She looked at Jolene’s head on her son’s arm, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. "She’s a very devoted girl, Samuel," Mary had whispered. The words were complimentary, but they carried a weight. A subtle edge that Sam recognized instantly. It was the tone she used when she was handing out a gift with strings attached.

"She is," Sam rasped, his thumb grazing Jolene’s temple.

Mary shifted. She looked grateful that someone was there to catch the pieces of her son, yet there was a territorial flick in her eyes, a quiet resentment that someone else was holding the primary vigil. "It’s a lot for a young woman to take on," Mary continued, her voice dipping. "To be the one handling the doctors, the one signing the paperwork the military keeps sending over. I was surprised, honestly. I thought the Navy would have called me first, but... apparently, you made your preferences very clear before you left."

Sam picked up the frequency immediately. It was the opening salvo. He’d known this conversation was coming the moment he woke up and saw both women in the room. Mary Walsh was a woman of tradition and the fact that Jolene – the blunt, unpolished girl who didn't go to their church and didn't mind using a four-letter word – was the one holding the legal keys to his life was a bitter pill.

"Jolene knows what I want, Mom," Sam said, his voice level despite the spike of annoyance. "She doesn't sugarcoat things. I need that."

"I can see that," Mary said, her gaze drifting to the way Sam’s fingers were tangled in Jolene’s hair. "She certainly is... direct. I suppose that’s a quality people value nowadays. Though, it does make things complicated when the hospital staff asks about family and she has to explain she’s the... what is the term she used? Your partner?"

She let the word hang in the air. Sam felt the heat rising in his neck. He knew exactly what she was saying between the lines: If you were married, I wouldn't feel like a guest in my own son's recovery. The criticism wasn't being directed at Jolene's character so much as it was being leveled at Sam’s choices. In Mary’s eyes, this level of intimacy belonged to a wife, not a girlfriend.

"She's been more of a partner to me than most people are in twenty years of marriage," Sam countered, his grip on Jolene’s hand tightening slightly.

Mary’s expression didn't change, but she looked away, back toward the flickering TV. "Of course, dear. I just worry about the optics. For your sake. When a CO comes by, or when we have to talk about long-term care... it’s just a very heavy burden for someone who isn't legally bound to the family. It leaves a lot of room for things to get... messy."

She didn't have to say the rest. She was waiting for the ring. She was waiting for the moment Sam could make it right so she could stop feeling threatened by the girl who had flown across the world while she’d been packing a suitcase. It was a subtle, psychological war for the top spot in his hierarchy of needs, and Sam, trapped in the bed, felt the suffocating pressure of it.

He had looked down at the sleeping girl on his arm, her face peaceful and oblivious to the silent judgment radiating from the other side of the bed. He knew his mother found Jolene’s bluntness abrasive. But as he watched his mother’s profile, Sam realized he didn't care about the optics. He didn't care about the messy legalities. The morphine made his fuse short and his patience paper-thin and he didn't have the tactical bandwidth to play the "guess what Mom is thinking" game while his leg felt like it was being gnawed on by a shark.

Sam’s fingers didn't stop their lazy, rhythmic stroking of Jolene’s hair, but his eyes stayed fixed on his mother with a cold, clear intensity that usually belonged on a firing range. "Ma," he rasped, the word cutting through the low hum of the television. "If you’ve got something to say, you better just spit it out directly. My brain is about sixty percent chemical right now, and dancing around the point isn't going to get us anywhere but frustrated. Just say it."

Mary Walsh stiffened, her chin lifting as if she’d been struck. She looked at the door, then back at the sleeping girl tucked against Sam’s side, before finally letting her shoulders drop an inch. The mask slipped, "Fine, Samuel. Since we’re being direct," she whispered, her voice tight and trembling with suppressed emotion. "It is just... difficult. Seeing her here, doing things that a wife should be doing," she said, her voice dropping the conversational honey for something more brittle. "To have her here, day and night. To have her handling your personal affairs, speaking for you when you couldn't speak for yourself. It’s a lot of intimacy for a relationship that doesn't have a proper foundation."

