Chapter Two #2
Dale stood at the counter, grating fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano onto a small wooden board.
The scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes filled the Ridge House suite, clinging to the air like a warm hug.
He liked cooking—it grounded him. He liked feeding people, especially the ones he cared about. Especially tonight.
He was about to call Oren over to taste the sauce when he noticed a shadow move just beyond the open door. Ty. Hovering. Unsure.
Before Dale could say anything, Oren’s voice broke through. Low. Tight. But loud enough that Dale knew Ty would hear him.
“It wasn’t just what I said to Ty,” he murmured. “It’s what was already in my head. This morning—something hit me. A memory. My dad...”
Dale stopped grating the cheese and stilled, giving him his full attention. Waiting.
Oren didn’t look up, continued to stare at the wine glass in his hand as his fingers stroked the stem.
“My father was a preacher. One of those fire-and-brimstone types. That bastard would actually physically beat me with his Bible. Told me it was to drive out the sin. Sundays, he’d preach about love and brotherhood, and by Sunday night, I’d have welts on my back.
I was a kid. I thought that was normal.”
Oren’s voice cracked, and he rubbed a hand over his face. “I thought I’d buried it. Then that asshole this morning said something that dragged up other stuff I have been apparently suppressing. At least that would be the word my therapist would use, I am sure.”
Dale stilled, knuckles white around the grater. He didn’t speak, didn’t trust his voice.
Oren didn’t notice. He was lost in it now.
“He asked me if I’d ever been waterboarded,” Oren said, a bitter laugh escaping. “Like it was some kind of joke. Just tossed it out there like it was casual fucking small talk. And it all came rushing back.”
Dale swallowed hard, finally managing to speak. “What ... what came back?”
Oren looked down at his hands. They were trembling.
“Afghanistan. Being taken. The cell. The fear. The helplessness. The things they did to me, and, yeah, the fucking waterboarding.” He paused, then added quietly, “I’ve tried not to think about it. I’ve tried to pretend I was fine.”
Dale’s heart twisted. He wanted to pull him into his arms, to tell him he never should’ve been left behind. That it was his fault. That he was sorry.
But instead, he asked, gently, “Was it ... was it because of me and Ty? The kisses? Did that bring it up, too?”
Oren sighed. “Some of it, yeah. You gotta understand—my dad used to say that homosexuality was the devil’s work.
That gay people were damned. That they were weak.
I internalized that shit. Even when I started questioning myself.
Even when I looked at Ty and thought maybe .
.. maybe I wasn’t as straight as I thought I was. It all came with guilt. With shame.”
Dale set the grater down in case he gave into the urge to throw it across the room and took a deep breath.
“But it wasn’t you two,” Oren added. “It wasn’t the kisses. Not really. It was what he said this morning. That’s what cracked it wide open. That’s what sent me spiraling.”
Dale’s jaw tensed. “What did he say, exactly?”
Oren looked up, eyes haunted. “Like I said, he asked if I’d ever been waterboarded.”
Ty strode into the room like a storm barely held in check. The moment Dale looked up and saw him, he forgot how to breathe. And from the sharp inhale Oren let out, he wasn’t the only one.
Ty wore his fury like armor, his eyes blazing, jaw locked. He was every inch the Marine again—dangerous, protective, and full of purpose. Dale recognized the emotion flashing in his gaze—loyalty, defense, and something deeper. Yeah, he could name it. Love.
“I need a name,” Ty growled, his voice laced with tightly coiled rage.
He didn’t stop walking until he was toe-to-toe with Oren, gripping the arms of his chair, spinning him to face him.
He pushed Oren’s legs apart with his knee and stepped into the space like he owned it.
He reached up, cupping Oren’s face in his calloused hands.
“Tell me, baby. Give me that bastard’s name.”
Dale watched Oren swallow, his throat working before he managed to whisper, “Why?”
Ty’s scowl deepened. “Because your dad is already dead, and I can’t do shit about what that bastard did to you, but this prick is still currently breathing, and he hurt you. And it’s my right to hunt him down, tear him apart, and shove his balls down his throat.”
Dale snorted. “Such a vivid mental image, thanks for that.”
Oren’s expression softened as he wrapped his hands around Ty’s wrists. “By that logic, I hurt you. Doesn’t that mean Dale gets to do something equally horrific to me?”
