Prologue #2
We sat in silence. Another flash, and I could see the sweat on his neck, the veins bulging on his forearms. The next thunderclap was closer, and he flinched, every muscle bracing like he expected to be hit.
I remembered reading about PTSD, the way some sounds rewired your brain to expect the worst possible outcome.
It made sense: Macon was Rawley’s old SEAL buddy, and Rawley never exactly attracted people with boring pasts.
This was a guy who probably had more traumatic memories than I had Instagram posts.
After a while, his breathing slowed, each inhale less frantic than the last. He let his arms drop, and for a second, he looked embarrassed, like he’d been caught jerking off in the principal’s office. His eyes flicked to my face, then away.
“Didn’t mean to—” he started, then stopped, jaw clenched.
“It’s fine,” I said. “It happens.” I’d meant to sound comforting, but it came out a little too casual, like I was forgiving him for burping at the dinner table.
He wiped his forehead with the heel of his hand, then glanced at my muddy feet and the shirt clinging to my ribs. “You’re the baby brother,” he said, voice steadier but still gruff.
“Yeah,” I said. “Carter. You’re Macon.”
He nodded, then stared at the barn wall, as if the wood grain was suddenly fascinating. “Didn’t think anyone was still here,” he said.
“My family left. I just—” I shrugged. “The goats. Didn’t want them to freak out in the storm.” I realized I sounded like an idiot, or at least like a kid with a goat obsession, but I didn’t care.
Macon made a sound—a rough, surprised laugh. “You like them?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “They’re honest. Not like people.”
He snorted, then coughed, the tension in his shoulders easing. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Most people say that,” I said, and it was true.
Sometimes, I wore it like armor.
The storm outside was receding, thunder a distant echo. I shivered, not just from the cold but from the weird intimacy of sitting in the dark with a man who could probably break me in half but was currently more fragile than any of us.
Macon finally looked me in the eye. He had that alpha gaze—steady, intimidating, but right now, it was uncertain. “You should go inside,” he said. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’m okay,” I said, but I could hear my teeth chattering.
He reached for the toolbox, pulled out a horse blanket, and tossed it to me. “Here,” he grunted. “You’ll get pneumonia.”
I wrapped it around my shoulders and felt instantly warmer. “Thanks.”
He hesitated, then sat up straighter, legs outstretched and hands open on his thighs. “Sorry about… before.”
I shrugged. “Everyone loses it sometimes.”
“Not like that,” he said. His voice was softer, and I realized he was embarrassed—not just for himself, but for me having to witness it.
“I’ve seen worse,” I lied, and he almost smiled.
We sat in companionable silence, listening to the goats and the drip of rain from the eaves. After a few minutes, I felt him watching me, eyes narrowed in thought.
“Your brother ever tell you about the shit we got into?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Rawley doesn’t talk much.”
“Smart,” Macon said. He picked at the hay, voice almost a whisper. “Some things are better left buried.”
I nodded. “But sometimes, things come back anyway.”
He gave me a look—a real one this time, with a flicker of respect in it. “Yeah,” he said. “They do.”
We stayed like that, two strangers on opposite sides of a secret, until the barn felt almost safe. When the thunder finally stopped, he let out a sigh and ran his hand over his face.
“You want coffee?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He stood up, still a little unsteady, but already transforming back into the guy who could probably carry a truck bed on his back. As we made our way to the old camp stove at the end of the barn, I realized that maybe, for the first time in years, someone had actually noticed I was there.
That I was real.
It was a weird feeling, but I didn’t hate it.
I didn’t know what to expect from a man who could fold in on himself like that and then offer coffee a few minutes later, but Macon O’Reilly didn’t seem to care about how things were supposed to go.
He poured out the grounds with military precision, scooping water from a battered thermos, and set the camp stove sputtering to life like he’d done it a thousand times in worse places than this.
We sat on hay bales side by side, our backs against the splintery barn wall. I hugged the horse blanket around me, but my clothes were still damp and clung to my thighs.
The chill should have bothered me, but sitting next to Macon—still radiating heat, even after the adrenaline crash—I felt weirdly safe. The only sounds were the whirring of the little gas flame, the crackle of rain on the barn roof, and the steady, heavy breathing of the man beside me.
