Chapter 15 #2
I must’ve spaced out because the next thing I knew, War was peeling the popcorn bowl from my lap and setting it aside. I realized, belatedly, that my head had lolled sideways, almost onto his arm.
“Kit?” he said. “You awake?”
I blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He stared at me, eyebrows pinched like he was trying to solve a very tricky logic puzzle.
Then, without a word, he draped a worn fleece blanket over my legs, tucking it around my calves as though I might otherwise float away.
He didn’t move back to his own space. Instead, he leaned into the couch, arms crossed, and let out a breath so deep it came from deep in his chest.
His head drooped after a few minutes. I watched him while pretending to watch the TV as Netflix flipped onto the next episode.
He looked younger when he slept, the harsh lines of his jaw softening.
The old tension in his brow finally unwound.
I wondered if he ever got real sleep or if his mind was always running drills, prepping for impact.
Maybe it was the exhaustion or the wave of safety, thick and sweet, that finally knocked me under. I let my eyes close. For the first time in what felt like centuries—but was actually weeks—I drifted off with the TV playing and another person breathing beside me.
I didn’t dream at all.
I woke up to the smell of garlic. Not the distant, burnt-acrylic version you got in cafeterias or cheap takeout, but something lush and almost buttery, like the best kind of restaurant kitchen.
For a moment, I thought I was dreaming again, but then my body reminded me I’d spent the early evening half-fused to War on his couch, my arm still folded under his blanket, and my neck at a brutal angle.
The living room was empty. The only sign of life was a dying sunbeam pushing through the gap in the shades and the faint clatter of utensils somewhere behind the wall. I stretched, popping every joint in my spine, then followed the scent into the kitchen.
War was at the stove, his back to me while stirring something in a stainless steel pan.
He wore a plain white T-shirt and black sweatpants, the kind that showed off his calves, which were—objectively—outrageous.
His hair was combed back and neat. I realized with a start that this was probably the first time I’d seen him like this.
He wasn’t in a suit or blood-streaked or armored, he was home.
He must have gotten dressed while I slept, and I liked this version of him.
He’d chosen to lower his armor and let me see behind it.
He didn’t look up. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah,” I croaked. “Didn’t mean to conk out on you.”
He shrugged and brushed his fingers through his long blond crew-cut.
“You needed it.” He tipped a heap of chopped basil into the pan, then grabbed a jar of tomatoes, twisting the lid with a flick of his wrist. His hands were quick and practiced, but there was nothing frantic in the way he worked.
It was with his usual efficiency. Almost meditative.
I watched for a second, then perched on the counter near him. “Didn’t realize you were a chef.”
He snorted. “Not a chef. Just got sick of MREs overseas.”
I racked my mind for the meaning but came up short. I assumed MREs had something to do with the meals they ate while deployed. I grinned. “So, you cook gourmet now to compensate?”
He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “You ever eat an MRE?”
“What is it?” I asked, now extra curious.
He laughed, the sound threading pleasure through me. I loved it when he was happy. “Meal, ready to eat.”
“Then nope. But I did once have gas station sushi. Maybe that’s comparable?”
He shook his head, but the edge of his mouth twitched. “Not even close.” He pointed at the fridge. “Get the milk, will you?”
I fished out a carton and set it beside him.
This all felt very domestic and the idea of being here with him every day as his partner wove through my imagination.
The fantasy planted itself into my frontal cortex until I decided that yes, this is what I wanted.
He poured just a splash of milk into the sauce, then tasted it from the spoon and nodded, satisfied.
“So.” His hands worked and my mouth watered, but I couldn’t decide if it was the smell of food or him. Maybe both. “Is this the secret to your PTSD support group? Pasta therapy?”
His shoulders stiffened, but then he snorted again, softer this time. It was almost a chuckle. “Something like that. When I got back, I couldn’t handle restaurants. Too many people, too loud. So, I cooked at home instead.”
He moved to the sink and rinsed the spoon, then turned and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Eric used to say I’d open a food truck after I retired.”
I looked at him. “That what you want? To run a food truck?”
He hesitated, and I realized no one had probably ever asked him what he wanted. Not in any way that counted.
He finally said, “No. But I liked the idea of doing something ordinary.”
