11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
T he week passed in a blur of movement, noise, and exhaustion.
Hayley barely slept after Jesse left. The sheets still smelled like him, warm and faintly salty, like sweat and soap and something deeper—something that reminded her of his skin, his hands, his breath against her neck. She had curled into the pillow, clutching it like an idiot, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.
By the time she boarded the flight to New Zealand, she was running on fumes. The others were hyped—Caiden especially, bouncing in his seat, flashing grins at the cameras filming their departure. The label had arranged everything: first-class seats, in-flight interviews, carefully curated social media moments. Hayley answered questions, smiled when she was supposed to, let Caiden crack jokes and throw an arm around her shoulders.
But when she sat back, earphones in, watching the clouds roll beneath them, she let herself drift into the strange, suspended limbo of distance.
Jesse was gone.
Not just gone—completely unreachable.
It was a familiar ache, one she had felt before.
One she had promised herself she’d never feel again.
She pressed her forehead against the cool window, watching the sky turn from dusk to black. Somewhere over the Pacific, she finally let sleep take her.
The moment they landed in Auckland, it was chaos.
A wall of cameras at the airport, fans waiting behind barriers, waving signs, screaming their names. Hayley adjusted her sunglasses, tucking her hair beneath the hood of her sweatshirt, but there was no hiding. Not when Caiden was basking in the attention, tugging her into the spotlight with him.
“Give ‘em something, Fox,” he said, voice low and teasing as he slung an arm over her shoulders, pulling her into the perfect shot.
The crowd exploded.
Flashes went off. Shouts rose.
She smiled for the cameras, gave them what they wanted, let Caiden’s hand linger at her hip longer than it should have. This was part of it. The tour. The image. The momentum.
But as they were whisked into waiting cars, as the city lights blurred past the windows, she felt something sharp and bitter coil beneath her ribs.
The last time she had been in a car like this, on the way to something massive, Jesse had been sitting beside her. His hand had been on her thigh, his thumb stroking lazily over her skin, his voice low and teasing in her ear.
Now, there was only Caiden.
And she was so fucking tired.
The rehearsals were brutal.
Twelve-hour days locked in a warehouse space, fine-tuning every sound, every transition. The crew adjusted stage layouts, light cues, backup tracks. Hayley’s voice was raw by the end of the second day, her fingers cramping from clutching the mic.
“Breathe, Fox,” Billy told her between takes, tossing her a bottle of water. “You sound tight.”
Hayley took a sip, rolled out her shoulders. He was right. She felt coiled, wound too tight, like she was fighting something she couldn’t shake.
Jesse had always known how to fix that.
How to unravel her. How to make her forget everything except the feel of his hands and the sound of his voice telling her exactly what to do.
She exhaled sharply. No.
Not now. Not when she had to be on.
She shook out her limbs, adjusted the mic, and threw herself back into the music.
The press tour was worse.
Bright lights. Studio sets. A dozen versions of the same goddamn questions.
“Dead Run Riot is blowing up right now. How does it feel to be opening for Linkin Park?”
“People love the chemistry between you and Caiden—are you two dating?”
Smile. Laugh. Say nothing.
Caiden was a fucking natural. He played the game, leaned into the narrative, flirted in a way that made it impossible to tell if he meant it.
And Hayley let him.
She let the label shape her into the perfect rockstar girlfriend.
Let the media push the story they wanted to tell.
Let the entire world believe that Caiden was the one she’d been writing love songs about.
But at night, when she collapsed into bed, her voice hoarse from interviews, her limbs aching from rehearsals, she stared at the ceiling and waited for her phone to light up.
It never did.
No messages. No missed calls.
Nothing.
Of course there was nothing.
She knew his job. Knew how it worked. He had said he’d find a way.
But what if he didn’t?
What if this—this silence, this aching space between them—was all that they could ever be? All they ever were?
She turned on her side, curled her knees to her chest, and clenched Jesse’s apartment key in her fist.
The next morning, they moved into the stadium.
It was massive. Overwhelming. A skeleton of steel and rigging, LED screens blinking to life, sound checks echoing through empty seats.
Tomorrow, it would be packed with thousands.
