Page 32 of Saved By the Ex-Military Sheriff

He disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a warm washcloth. He cleans me gently, the touch intimate and caring, and I'm too exhausted to be embarrassed.

When he's done, he tosses the cloth toward the bathroom and climbs back into bed, pulling me against his chest.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I don't think I can walk."

He laughs. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. That was..." I don't have words for what that was.

"Yeah."

We lie there tangled together, the afternoon light shifting across the room. My whole body feels like jelly. There's sweat cooling on my skin, and I'm pretty sure I can't move even if I wanted to.

"I need to tell you something," I say after a while.

"What?"

"That was the first time I've ever come during actual sex. Like, multiple times. Like, at all."

He goes very still. "What?"

"Trevor never... I mean, he tried sometimes, but it never happened. I always thought it was me. That I was broken or couldn't do it or something."

"You're not broken." His voice is fierce. "He just wasn't paying attention."

"Or you're just really good at this."

"Definitely both."

That makes me laugh, which makes me feel how sore I am, which makes me laugh more. We lie there for a while longer, and I'm tracing the tattoo on his arm with one finger, following the lines of the flag, the silhouette of the soldier.

"These numbers," I say, touching the coordinates. "What are they?"

He's quiet for long enough that I think he might not answer. Then he says, "Coordinates. Helmand Province and Kandahar. Where I lost people."

"Why coordinates instead of names?"

"Because names would be too specific. I'd see them every day and remember exactly who I lost. But coordinates..." He pauses. "They're abstract enough that I can carry them without carrying all the weight all the time."

I press a kiss to his shoulder, right above the tattoo. "Thank you for telling me."

"Thank you for asking."

I prop myself up on my elbow so I can look at him properly. His hair is a mess, there are red marks on his neck and shoulders from my mouth and nails, and he looks thoroughly satisfied.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing. Just looking at you."

"Fair's fair. I've been looking at you for two days straight."

I trace a line down his chest with my finger. "Can I tell you something?"

"Anything."

"I'm happier right now than I've been in a really long time. Maybe ever."