Ty’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, the weight of Oren’s earlier words seemed to crash down between them. A low growl sounded from Dale’s side of the counter, and he was surprised to find it had come from his chest.
Both men turned to Dale.
He smirked. “I was thinking something a little more creative. Like an erotic spanking. Maybe some strategic use of teeth.”
Laughter broke the tension. Oren leaned up, brushing a kiss to Ty’s lips, soft and lingering. Dale felt the pull of desire in his gut as he watched—his inner voyeur more than pleased.
Then Ty turned, reached for Dale, and pulled him into a kiss, too—just as hot, just as claiming. Dale let it happen, allowed himself to be consumed, just for that moment.
“Smells amazing in here,” Ty said as he snagged Dale’s wine glass and took a sip. He turned to Oren with a nod. “We’ll talk more about what happened today. I’ll get that bastard’s name tonight. But for now—I’m starving.”
They moved together in quiet ease, setting the table, dishing up the pasta, pouring wine. The easy rhythm of familiarity settled around them.
And for the first time in longer than Dale could remember—he felt like this could be the start of something real.
****
The dishes were done, the kitchen spotless, and the three of them had migrated to the lounge area of Dale’s suite. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering light across the room. The lights were low, the atmosphere warm and quiet, almost intimate.
Dale sat on the couch, his long frame stretched out and relaxed, one arm slung over the backrest. Ty had claimed the armchair to the side, a glass of whiskey in his hand, while Oren had sunk to the floor, his back to the fire, legs stretched out, ankles crossed.
A few bottles of beer sat open on the coffee table between them, mostly forgotten.
Dinner had been good. No—better than good.
Easy. Familiar. They’d eaten, laughed, told stories—ridiculous tales from their service days that had them all howling.
And for a while, it felt like nothing needed to be said.
Like the cracks in the foundation had been sealed with spaghetti sauce, shared glances, and stolen kisses.
But silence, even the comfortable kind, eventually opened the door to truth.
Oren cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on the wine glass in his hand. “Ty...”
Ty looked over, eyebrows raised. Oren didn’t look up, but the tightness in his shoulders told Ty everything.
“I need to say something.”
Ty gave him the space. Didn’t interrupt. Just waited.
“I’m sorry. For what I said. For how I said it.
You didn’t deserve that.” Oren’s voice was quiet, but steady.
“I was reacting to ghosts—my father’s voice, the shit he drilled into me.
But I don’t think like him. Not anymore.
I’ve spent too long trying to unlearn what he beat into me.
I don’t believe that love is wrong. I don’t believe that you’re—we’re wrong. ”
He finally looked up. “I believe people should be able to love who they want. And I want to live that way. Even if it means losing everything else. Come hell or high water. My father be damned.”
Ty’s chest tightened. He nodded slowly. “I know you didn’t mean it. But I needed to hear that. So, thank you.”
Oren finally met his gaze. There was emotion in his eyes. Gratitude. Regret. Something else.
He looked at Dale, then back at Ty. “I meant what I said earlier. I want to live free of that hate. But sometimes ... sometimes the cracks in the cement let the demons crawl through.”
Ty leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We all have cracks. You’re not alone in that.”
Oren hesitated, then asked, voice low, “What about yours? I think I inadvertently threw you into one of your traumas this morning?”
Ty exhaled through his nose. He didn’t want to tell the story. Didn’t want to live in it again. But if Oren was laying himself bare, then Ty owed him the same.
“My stepfather. He came into our lives when I was eight. At first, it was little things. Too much touching. Comments that made my skin crawl. I told my mom. She didn’t believe me.
Or didn’t want to. Either way, she didn’t stop him.
It went on until I was twelve. That’s when I started working out.
Hit the gym. Learned to fight. And the next time he tried again—I broke three of his ribs and shattered his jaw. He didn’t come near me after that.”
There was silence.
Oren’s expression was stricken. Dale looked like he wanted to murder someone.
“I don’t tell many people that,” Ty said, voice soft. “But I want you to understand I know what it’s like. To feel helpless. To be told you’re wrong, broken, dirty. And I know what it takes to come back from that.”
Oren swallowed. “Thank you. For trusting us with that.”