Tomorrow, their career would change.
Hayley should have felt thrill. Adrenaline. Excitement.
Instead, she felt hollow.
She ran through final sound checks, let the energy of the band pull her forward, let herself get swept up in the movement of it all.
But when she stood at the edge of the stage, looking out at the empty arena, feeling the anticipation crackling in the air, she felt something else entirely.
Jesse had never seen her like this.
Not here. Not at this level.
And tomorrow, he wouldn’t be watching.
She took a slow breath, rolled out her shoulders, pushed the thought away.
Tomorrow was the biggest night of her career.
But Jesse Navarro was a ghost in her heart.
* * * * *
Friday. The stadium vibrated with energy.
Hours of prep had built to this moment—soundchecks, light tests, last-minute adjustments to the setlist. The crew had been running like a well-oiled machine, radioing back and forth, fixing minor glitches, swapping gear. They’d done a final rehearsal early in the afternoon, tightening transitions, locking in cues.
Now, it was go time.
The air backstage was thick with adrenaline.
Everywhere Hayley looked, people were moving—bandmates stretching, crew members giving final nods, stagehands double-checking everything. The countdown was on, minutes ticking away before they stepped out under the burning white-hot lights.
Hayley could feel the bass thudding in her chest, the steady pulse of the crowd beyond the curtain. The roar had been a constant all evening, a living, breathing thing—tens of thousands of voices rising as one. The kind of electric atmosphere that artists lived for.
She was in it. The moment. Her moment.
But her nerves were hitting hard.
She flexed her fingers, shaking them out, rolling her shoulders to release some of the tension. This wasn’t her first big show. She’d played countless stages, sung her heart out in packed bars, festival slots, underground clubs.
But this?
This was different.
Auckland. The first night of the tour. Opening for Linkin Park.
This was everything they had worked for.
A ripple of movement caught her eye, and she turned to see Emily Armstrong—Linkin Park’s new frontwoman—striding toward her.
Emily was a fucking force. A powerhouse on stage, her vocals raw and full of fire. Offstage, she was effortless. Easy. No rockstar bullshit, no ego. Just pure talent and energy.
“Fox,” Emily grinned, stopping beside her. “You ready to kill it?”
Hayley exhaled, trying to match her confidence. “Trying to keep my breakfast down first.”
Emily laughed, bumping her fist. “That’s how you know it’s gonna be good.”
Hayley smirked, but before she could reply, Emily tilted her head.
“You ever think about doing a collab?”
Hayley blinked. “With you?”
Emily gave her a look. “Obviously. You got a fucking killer voice, Fox.”
Something warm rushed through her chest.
Hayley admired the hell out of Emily. Had looked up to her when Dead Sara was still grinding, making waves in the alt-rock scene. And now she was standing here, saying they should make music together.
That meant everything.
“That…” Hayley exhaled, finding her grin. “That would be insane.”
Emily flashed her teeth. “Let’s make it happen. Now go give ‘em hell.”
And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into the chaos of the night.
Hayley let out a breath, pressing a hand to her stomach.
Ten minutes.
Fuck.
The nerves twisted again. She stepped away from the crowd, searching for a second of quiet, trying to ground herself before walking out onto the biggest stage of her life.
A hand appeared in front of her. A shot glass.
Tequila.
Hayley looked up to see Caiden watching her, his expression casual, unreadable.
“One last shot before we make history?” he offered.
She hesitated.
The smell hit her first—sharp, acidic, the familiar burn of bad decisions.
She hadn’t had a drink since—
Her phone buzzed.
Hayley blinked, torn from the moment.
She glanced down, pulling it from her pocket. An unknown number.
Hayley, this is Jesse’s friend. Heath. I talked to him. He can’t call. But he wanted me to tell you—
She swallowed, her breath catching as she read the next words.
“Go own that stage, Rockstar. No one does it like you.”
Her chest tightened.
For a moment, everything else fell away.
The noise, the lights, the nerves.
Jesse.
He thought about her.
Even from wherever the hell he was in the world, he still thought about her.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Fox?”
She opened them. Caiden was still standing there, still holding the tequila, waiting.
Her fingers curled around her phone.