Sam’s jaw tightened. "A foundation? We’ve been together for years, Mom. She’s been through two deployments with me now."

"I’m not questioning her loyalty," Mary countered quickly, her hands folding tightly in her lap. "Lord, no. Jolene has been nothing but kind and respectful, despite the occasional blunt comment. And given the circumstances, I suppose a little rough edges are to be expected. She’s been a godsend in many ways, and I’m grateful she cares for you."

Sam paused, the anger in his chest hitching. He’d expected her to go for Jolene. To pick apart her lack of traditional grace or her habit of swearing when the doctors were too vague. But Mary wasn't looking at Jolene with judgment anymore. She was looking at him. The realization hit him. The criticism wasn't about the girl sleeping on his bicep.

"So this isn't about her," Sam said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low frequency. "This is about me."

"It’s about the situation you’ve put her in, Samuel," Mary said, her eyes finally welling with a stubborn moisture. "You have this girl acting as your wife in every sense of the word - cleaning you, fighting for you, carrying the weight of your entire future on her shoulders - and yet, you haven't given her the protection of your name. You haven't given her the legal standing to be here. It’s selfish, son. To let a woman give that much of herself without committing to her in the eyes of God and the law."

Sam didn't respond immediately. Instead, his gaze dropped to Jolene’s hand, which was still resting near his hip. In the flickering blue light of the television, the slim gold band on her finger caught a glint. It was the promise ring he’d given her back in June, just days before he’d disappeared into a world of sand and silence. To him, it was a placeholder for the future. But seeing it now, through the lens of his mother’s rigid morality, it looked painfully small. "She’s wearing a ring, Mom," Sam rasped, his voice tight.

Mary’s eyes followed his, her expression not softening, but tightening into a thin, disappointed line. She folded her arms over her chest, the jewelry on her own fingers catching the light. "I know she is. Stephanie explained what it was. And Jolene... well, she was very clear about what it meant to her when I asked." Mary paused, letting the silence do the heavy lifting. "But a promise isn't a covenant. It’s a lovely gesture for a schoolboy, but you’re a grown man who’s been to war. You’ve got a woman sitting in a hospital chair for twenty hours a day, watching you breathe because she’s terrified you’ll stop. It doesn't give her the pension or the insurance if, God forbid, the worst happens."

"She knows I'm committed to her," Sam countered, his fingers twitching in Jolene’s hair. "The ring is a symbol of that."

"It’s a symbol of your hesitation, son," Mary whispered, her voice devoid of its usual warmth. "To anyone else, it looks like you’re asking her to do all the work of a wife without giving her the dignity of the title. It’s not about the jewelry, Sam. It’s about doing the right thing by the person who is currently keeping your world from falling apart. If she’s the one you want, why are you making her wait until you’re ready? Life doesn't wait until you're ready. You’ve seen that firsthand."

Sam felt a surge of sharp anger, but it was dampened by the crushing weight of the truth in her words. He looked back at Jolene, her face so peaceful and trusting against his arm. His mother was suggesting that by not being married, he was effectively exploiting Jolene’s devotion. Taking her love, her time, and her care without offering her the legal and spiritual security she deserved. It was a classic Walsh guilt trip, wrapped in the guise of protecting the woman he loved. And the worst part – the part that made Sam’s skin crawl – was that he couldn't entirely shake the feeling that she was right.

"I'm not making her wait to be cruel, Mom," he managed, his voice sounding hollow.

"I never said you were, baby," Mary said, her tone shifting back to that heartbreakingly soft, maternal pity. "I'm just saying that a promise is a very thin shield against the reality of what you're both facing now. She deserves the real thing. Don't you think?"

The question hung in the sterile air, vibrating with the force of a final judgment. Mary didn't wait for him to answer. She turned toward the small sink to rinse a plastic cup, her back a wall of poised, maternal disappointment. Sam didn't look at her. He couldn't. He kept his eyes fixed on the crown of Jolene’s head, his fingers still tangled in her hair, but the lazily rhythmic stroking had stopped. A pressure built behind his eyes.