Dale cleared his throat, his voice rough. “Oren, there’s more to our past. All three of us. Something you need to know.”
Oren turned to him, wary but listening.
Dale met his eyes. “We’ve met before. You and Ty.
And me. It was years ago. You were hurt.
Taken. Ty was injured during that op—we pulled him out, unconscious but alive.
But Ty ... when he came to, and realized you were not there, he came after me and my team.
Begged us to go back, that he saw you move before he passed out.
He was adamant that you were alive, and at first I didn’t believe him.
No one did. He was in a wheelchair and he still fought to get to you.
And then he made me believe, too, and we went back. ”
Ty picked up the thread. “I remembered you. Even through the pain. I knew you were still out there. And Dale—once he believed, he didn’t hesitate. He got the Pathfinders together. They went back. Found you in that cell. Barely breathing. But alive.”
Oren didn’t move. His face was stone. But his knuckles were white against his knees.
Dale continued, his voice shaking. “You don’t remember, and that’s okay. But I needed you to know. I made the call to pull out. I thought you were dead. I am so sorry, love. I failed you.”
Ty watched Oren closely. Watched the tension build.
Then Oren exploded.
He shot to his feet, eyes blazing. “You thought I was dead? What happened to ‘no man left behind’? Huh? That’s what they beat into us, over and over. You left me. You left me to rot. You let them—”
His voice broke. He turned away, pacing, breathing hard.
“Do you know what they did to me in that place? What I lived through? The fear? The humiliation? Every second I thought I was going to die, and worse—I thought no one cared. That I wasn’t worth coming back for.”
Ty stood, too, reaching for him. “Oren—”
“Don’t. Just—don’t, Ty. As far as I’m concerned, Dale made his choice. He left me. And now—now he’s dead to me.”
He stormed out.
Dale made a strangled noise, half rising from the couch.
Ty grabbed his arm. “No. Let me. He’s going to run. I know him. Let me stop him before he does something stupid.”
He bolted out after Oren, heart pounding.
He found him in his room, yanking his bag from the wardrobe with shaky hands. Ty stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “You’re not leaving.”
“The hell I’m not,” Oren snapped, not turning.
“Oren—stop. Talk to me.”
“What, so you can justify it again?” he threw the bag onto the bed. “I was a fucking ghost. A burden. You moved on.”
“We never moved on,” Ty said, voice calm but firm. “You were never a burden. You were everything.”
Oren’s fists clenched. “Why didn’t you fight harder? Why didn’t you come sooner?”
“I did. I fought like hell. And Dale—he has blamed himself every damn day.”
Oren spun, eyes wild, and Ty saw the tear tracks on his cheeks.
Ty crossed the room, pulling him close. Oren resisted for a second, then crumbled.
The sobs came in waves, silent but body-wracking.
Ty held him, guiding him to the bed, gently stripping him down to his underwear.
He pulled the covers back, tucked him in, stripped to his own boxers and climbed in beside him, pulling Oren to lie against his chest.
Dale appeared a few minutes later, face lined with sorrow and grief. He said nothing, just kicked off his shoes and stripped off his jeans and shirt before sliding into bed behind Oren. His arm slipped around Oren’s waist, resting against Ty’s back.
He pressed gentle kisses to Oren’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I will earn your forgiveness if it takes me the rest of my life. If I’d known I would’ve never left. I would’ve never stopped looking.”
“Neither would I,” Ty added softly. “We stayed by your bedside for ten days. You were in a coma, and we sat there, telling stories, holding your hand. I was already in love with you back then.”
Dale’s voice was thick. “I fell for both of you. Ty—for his fierce loyalty and love. And you, Oren, through the stories Ty told. Leaving was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But seeing you again? It felt like fate giving me a second chance.” He paused, breathing in deep. “Please, give me a third.”
Oren turned his head, eyes glistening, and kissed Dale. It was soft. Trembling. But real.
“There’s no need for a third chance,” Oren whispered. “I’m sorry I lost it. I won’t let my past take this away from us.”
Ty leaned in, pressing a kiss to Oren’s lips, then to Dale’s. “Get some sleep. It’s been an emotional day. Tomorrow’s a day off. We’ll see what the morning brings.”
The three of them lay tangled together, hearts still battered but beating in time. It was a beginning.