She met his gaze.
Then, slowly, she shook her head. “Not tonight.”
She handed the glass back and marched toward the stage.
* * * * *
The next day, the thick, humid air of Brisbane, Australia, clung to Hayley’s skin as she stepped out of the car and onto the pavement outside The Triffid, the legendary rock venue nestled in the heart of Newstead. The old WWII aircraft hangar-turned-music-club loomed in front of her, the steel bones of the structure giving it an industrial feel, softened by the warm yellow glow of the venue lights.
It smelled like city life—rain-soaked concrete, car exhaust, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. But beneath it all, she could already pick up the scent of spilled beer and warm wood, the telltale markers of a place that had seen thousands of nights like the one she was about to have.
Excitement bubbled beneath her ribs, pushing away the last remnants of jet lag. Brisbane had a different energy than Auckland—it was hotter, heavier, louder. The festival show tomorrow would be massive, but tonight, tonight was for the die-hard fans. The ones who had been with them since their first EP. The ones who knew every lyric by heart.
“Hell yeah, Triffid, baby,” Kilgor grinned as he stretched his arms behind his head, taking in the building like he was about to conquer it. “I love this place. Feels like home.”
Billy gave a small nod beside him. “Solid venue.”
Caiden, standing just behind her, slung an arm lazily over her shoulder. “You feeling good, Fox?”
She glanced up at him, adjusting the strap of her guitar case slung over her back. “Yeah. I think I am.”
And she wasn’t lying.
For the first time in a long time, she actually felt good. Present. Clear-headed.
A new city. A new show. A new chapter.
Just music.
Tonight was going to be good.
The band left their gear with the crew and headed to Triple M Brisbane Studio. The radio station was just down the road, housed in a sleek, glass-paneled building that buzzed with industry types moving in and out. They were ushered into a small, soundproofed studio, a neon Triple M sign glowing against the exposed brick walls. The place smelled of stale coffee and worn leather, the scent of years of rock musicians passing through.
Hayley settled into her chair, adjusting the headphones over her ears, the mic standing inches from her lips. Across from her, Caiden and Billy did the same while Kilgor drummed lightly on his knee, always restless.
The host, a gruff-looking Aussie with salt-and-pepper hair and a Midnight Oil t-shirt, grinned at them from behind the console. “Alright, legends, we’ve got Dead Run Riot in the studio tonight. Hayley, Caiden, Billy, Kilgor—welcome to The Friday Rock Show.”
“Happy to be here,” Hayley said, smiling as she leaned into the mic.
The next thirty minutes flew by in a blur of easy banter, talking about their tour so far, the madness of playing in New Zealand, and the Soundwave run ahead of them. The host cracked jokes, spun one of their tracks, and then—of course—steered the conversation toward Hayley and Caiden.
“So,” he smirked, tapping his fingers against the desk, “you two have been stirring up quite the rumors, huh?”
Hayley barely had time to react before Caiden let out a low chuckle beside her. “Oh, mate, the media loves a good story.”
She forced a small laugh, brushing off the comment, but the host wasn’t done. “Come on, Fox, tell us—any truth to it?”
She leaned back, playing it cool. “I’m married to the music, mate.”
Caiden grinned, shooting her a sideways glance. “Safe answer.”
The host let out a laugh, then segued into an acoustic session. Hayley was grateful for the shift, focusing on her guitar instead of the questions that still lingered in the air.
They played a stripped-down version of Let It Burn, the rawness of the acoustic set bringing the lyrics to life in a different way. When they finished, the host gave them a nod of approval. “Bloody hell. That was sick.”
They wrapped up soon after, taking a few photos, signing a guitar in the station’s hallway before piling back into the car.
By the time they got back to The Triffid, the place was already packed.
The heat inside was stifling, sweat sticking to her skin as she adjusted the strap of her guitar. The crowd was buzzing, the energy high, bodies pressed together in the intimate space, beer sloshing in plastic cups as people jostled toward the stage.
The greenroom was tucked behind the stage, a low-lit space with mismatched couches, a stocked fridge, and a table littered with beer bottles and half-eaten snacks.