A hiss of breath escaped his teeth. He’d had it all mapped out. He’d spent months in the humid dark of a forward operating base visualizing the flight back to Virginia. The drive home, and the awkward conversation with Randy. The specific moment he’d take her to the emptied out bar, hoping that Randy and Loretta would allow him to do it in the palace they’d met. He’d planned to do it right. He’d planned to be the man she deserved: Strong, whole, and capable of standing on his own two feet when he asked her to spend the rest of her life with him. The IED hadn't just taken his mobility. It had stolen his dignity as a provider. It had turned his right way into a pipe dream at worst and put it on indefinite hiatus at best.

The hissing breath turned into a hitch, and then, to his absolute horror, a hot, silent tear tracked through the stubble on his cheek. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it was too big. "I had a plan, Ma," he whispered, his voice cracking, the anger finally boiling over into a raw, bleeding vulnerability. "I was going to do it the second I got back to Virginia. I was going to talk to Randy. I was going to take her out... I was going to do it right."

Mary stopped at the sink, her shoulders tensing, but she didn't turn around.

"And now?" Sam’s voice rose, a shaky, desperate rasp. "Now I’m a fucking science project. I’m held together by staples and hope." He let out a choked, wet laugh. "You think I don't know she deserves the real thing? You think I don't want to give her my everything?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, more tears escaping to soak into the thin hospital pillow. "I’m not asking her…" he said, the words tumbling out with a quiet agony. "I am not asking the woman I love to marry me when I can't even get down on one knee properly. I’m not going to propose from a goddamn adjustable bed while she’s holding a bedpan. I won't do that to her, Ma. I won't let her first memory of us being engaged be the time I was a charity case."

He was shaking now, the tremors radiating from his chest down to his damaged legs. It was the first time he’d said it out loud. The real reason for the delay. It wasn't hesitation. It wasn't a lack of commitment. It was the devastating, masculine pride of a man who refused to offer a broken version of himself as a lifelong partner.

Mary finally turned, her face pale, the argument vanishing the moment she saw the absolute wreckage in his eyes. But Sam didn't want her pity. He just wanted the world to stop shifting under him for five minutes so he could feel like a man again. She’d moved toward him, her face pale and her hands outstretched in a sudden maternal instinct to mend what she’d just finished tearing apart. "Samuel, baby, I didn't mean–I only wanted–"

"Just go," Sam had choked out, his voice thick with a humiliated kind of rage. He’d hitched his shoulder up, turning his head away from her and burying his face in the crook of the arm that wasn't pinned down by Jolene’s sleeping weight. He didn't want her comfort; he didn't want the soft, pitying coos of a woman who had just reminded him that he was half the man he used to be. "Get out. Please. I... I just need you to go."

Back in the present, Sam blinked against the harsh fluorescent glare of the ward, the memory receding but leaving a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. He looked over at his mother, who was currently occupied with organizing the "Happy Birthday" cards into neat, categorized stacks on his bedside table. To Stephanie or his father, she looked like the picture of a devoted, fussing mother. But Sam could see the hairline fractures in the performance.

When Jolene had told him earlier that she’d managed to keep Mary at bay for the entire morning, Sam had played along with the "rest and recovery" excuse. But the truth was far more intense. He knew exactly why his mother had been so easy to negotiate with. It wasn't that she’d suddenly gained a profound respect for medical boundaries. It was that she was terrified of being alone with him.

Ever since that night two days ago, Mary had been a woman walking on eggshells. He assumed she didn't know how to look at him without seeing the tears she’d forced out of him. She had avoided a one-on-one conversation with him since the moment he’d told her to leave. Even now, as she prattled on about the church’s prayer chain, she kept her eyes fixed on the paper, her movements frantic. She only piped up with her usual overbearing intensity when Stephanie or Walter were in the room to act as a buffer. Keeping up the appearance of the indomitable Walsh matriarch for the sake of the family unit. But when it was just the two of them, the silence was deafening, fueled by the mutual knowledge that she had overstepped a line that might never be redrawn.

