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"Kelly." Her name's a reflex on my lips. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Total coincidence," she says, but her smile tells me she doesn't buy it any more than I do.
"Right," I say, matching her grin with one of my own. "Coincidence."
“Well, since you’re here, I’m fixing to hit up an art exhibit. Would you like to come?” Her invitation is sudden, but it’s warm and inviting and sincere, and my heart stutters in my chest.
How the fuck can I say ‘no’ to those pretty brown eyes?
So, I trail behind Kelly, my footsteps silent as a ghost’s. We're in the art museum, surrounded by more beauty than I’ve known since my desert days. But it's her—Kelly, with her brown hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of silk, pondering over paintings with that look of wonder in her eyes. She's the masterpiece I can't stop studying.
"Monet’s brushstrokes are just...orgasmic, don't you think?" Her voice pulls me from my reverie, a playful lilt dancing in her words.
"Orgasmic?" I chuckle, closing the distance between us. "That's one way to describe them."
"Look closer," she insists, her finger tracing the air near the canvas, careful not to touch. "It's like he made love to the canvas. Each color, each line—it's an intimate dance."
"Intimate." The word hangs heavy between us, loaded and dangerous. Like a grenade with its pin pulled.
She turns to face me, those expressive eyes locked onto mine. "Art is all about emotion, Greg. It's raw, exposed...vulnerable."
Vulnerable. She says it like it's something beautiful, not a weakness that could shatter you into a thousand irrecoverable pieces.
"Is that so?" I manage, my throat tight. We move through the gallery, shoulder to shoulder, but there's an ocean of unsaid things stretching out between us.
"Yeah," Kelly nods, her gaze lingering on a painting of lovers entwined. "It's...passionate."
"Passionate," I repeat, and she looks at me then, really looks at me. There's heat there, under the surface, simmering. My heart thuds against my ribcage, a staccato rhythm threatening to break me open.
"Let's grab coffee after this," she suggests, her voice a soft caress against the buzz of the museum.
"Sounds good," I agree, because coffee means more time with her, more chances to soak her in like the parched earth soaks in rain.
But as we walk, I can feel the familiar itch of my scars, the ghosts of a past life whispering in my ear. They're always there, lurking, waiting for a moment of weakness to drag me back to hell. I'm broken in ways Kelly can't see, haunted by memories that paint a far different picture than the ones on these walls.
"Greg?" Her hand brushes against mine, a jolt of electricity. "You okay?"
"Always," I lie, offering her a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. Because here's the thing—I want her. God, how I want her.
But there's a war inside of me, battles being fought every day and night, and I can't help but fear I might drag her into the trenches with me.
"Come on," she says, tugging me toward the exit. "I need that coffee."
"Lead the way," I say, and follow her out into the sunlight, trying to shake off the shadows that cling to me like cobwebs.
But even as we sit across from each other in the café, our laughter easy and conversation flowing like wine, I know I'm walking a razor's edge. Every moment with her is both agony and ecstasy, a reminder of everything I yearn for and everything I'm terrified to reach for.
Our knees brush under the table, an electric current passing between us with each accidental touch. Her eyes, warm and inviting, lock onto mine, and I can tell she's serious about peeling back my layers.
"Talk to me," she urges softly, her hand reaching across the table to lightly cover mine. "About anything. About everything."
I hesitate, feeling the weight of my past pressing down on me. But something in Kelly's gaze tells me it's okay to let go, to unravel before her. So I start talking, words spilling out of me like rounds from a chamber.
"The military...it was my life, you know? But out there—in the dust, the heat, the noise—it changes you." My voice is a low rumble, almost drowned out by the clinking of cups and the murmur of other patrons. "And coming back home, it's like you're a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit anymore."
Kelly squeezes my hand, her thumb tracing circles on my skin. "But you're here now, Greg. With me. And I want to help you find where you fit, even if it takes a while."
Her words are a balm to the raw edges of my soul. And as I dive into the darker parts of my service—the fear, the loss, the relentless nightmares—I feel the walls I've built crumble brick by brick. She listens, not flinching at the horrors I describe, not judging the man who's been forged in the fires of war.