Caiden flopped onto one of the couches, grabbing a beer from the table and tossing one to Kilgor. He turned to Hayley, holding another out to her. “Here, Fox.”
She hesitated.
Not because she was struggling.
But because this was the moment.
The moment they’d all notice.
She shook her head, waving him off with a smile. “Nah, I’m good.”
Caiden’s brows lifted slightly. “Really?”
She nodded. “Just… trying to keep my voice clear.”
Kilgor snorted. “Smart. Booze wrecks your vocals.”
Billy lifted his own beer. “More for us, then.”
But Caiden kept looking at her. Studying her.
Then, slowly, he nodded. “That’s good. Proud of you.”
The words landed heavier than she expected.
Proud of her.
Like he thought this was some fresh start.
And in a way, maybe it was.
Hayley swallowed, nodding once before standing. “I’m gonna go warm up.”
She stepped out before he could ask anything else, the weight of his gaze still lingering on her back.
And then it was showtime. The lights dimmed. The crowd roared.
Hayley stepped onto the stage, guitar slung across her body, her heart pounding in time with the beat Kilgor tapped out behind her.
She gripped the mic, exhaling slow.
Then—she sang.
Loud. Raw. Powerful.
For the first time in a long time, she felt completely like herself.
* * * * *
The next night came too fast—the opener of the Soundwave festival. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wall of sound crashing into Hayley as she stepped onto the massive outdoor stage at the Brisbane Showgrounds. The heat was suffocating—humid, sticky, the kind of summer air that clung to her skin and made every breath thick. Thousands of bodies packed into the festival grounds, a sea of hands raised high, faces lit by the blinding stage lights.
This was it.
The first Soundwave show.
The biggest crowd they had ever played for.
The kind of moment she had dreamed about her whole damn life.
Caiden was beside her, his guitar strap slung low, tattoos gleaming under the white-hot lights. He smirked at her as he ran a hand through his messy black hair, sweat already starting to bead at his temples.
“Ready, Fox?” he said just for her, just close enough that his voice brushed against her ear.
The crowd was chanting their name. The bass from the speakers rattled through her chest. Kilgor was already pounding the first kick drum, and Billy plucked out the opening bass notes, the heavy reverb filling the air.
She turned to Caiden, breathless with adrenaline. “Let’s fucking do this.”
Then—boom.
The lights exploded. The sound crashed.
And Dead Run Riot tore into their first song.
The energy was electric, raw, something bigger than her, bigger than them. Hayley gripped the mic, throwing her whole body into the music, her voice soaring over the crowd, powerful and relentless.
She wasn’t just singing—she was commanding.
The crowd fed off it, surging forward, arms in the air, screaming every lyric back at her like a war cry.
And Caiden—fuck—Caiden was right there, feeding off her energy, pushing her, teasing her.
They had always been good on stage together, but tonight was different. Tonight, it felt like a goddamn firestorm.
Every movement was seamless—her voice pushing against his guitar, his riffs pushing her vocals higher, sharper. At one point, he stepped close, real close, their bodies almost touching, their sweat mixing as he leaned in to harmonize against her mic.
It was intimate, intense.
And the crowd ate it up.
“Brisbane, make some fucking noise!” Caiden shouted between songs, and the crowd erupted. He turned to her with a wild grin, his green eyes dancing. “You good, Fox?”
She laughed breathlessly, pushing damp strands of auburn hair from her face. “Fucking great.”
Then came the moment.
The song that everyone knew. The one that had made them famous.
The first notes hit, and the audience lost their minds.
Caiden prowled over to her, their guitars slung behind their backs as they leaned into the same mic, their bodies inches apart, her voice mixing with his, singing into the same space. Their energy was feral, all fire and tension, and it looked like a goddamn love story unfolding in real time.
Caiden was that Irish bad boy that everyone loved. His talent. Presence. Accent.
Hayley could already see the headlines.
Could already hear the whispers.
Are they? Aren’t they? What if?
The press had been speculating for months, and this? This would only make it worse.
Because even she could feel it.
The almost.
The question in the air.
Then, as the last chorus hit, Caiden reached out, sliding his fingers along the back of her neck, his forehead pressing against hers for the briefest moment, both of them breathless, sweat-drenched, lost in the music, in the moment.