Sam stared at her back, feeling a cold, weary sort of detachment as he watched his mother’s hands tremble slightly while she straightened a stack of envelopes. The silence in the room was a living thing, a thick, pressurized void that Mary Walsh was desperately trying to fill with the crinkle of cardstock.

"Hey, Stinker?" Stephanie asked, finally looking up from her sketchbook, her charcoal-stained fingers pausing. "Where is Jo?"

Sam shifted his gaze from the ceiling to his sister, his expression softening just a fraction, though his voice remained low. "I sent her away. I told her she wasn't allowed back until this evening."

Stephanie blinked, her brow furrowing. "You sent her away? On your birthday?"

"I told her to go meet Victoria. Off-site. To get a real meal that didn't come in a plastic tray and sit in a chair that wasn't designed to ruin a person's spine," Sam said, each word deliberate and pointed. He let the words hang in the air for a moment, the weight of them filling the room. "The only thing I wanted for my birthday was for her to go be a human being for an afternoon instead of a full-time nurse. She’s been living in this ward for weeks, and I’m not having her burn out on my account."

As he spoke, he slowly turned his head, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes locking onto his mother’s. He didn't blink. It was a silent dare for her to open her mouth and breathe a word. He wanted her to see it. He wanted her to understand that his devotion to Jolene wasn't measured in a marriage license or a ceremony in a church he hadn't stepped foot in for years. It was measured in the fact that, even as he was drowning in his own recovery, his primary instinct was to protect her from the very machine he was trapped in.

Mary caught his eye, and for a split second, the performative motherly bustle stopped. She looked at him, her mouth opening as if to offer a platitude about how thoughtful that was, but the raw, protective fire in Sam’s gaze silenced her. He was practically shouting at her without making a sound: Tell me again how I’m not a good enough partner. Tell me again how I’m failing her because I haven't slapped a title on her yet. Mary’s gaze faltered first. She looked down at the eagle card in her hand, her throat working as she swallowed a response that never came. She turned back to the bedside table, her movements becoming even more awkward, her silence her only defense.

"That's... that's really good of you, Sam," Stephanie said quietly, sensing the tectonic plates shifting between her brother and mother even if she didn't know the exact coordinates of the fault line. "She did look pretty exhausted. I'm glad she's getting a break."

"She deserves more than a break," Sam muttered, his gaze drifting back to the door. "She deserves a hell of a lot more than what she's getting right now." He sank deeper into the pillows, the brief flare of protective anger leaving him feeling hollow and twice as tired. He’d won the silent round with his mother, but the victory tasted like copper. He looked at the clock again. 1645.

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

Sam had finally begun to nod back off, the repetitive crinkle of his mother’s cards fading into a dull hum, when the heavy door clicked open. The wave of exhaustion that had been dragging him under vanished the second he saw her.

She looked incredible. It wasn't that she was overdone. She was wearing a simple pair of dark, well-fitting jeans and a soft, powder blue-colored top that draped over her shoulders, but the transformation was staggering. She’d clearly taken his advice to heart. Her hair was glossy and free of the messy hospital bun, her makeup was light but enough to bring the life back to her features, and she even had a fresh dark green manicure. For a man who had spent the last month looking at beige walls and pale, tired skin, she looked like a goddess descending into a tomb. The hollow shadows under her eyes had been replaced by a rested, vibrant glow. She looked healthy. She looked whole.

In her hands, she clutched a few small gift bags, the tissue paper peeking out from the tops. When her green eyes landed on him, a genuine, radiant smile broke across her face. One that didn't have to fight through layers of worry to reach the surface. Sam stared at her, his dark eyes wide and dreamy, completely captivated. He didn't care that his mother was standing three feet away or that Stephanie was watching them with a knowing, lopsided grin. To him, the room had narrowed down to a single point of light.

"God, Jo," he rasped, his voice thick with a mix of adoration and sheer relief. "You're beautiful."