I tried to imagine Warrick Briggs, former SEAL and professional killer, slinging breakfast burritos to hungover office workers, and almost laughed. But I didn’t. Because the way he said “ordinary” sounded so small, like a wish he was sure would never come true.
I slid off the counter and sat at the butcher-block table, which was old and scored with knife marks.
“Are you sure you don’t want to try and talk to your mom?
” I asked. “From the pictures, you guys seemed . . . I don’t know.
Like you actually liked each other.” It was more than I could say about my mom.
She cared a lot about money and which man could give it to her.
He braced his hands on the edge of the sink, head bowed. “She tried to call after I got back. I ignored it.” He wiped his hands on a towel, more forceful than necessary. “Last time she called, I blocked her number.”
I held back a gasp of surprise. My heart ached for him.
I couldn’t even begin to understand how he felt.
The silence sucked all the heat out of the room.
I wanted to ask why, but I already knew.
He did it because he couldn’t stand the idea of letting her see him like this.
He did it to protect her, or him, or both.
He did it because he blamed himself for Eric’s death.
The textbooks called it survivor’s syndrome, but it was really remorse. Survivor’s guilt.
I swallowed hard. “If it makes you feel better, I barely talk to my mom. She’s somewhere in London with her new boyfriend. Dad probably told you. Maybe.”
He nodded, but the tension didn’t leave his shoulders.
The timer on the stove beeped. War moved to drain the pasta, and I tried not to find him cooking so hot. But it was difficult. I never expected quiet domesticity from him and I found I liked it.
He portioned out two bowls, then set them on the table along with a little tub of preshredded parmesan.
The smell was unreal. I’d never tasted anything homemade that wasn’t prepared by a restaurant or a paid cook or Colt’s husband, Quinn.
I realized, suddenly, that my hands were shaking again.
It was stupid, but I felt like I needed to say something to break the mood.
We moved to sit down, and he chose the seat closest to me, which had my heart flipping wildly. Was I lame? I didn’t give a shit. I loved having him beside me.
“So,” I said, twirling the spaghetti. “Was this afternoon the first time you watched TV with someone in here?”
He thought about it. “I don’t invite people over.”
“Not even Nitro?”
“Especially not Nitro.” He chewed and made a humming sound of approval when he swallowed.
“He’d eat the plate, then ask to crash here for a week because his latest girlfriend decided she wants something serious and he doesn’t.
Then, he’ll break up with her and move on to the next one.
He doesn’t stay with them for long. Always finds a reason to leave. ”
I snorted, nearly choking on the bite. “And you, the legendary War, can’t say no to a houseguest?”
He gave me a sideways look, and this time the smile was more obvious. “I’m not legendary.”
We ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the thump of the neighbor’s washer against the wall.
I watched the way War ate with careful bites, like he was rationing his own enjoyment.
I wondered how long would it take for him to believe he deserved a nice meal or a slow evening or a second serving?
I finished my bowl too quickly, then found myself staring at the streaks of red left on the rim, thinking about blood. About the line I’d crossed. About Francesca and the shock in her dead eyes.
I set my fork down. “I’m not sorry I killed her,” I said, all at once. “Francesca.”
War didn’t flinch. “You shouldn’t be.”
“She was going to kill Sky,” I said quietly, almost pleading. “I didn’t want to—”
“She tried to murder your brother. You did what you had to do.”
I nodded, but the weight didn’t lift. “Do you think I’m like . . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Do I think you’re like Derek?” War held my gaze, eyes flinty and clear. “No. Never.”
I tried to believe him. I did. But the thought kept crawling back. Maybe all this violence was genetic and I was built for it after all. “You sound pretty sure.”
He shrugged, but his eyes softened. “I am.”
I must’ve looked a little pathetic because he reached over and put a hand on my wrist, thumb pressing gently over my pulse. The touch was grounding, warm and solid, nothing tentative about it.
“If you were like Derek, you’d have let her kill Sky. Or you’d have used it as a chance to bargain for more power.” His mouth twisted. “You’re nothing like him.”
My vision blurred a little at the edges. I let the words sink in, the way the garlic and tomatoes had soaked into the pasta. I felt raw, stripped down to nothing, but also okay.
“Thanks,” I managed.