The crowd fucking lost it.
And Hayley—Hayley knew exactly what they were thinking.
Are they?
Won’t they?
Is this real?
She pulled back first, turning her face away, breaking the spell.
The song ended.
The stage lights cut to black.
The crowd screamed.
And as they walked off stage, heart still racing, lungs burning, Caiden slung an arm around her shoulders and grinned, low and smug.
“They fucking love us.”
Hayley swallowed hard, her chest still rising and falling with the high.
Yeah.
They fucking did.
* * * * *
Sydney, Australia. Felt like a dream, the kind that pressed heavy against her skin, thick with expectation, with noise, with lights too bright to escape. Hayley moved through it like she was weightless, carried on the momentum of the band, the shows, the endless cycle of press, rehearsals, and screaming crowds.
Monday morning, she was sitting on a worn leather stool in the Triple J studios, a guitar balanced on her thigh, Caiden beside her, close enough that their knees knocked together as they ran through their acoustic set.
The air in the studio was warm, filled with the scent of coffee and static, the quiet hum of people moving behind the glass, producers signaling to keep rolling, keep going, keep feeding the machine. Hayley smiled, spoke when she was supposed to, let her fingers slide over the frets in muscle memory as they played stripped-down versions of their biggest tracks.
And when Caiden reached for her hand during the interview, lacing their fingers together as the host gushed about their “undeniable on-stage chemistry,” she didn’t pull away.
She couldn’t.
She had learned how to play this game a long time ago. Smile when expected, lean in when necessary, never say too much, never give away what’s real.
Her skin prickled under the heat of his touch, and she wondered if it was from the way the host leaned in eagerly, feeding off the tension, or if it was something else entirely.
Twelve days.
Twelve days since she’d been with Jesse.
Twelve days since she’d seen his face, heard his voice, been underneath him.
And now she was late.
She kept waiting. Kept counting. Every morning, her stomach coiled with dread as she checked. Nothing.
Not yet.
She told herself it was the stress. The travel, the exhaustion, the endless late nights, early mornings. But it didn’t help the knot in her gut.
Tuesday came fast. Sydney Olympic Park was massive, the biggest venue they’d played yet, a sea of faces stretching endlessly before her, cameras flashing, industry reps watching.
She should have felt exhilarated. Should have soaked in the moment, let it pulse through her veins, fuel her the way it always had.
Instead, she felt off-balance.
She killed the performance anyway. She had to.
Caiden was magnetic beside her, feeding off the electricity, giving the crowd exactly what they wanted. Every glance, every shared lyric, every moment they moved together had them screaming louder, believing the fantasy the media had been painting for months.
Hayley let them believe it.
It was easier than the truth.
That night, she lay awake in the dark hotel room, staring at the ceiling, hands pressed against her stomach, willing her body to reset, to let her exhale.
Nothing.
Wednesday dragged her through press circuits, Music Feeds, The Music Network, interviewers who wanted to know how it felt to be Australia’s new favorite band.
And she smiled. Answered the questions. Laughed when Caiden made jokes about how they were the next big rock and roll power couple.
Her stomach twisted.
By the time night fell, she was exhausted, her body screaming for rest, her nerves stretched too thin.
The Rolling Stone party was loud, a haze of bodies and flashing lights, music pumping through the speakers so hard she could feel it in her ribs.
Caiden had his hand on her back, guiding her through the crowd, his energy wired, hyped from the day, from the industry attention, from the sheer weight of being exactly where he wanted to be.
Hayley didn’t feel the same.
She felt suffocated.
When he pulled her onto the dance floor, she let him, moving to the music, letting the rhythm take her, trying to push away the exhaustion, the ache behind her eyes.
Then he leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear, his fingers sliding lower on her waist.
Just like at Holding Co.
Her breath caught, and for a split second, she was back there—Jesse disappearing into the night, tequila burning down her throat, Caiden’s hands on her, her own desperation clawing at her skin, looking for anything to numb the ache.
She turned away.
“I’m not feeling great,” she said, pressing a hand to her temple, feigning dizziness.
