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"Greg," I murmur, my voice barely louder than the hush of the sea breeze, "what scares you the most about...everything?"
He shifts beside me, his body language open yet tense, like he's preparing to lay bare his soul. "Losing control," he admits, his gaze piercing the horizon. "Not just with PTSD, but in life. I'm used to structure, orders, knowing the next move. Civvy street doesn't come with a manual." His laugh is humorless, a puff of air that dissipates quickly into the salt-laden wind.
"Join the club." My attempt at lightness doesn't quite mask the tremor in my words. "Design might seem all fun and colors, but it's like I've got this judge inside my head, always telling me I'm one step away from screwing up big time."
"Your work is brilliant, Kelly," he says, turning to face me, his voice firm. "You capture stories in your design, make them speak without words."
My cheeks heat up, and it's not from the sun's dying rays. It is Greg—always Greg—who sees through the facade to the frightened girl scribbling on the walls, desperate to be heard.
"Maybe," I whisper, the confession feeling like a boulder lifted off my chest, "but I'm scared it'll never be enough. That I'll never be enough."
"Enough for what?" His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together instinctively, as natural as drawing breath.
"Life, love, success—the whole damn package."
"Kel," he starts, then stops, his brow furrowing. He looks like he's battling some internal war before he finally speaks again. "What if we take control back? Together."
A shiver races through me, because it's not just his words—it's the promise in them. "What do you mean?"
"Let's create something. Something that merges the chaos of my past with the beauty of your art. We can tell a story, make sense of things." His voice grows stronger, surer, as if the idea gives him a foothold in this slippery slope we're both on.
"Like a project?" The word tastes like adventure on my tongue, a shared secret that's ours alone.
"Yeah. A project." His eyes light up, and it's like I can see the gears turning in his mind. "We could start with a historical series, bring those silent heroes to life, and you—you could design the hell out of it."
"Greg," I breathe out, stunned, excited, alive. "That's...that's bloody brilliant."
"Only if you're in," he says, squeezing my hand.
"Of course, I'm in." My heart pounds with a rhythm that's all anticipation and desire—for the project, for the man who came up with it, for the future we might just carve out together. "Let's do this."
"Let's do this," he echoes, and the smile that stretches across his face is one of the purest things I've ever seen. It's a smile that speaks of hope, of dreams taking flight, and just like that, I'm soaring right alongside him.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Greg
I'm sprawled out on the bed, my muscles wound tight as a coiled spring. Eyes wide in the dark, I stare at the ceiling that's just a shade lighter than pitch black. The quiet's too loud, suffocating, filled with whispers of doubts that crawl through my mind like unwelcome intruders. I push against the sheets, restless, as fears gnaw at the edges of my consciousness—fears of closeness, of that raw vulnerability that comes with letting someone in.
"Fuck," I mutter to myself. The idea of being in a relationship, it's like dancing on a minefield. Every step could be the one that blows it all to hell. Memories, sharp and unbidden, slice through me—the weight of responsibility, the crushing loneliness, the scars that no one sees but feel like they're on display every damn second. Kelly...she deserves someone whole, not this fractured mess of a man.
A shiver runs down my spine as sleep tugs at me, dragging me down into its depths. I resist, knowing what waits for me there. But it's no use. I'm pulled under, and everything goes from murky to crystal-fucking-clear terror.
Now I'm back there, in the dust and the heat and the screams. My rifle's in my hands, heavy and real, and I'm running, always running. Smoke blurs my vision, but I can see them—my brothers-in-arms, fallen, faces contorted in pain and shock. And there's nothing I can do, nothing but fight and pray and survive.
"Greg, move your ass!" someone yells, but the voice is distant, drowned out by the ringing in my ears. Bullets zip by like deadly hornets, and my heart's slamming against my ribcage like it's trying to break free. Each breath is ragged, tearing through my throat, but there's no air, only the taste of fear and gunpowder.
"Help me..." It's a whisper, a plea, and I know that voice. I turn, but he's not there, just the ghost of a memory, eyes pleading from behind a blood-soaked bandana. No matter how fast I move, I can't reach him, can't save him. Powerless. Fucking powerless.
And then I'm falling, the ground ripped away beneath my feet, and I'm yelling, screaming until my voice is raw. But it's not enough. It's never enough.
"Kelly..." Her name rips from my throat, a lifeline in the chaos, but she's nowhere, just a dream within a nightmare. And the thought of her, waiting in the world beyond, safe and warm, it's the cruelest cut of all. Because here, in this hell, I'm alone. Utterly alone.
Panting. Drenched in sweat like I've just run a goddamn marathon. My heart's a sledgehammer against my chest, trying to burst through skin and bone. It's the dead of night, but the darkness is no sanctuary—it's a fucking prison.
"Shit," I gasp out, throwing the tangled sheets off my overheating body. I can't shake the images, the sounds. They cling to me, a second skin of terror. And Kelly...I look down at her still sleeping soundly, thank god. But fuck, I could've hurt her. The thought alone strangles me, coils of guilt tightening around my throat until I can barely breathe.