He handed me a chipped mug first. “Watch the handle,” he said. “Gets hot.”
I took it with both hands. “Thanks.”
We drank in silence for a while. The coffee was strong enough to peel paint, but it tasted good—maybe because it was real, or maybe just because it was here, now.
I watched his hands, fascinated by the way they moved: sure, economical, no wasted motion. They reminded me of Dad’s, if Dad’s had ever learned to build instead of destroy.
After a while, I started talking, just to fill the space. “There’s one,” I said, nodding toward the goat pen, “she head-butts the others out of the way at feeding time. Takes after my family.”
Macon grunted, a half-laugh. “You name them?”
“Mostly after celebrities. That one’s Beyoncé. The one with the limp is Ruth Bader Ginsburg.” I waited, braced for the mockery that usually followed.
Instead, Macon smirked. “The Notorious RBG. Fitting.” He sipped his coffee and watched the goats through the slats. “Never pegged you for a livestock guy.”
“Me either,” I said. “But they don’t care who your dad is, or if you’re good at sports, or if you… you know.”
He looked at me sideways. “If you what?”
“Nothing. Just—if you’re weird.” I shrugged and pretended to study my mug.
He didn’t push, just nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
The storm outside kept rolling, but the thunder was a duller, more distant kind. In here, with the propane blue and the animals dozing, the night felt stitched together with small, careful silences.
Somewhere in the middle of my second cup, I realized our shoulders were touching. Not a big deal, really, but it was the first time in months I hadn’t been flinching from contact.
Macon didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t mind.
His body heat was slow and steady, radiating through the worn canvas of his shirt. I was hyper-aware of every point where we touched: arm, knee, the line of thigh pressed against mine.
I was so used to being the observer, the invisible Steele, that I almost missed the way his posture changed. He angled toward me, shoulders squared, as if he was lining up a shot and I was the target. His eyes were dark and intent, not quite hungry but definitely something.
I swallowed, and the movement caught his attention. He inhaled, slow and deliberate, and for the first time, I saw the shift—the alpha in him, awake and alert, assessing me with a new kind of focus.
My skin prickled. Not from the cold this time.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, almost a growl.
“Yeah,” I said, though my heart was slamming against my ribs. “Just—nervous, I guess.”
Macon set his mug down on the floor and wiped his palms on his jeans. He turned fully to face me, and for a second, I thought he was going to lecture me or laugh, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned in, so close I could smell sweat and aftershave and something almost metallic underneath.
He didn’t touch me, not yet. Just waited, eyes flicking from my lips to my eyes and back again. It felt like an invitation, or a test, and I had no idea how to pass it.
There was a loud crack overhead, louder than any before, and I jumped. The mug slipped from my fingers and rolled, spilling the last of the coffee onto the packed earth.
I felt stupid, juvenile, and looked away.
But Macon didn’t laugh. He reached out, slow and careful, and put his hand on my shoulder. His grip was gentle, but the strength underneath was obvious. “You’re fine,” he said, and the words were heavy, like they meant more than they should.
The contact electrified every inch of me. I wanted to lean into him, bury my face in his chest, maybe just for a second. Instead, I stayed frozen, terrified he’d pull away if I moved.
“Is this okay?” he asked, voice even lower now, a whisper for just us.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My face must have betrayed something—fear, hope, the stupid ache of wanting to be seen—because his expression softened.
“Look at me,” he said.
I did, and the look in his eyes was nothing I’d ever seen before. It was raw, unfiltered, like he was seeing me—really seeing me—for the first time.
He slid his hand up to cup my jaw, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. “Still okay?”
“Yeah,” I breathed.
He closed the distance, mouth brushing mine. Not a kiss, not exactly. More like a claim, or maybe a promise. His beard scratched my skin, and I shuddered, surprised at how much I liked it. My lips parted, instinct more than intent, and he caught the corner of my mouth in a gentle bite.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched mine for something I didn’t have words for.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
I shook my head.
He kissed me again, this time for real. It was slow at first, exploratory, as if he was waiting for me to change my mind. I didn’t. I leaned in, let him taste the rain on my lips, the tremor in my breath.
He deepened the kiss, one hand tangling in the back of my damp shirt, the other sliding down to my hip. His fingers were rough, but the way he touched me was almost reverent.