Caiden pulled back, studying her. “You okay?”
She nodded, forcing a weak smile. “Just tired. I think I’m gonna call it early.”
He hesitated, eyes searching hers, and for a second, she thought he might press the issue.
But then he sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, stepping back. “Alright. Get some rest, Fox.”
She didn’t need to be told twice.
She slipped out of the party, the cool Sydney air hitting her like a slap as she hailed a cab, climbing inside and sinking against the seat.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, exhaling slowly.
Tomorrow.
It would come tomorrow.
It had to.
* * * * *
Melbourne was a blur of movement, cameras flashing, microphones shoved in her face, the constant hum of voices asking the same questions over and over again. The festival crowd at Flemington Racecourse had been electric, a wave of bodies pulsing, screaming the lyrics back at them. The energy should have left her high, floating, adrenaline coursing through her veins like a drug.
This was the dream. This was what she had worked for, fought for. And yet—
She felt like she was burning out.
Her smile stayed in place, her voice steady, answering every question during the Triple R FM interview with practiced ease. The band was riding the high of their success, every show bigger than the last, every headline louder, every door opening just a little wider.
Friday morning was no better. The sun was sharp over Melbourne, heating the pavement as they hit Hosier Lane for a photoshoot, the vibrant graffiti backdrop contrasting with how goddamn exhausted she felt.
Caiden was in his element, laughing, throwing an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into shot after shot, charming the camera with ease. Hayley played along, flicking her hair, giving them the smirk they wanted, the edge they craved.
“Hey, girl—you good to go?” Zoe said in between shots, eyes sharp.
“For sure.” Hayley nodded, too quick, adjusting the hem of her leather jacket. “Just running on fumes.”
It wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t the whole truth either.
The Side Show that night at the Corner Hotel was packed, sweaty, intimate in the best way. She let the music take over, let the stage lights blind her, let the weight in her chest push down deep where she couldn’t feel it.
And Caiden was there, always there, pulling her close, gripping her hand in the middle of a song, playing into the chemistry that had everyone guessing. He never missed an opportunity.
It was no longer just mildly annoying—it was starting to feel sick and twisted. Like, if he got enough of the fans on his side, she’d cave and fuck him.
By Saturday in Adelaide, she was running on autopilot, moving from the festival stage to the SAFM interview to the Side Show at Lion Arts Factory without pause, without breath.
She could feel herself slipping.
Slipping into exhaustion.
Slipping into something heavier.
Slipping into the realization that she was a full week late.
Sunday’s flight to Perth was long, the longest of the tour, and she spent the entire four hours staring at the seat in front of her, her stomach in knots.
She needed to take a test.
She had to know.
But even as the thought solidified in her mind, her phone buzzed in her lap. Another press appearance. Another interview. Another expectation.
No days off. No time to think. Just keep moving, keep showing up, keep giving them what they wanted.
And Caiden?
He wasn’t slowing down.
If anything, he was pushing harder.
And she was starting to wonder if he cared more about the momentum, the fame, the image—than he did about her.
Because he hadn’t noticed she was withdrawing from everything and everyone.
Hadn’t noticed she barely ate.
Hadn’t noticed that she was unraveling and her smile was a curated mask.
And now, here she was, in Perth, staring at her reflection in a hotel bathroom mirror, knowing that the second she took that test, everything would change.
* * * * *
Jesse lay flat on his cot, boots kicked off, sweat sticking the thin fabric of his shirt to his back. The tarp overhead sagged with rain from earlier, heavy and drooping, casting everything beneath it in a thick, green-tinted gloom. The air clung to him like a second skin—humid, heavy, impossible to escape.
He hadn’t been dry in weeks.
The jungle never slept. Not here. Not in this godforsaken corner of the Maluku Islands.
Even now, deep into the night, it breathed around him—low hums, chirps, distant rustling in the underbrush. The soundscape was endless. Alive. There were no edges, no walls, nothing to ground him except the cot beneath his body and the ache in his bones.
He’d stopped noticing the smell—mud, rot, sweat, smoke. The stink of survival. It was in his skin now, soaked into every inch of him, the same way fatigue had crept into his muscles and refused to leave.