Jolene stopped in her tracks, the gift bags crinkling as she shifted her weight. A rare, genuine flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a pretty pink. She was used to his crude jokes and his possessive growls, but the raw, unfiltered sincerity in his voice caught her off guard. She looked suddenly bashful, her gaze flickering momentarily to his parents and Stephanie before returning to the side of the bed. "Stop it, Sam," she whispered, though the smile only deepened. "I just took a shower and put on a clean shirt. Don't make it weird."

"I'm not making it weird," Sam countered, his gaze never wavering, his hand reaching out instinctively toward her across the sterile gap. "I'm making a factual observation. You look like a goddess."

He let out a long, satisfied breath. Seeing her like this – rested, vibrant, and momentarily disconnected from the role of caregiver – was the best birthday present he could have asked for. It proved that he could still protect her, even from a prone position, and it gave him a reason to smile back at his mother with a new, quiet kind of defiance. Jolene stepped closer, setting the bags down on the edge of the bed and letting him take her hand. "I got you a few things," she murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his temple.

"I told you," Sam rumbled, his hand closing over hers, his thumb tracing the soft skin of her knuckles. "I didn't want anything. The only thing on my list was you getting out of this building for a few hours."

Jolene let out a soft, amused huff, her hair brushing against his forehead as she pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. She shrugged, a playful glint returning to her expression that had been missing for weeks. "Too bad. I was deprived of your birthday last year because of that little desert excursion you took? I’m making up for lost time."

She gave his hand a final, lingering squeeze before straightening up and turning toward the rest of the room. The transition was seamless from the soft, private intimacy of them back to the delicate social architecture of the Walsh family. "Mary," Jolene said, her voice clear and polite. "I don't want to impede on whatever you have planned. I know you've been working on something for him."

Sam’s gaze shifted immediately to his mother. He made awkward, pointed eye contact with Mary, his expression a silent plea for her to keep the conversation they’d had buried under the birthday wrapping paper. Mary looked from Sam’s hard, expectant stare to Jolene’s refreshed, vibrant face. For a moment, the tension flickered in her eyes. The remnant of the shame from their earlier confrontation was there, but she quickly smoothed it over with a practiced, tight smile.

"It’s not an issue at all, Jolene," Mary said, her voice a pitch higher than usual as she gestured toward the small mountain of cards and a closed white cardboard box on the rolling tray. "I just got some cupcakes from that little bakery down the street and a few gifts from the family back home. Nothing that can't wait until you've had a chance to settle back in." She paused, her fingers hovering over a ribbon. "You look lovely, dear. The rest clearly did you some good."

"It did," Jolene said simply, not leaning into the compliment but acknowledging it with a nod. Sam watched the exchange from the pillows, his ribcage tight, holding his breath as if the slightest sudden movement might shatter the fragile glass of the room's atmosphere. He could see the edges of the conversation from two nights ago still vibrating between him and his mother. He could see the way she kept her hands busy with the cupcake box, her movements jerky and eyes averted, unable to reconcile the devoted partner she’d just praised with his failure she’d previously condemned. The silence was beginning to curdle again. The kind of heavy, mid-Atlantic Catholic guilt that could suck the oxygen out of a room.

"Alright, enough of the somber hospital vigil," Jolene announced, her voice cutting through the clinical hum with a sudden, bright authority. "I didn't get my nails done and eat a steak just to come back to a funeral wake. Sam is officially twenty-nine and out of the danger zone. We are having a party."

Before anyone could protest, she marched over to the corner and snatched up the stack of neon-colored cardboard cones. She plopped a bright blue hat onto Stephanie’s head, then rounded on Walter, who was leaning against the far wall. "Walt, you’re in charge of the radio," she commanded, nudging the small portable dial toward him. "Find something that isn’t a weather report or a talk show. If I hear one more car jingle, I’m going to lose it."

Walter let out a surprised, dry chuckle, but he did as he was told, fiddling with the dial until a faint, crackling folk melody began to fill the room. Jolene then turned to Mary. For a split second, Sam braced for a collision, but Jolene just held out a shimmering gold hat with a challenge in her eyes. Mary, caught between her lingering awkwardness and Jolene’s sheer force of will, slowly reached out and set the hat on top of her hair with a small, watery smile.