He turned his head slightly, caught the faint green shimmer of night-vision lenses across the camp. That was Dom, scanning the treeline in silence, the laser sight on his rifle glinting faintly in the dark. A little closer, Isaac sat hunched over a tablet, whispering back and forth with Colson, who was probably coordinating their next movement with command. Somewhere near the med supplies, Heath was still up—probably organizing the inventory again, methodical as ever.
Jesse closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing.
It didn’t help.
His ribs throbbed—low and constant—still healing from a blade he hadn’t seen coming. Three days of hard movement through thick jungle had pulled at the half-mended tissue, making every breath feel like a punishment. But he hadn’t said a word. Wouldn’t. Heath knew. Jesse had seen the look. But the medic had kept quiet, just handed him a fresh wrap and a painkiller packet without asking questions.
It had been nearly three weeks since they hit the ground.
Three weeks of shit food, bad sleep, and missions with no backup, no exit plan. Just a target and a direction and the constant hum of “don’t fuck this up” in the back of his skull.
They’d staged off the Carl Vinson for the first week, crammed together with the other teams, waiting on green light. Jesse remembered that stretch—antsy, repetitive. A holding pattern.
And then… her.
Hayley Fox, smiling like sin on the cover of some glossy alt-rock magazine. Hand in hand with Caiden Galway.
He hadn’t even been looking for it. One of the younger guys had pulled up the spread while waiting for gear calibration. Just scrolling. Bullshit content. Headlines blaring about “The Future of Punk Royalty” and “Dead Run Riot’s New Power Couple.”
He’d barely looked at the photo.
Didn’t need to.
He could still see her. Could feel the way her body had curled into his, the heat of her skin, the way she’d kissed him like she meant it. Like she still meant it.
Twelve days.
Twelve goddamn days since she’d been in his bed, in his arms, whispering his name like a promise.
Twelve days of silence.
He hadn’t reached out. Hadn’t expected her to. That was the deal. This life—his life—didn’t come with guarantees. The minute they stepped onto foreign soil, time froze. The world kept turning, but for guys like Jesse, it just… stopped.
And maybe that was the point.
Maybe he’d always known she wouldn’t wait.
Still—seeing that photo? It had hollowed him out. Left something sharp in its place. A bone-deep ache. An emptiness that no jungle, no mission, no distraction could touch.
He rolled onto his side, wincing as the motion pulled at his ribs, the cot creaking beneath him. The canvas was damp. Everything was damp. Sweat. Rain. The earth itself.
His hand curled into a fist, pressing against the stiff edge of his pillow.
He wasn’t built for her world.
He could admit that now. The tours. The cameras. The spotlight. People like Caiden fit there—charismatic, flashy, always saying the right things. Jesse didn’t have the words. He had hands. A body that knew how to fight. A heart that had never quite learned how to stop bleeding.
People back home thought SEAL life was all glory. Headlines and flag salutes.
They didn’t see this part.
The part where you slept next to your rifle. Where your uniform never dried. Where you watched a man bleed out because medevac was too far, and the comms were jammed. Where every connection back home grew thinner, frayed by silence and time until all you had left were ghosts.
He missed her.
God, he missed her.
Missed the way she used to talk to him like he wasn’t broken. Like she saw him. Like maybe he could be more than this—more than just another grunt in another warzone.
Footsteps crunched near the edge of camp.
Heath’s voice, low but close. “You good?”
Jesse didn’t look up. “Yeah.”
The medic didn’t press. Just stood there a second, then drifted off, metal tools clinking faintly behind him.
Jesse exhaled and stared into the dark.
Morning would come soon. Another op. Another radio silence. Another reason to keep moving. That’s what they did—moved forward. Didn’t matter what you left behind.
Still, he reached out for his pack, unzipped the side pocket, and pulled out the one thing he shouldn’t have brought—a creased Polaroid, the corners worn soft from handling.
Hayley. In his hoodie. No makeup. Eyes crinkled from laughing.
He stared at it, jaw tight.
Then folded it and tucked it back away.
His voice was nothing but a whisper.
“Goodnight, Hayley.”
Wherever the hell she was.