Finally, Jolene leaned over the bed. She didn't ask; she simply settled a silver hat at a rakish, jaunty angle over Sam’s forehead, the elastic snapping against his stubbled jaw. "There," she whispered, her eyes dancing. "Now you look like a very confused unicorn."

But she wasn't done. With a conspiratorial wink at Stephanie, Jolene reached into one of her gift bags and pulled out a heavy glass bottle of premium brandy, the amber liquid catching the light. "I'm sure this breaks a lot of protocols, but I'm also reasonably sure the nurses are currently distracted by a shift change," she murmured, unscrewing the cap. She took a small, defiant swig before passing it to Walter. "We are all taking a pull. Even you, Mary. It’s medicine for the soul."

As the bottle began its rounds, even his mom taking a polite, bracing sip that made her cough, the room finally started to feel like it belonged to the living. The smell of antiseptic was momentarily drowned out by the sharp, oaky tang of the liquor.

"Okay," Jolene said, settling onto the edge of Sam's bed, her hand finding his. "Since I was deprived of a Sam Walsh birthday last year thanks to the Navy, we’re making up for lost time. Everyone has to go around and tell their favorite memory of the birthday boy. And it better be good. I want the embarrassing stuff."

The next few hours blurred into a hazy, amber-tinted montage of the life Sam had been terrified he’d lost. He watched, propped up against a mountain of pillows, as the room transformed from a clinical holding cell into something that felt dangerously close to a home via the power of Jolene’s stubborn will.

She moved through the small space with a renewed energy, leaning against the rolling tray to split cupcakes with a plastic knife, her laughter punctuating the soft folk music his dad had found on a local station. She’d managed to draw his father out of his shell, getting him to recount a story about a seven-year-old Sam attempting to sneak a baby deer into the garage. Even Mary had finally surrendered to the gravity of the moment, her gold party hat slightly askew as she mimicked Sam’s childhood pout, the tension in her face finally dissolving into genuine, tearful amusement.

Sam leaned back, the elastic of his own hat digging into his jaw, and felt a rare, quiet surge of contentment. He was still miserably aware of the indignities of his current existence. The fact that he couldn't stand up to brush his own teeth, the frustrating itch of bandages he couldn't reach, and the looming, mundane dread of the next time a nurse would have to help him with a bedpan. He felt unwashed and diminished. A predator trapped in a cage of gauze and IV tubes. But watching Jolene, he realized he didn't care about the details for the first time in weeks. She had entered his space and forced everyone else to stop treating him like a tragedy. She’d turned his family into a unit again, bridging the gap between his mother’s rigid expectations and his own defensive pride with nothing more than a bottle of brandy and a refusal to be solemn.

"Okay, okay," Stephanie said as she reached for her camera. "We need proof that this happened."

Sam’s immediate instinct was to recoil. He didn't want a digital record of this version of himself. The sunken eyes, the unkempt beard, the hospital gown that made him feel like a ghost. He didn't want to see the contrast between Jolene’s refreshed, vibrant beauty and his own battered frame. He started to shake his head, a flat refusal forming on his lips.

"Come on, Sam," Jolene murmured, sensing the retreat before he could even vocalize it. She climbed onto the edge of the bed, careful of the tubes, and tucked herself into the small space beside his hip. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her fresh, floral scent momentarily obliterating the smell of the ward. "Just one," she pleaded, her eyes catching the light. "For the records. So I can remind you how good you looked in silver cardboard when you’re old and even grumpier."

Sam looked at the way she was draped against him as if he were still the strongest thing in the room and he relented. He let out a long, defeated sigh and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side. "Fine," he grunted, adjusted his hat, and looked into the lens.

Stephanie counted down, and the flash went off, freezing them in time. The soldier and the girl, his parents and sister all wearing ridiculous hats in a room that finally, briefly, felt like it was full of air again. And as the room erupted into a fresh round of banter about who looked the most ridiculous, Sam squeezed Jolene’s waist as if that alone could communicate just how thankful he was that she was pressed into his side.

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