Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
The Waiting Game
Sawyer
Isat on Lilly’s worn sofa, elbows resting on my knees, staring at a knot in the wood floor that had started to look like a bull’s-eye.
From the bathroom down the short hall came the muffled sounds of running water and the faint rustle of packaging.
Every sound carried too clearly. The slow drip from her kitchen faucet.
The low vibration of the refrigerator cycling on.
The creak of the ceiling fan turning above me.
It was too quiet—quiet in a way that pressed against my chest. I’d been here before, not in this cabin, but in that same stillness before a mission went sideways.
Counting breaths. Waiting for a signal that never came.
The body remembers; it doesn’t care that you’ve traded a rifle for a wrench and a woman’s trust. My heart thudded, slow and heavy, like it was keeping time with ghosts.
I pulled in a breath and let it out through my teeth. Monique’s voice pinged off the corners of my mind, calm and matter-of-fact: Ground yourself, Sawyer. Five things you can see.
The VA pamphlet she’d handed me months ago flashed in my mind, the one I’d folded into a glove compartment and promised I’d read later. I hadn’t. But I remembered the list.
I scanned the room.
One—the blue throw blanket Lilly kept draped over the arm of the couch.
Two—the framed photo of Sunny as a puppy.
Three—the chipped coffee mug on the table, still half full.
Four—the sunlight streaming through the curtains.
Five—the empty chair across from me, where she’d been sitting only minutes ago.
It helped, but not enough.
I leaned back and closed my eyes. This wasn’t combat. No one was going to die if I didn’t move fast enough. Still, my chest ached with that same old tension, the kind that used to make my trigger finger itch.
A test. A possible baby. A future I hadn’t planned for.
This wasn’t war, but it was life—and somehow, that terrified me more than gunfire ever had.
The bathroom door clicked open, and I looked up quickly. Lilly stepped out, pale but steady, her hair a little mussed from where she’d run her hands through it. She caught my gaze for half a second before looking away.
“It’ll take a few minutes,” she said, voice low and even, the way someone talks when they’re trying not to let the room tilt.
She crossed to the couch and sat beside me. Our fingers found each other automatically, with no thought in it—just instinct and muscle memory from too many nights where words hadn’t been necessary. Her hand was cool, smaller than mine, but the grip was firm.
I studied her profile while the seconds stretched out, the soft angle of her jaw, the curve of her neck. She looked calm on the surface, but I could feel the tremor in her palm. She was brave, stronger than she probably realized, and that only made the tightness in my chest worse.
I wanted to say something that would make it easier, but there wasn’t anything that would. I felt protective and useless all at once—two things that shouldn’t exist in the same body but always did in mine.
The silence grew heavy, filled with the ticking of the old clock on her wall and the wind brushing the eaves outside.
Then she said softly, almost like she was afraid to break the quiet, “If it’s positive, I don’t want you to feel tied down.
I can handle things, but I’d want your help with the baby. ”
The words hit like a body shot—solid, unexpected, and straight to the ribs.
I swallowed hard, forcing calm, hearing Monique’s voice in my head again: Listen for what’s underneath. Fear doesn’t always sound like fear.
I turned to her, kept my voice even. “Let’s see what it says first.”
Her chin dipped in a small nod. But the way her fingers tightened around mine told me she was already bracing for whatever came next.
The faint buzz of the timer jolted through the silence. For a heartbeat, we sat frozen on the couch. Then I stood, my pulse hammering in my ears, loud enough that it drowned out everything else. It felt like a countdown—one I couldn’t stop, one that would end in something permanent no matter what.
Lilly rose beside me, smoothing her palms over her jeans like she could wipe away nerves. We didn’t speak as we walked down the short hallway. The air felt heavier there, thick with the smell of soap and something faintly metallic from the sink.
She paused in the doorway first, her shoulder brushing mine. On the counter sat the plastic test, face down on a tissue. For a second, she just looked at it, not moving. I could hear her breathing—shallow, uneven—and the fan’s gentle breeze above us.
When she finally flipped it over, I swear the sound of the plastic hitting porcelain echoed.
Two lines. Bold. Undeniable.
Lilly exhaled, a shaky breath that came out somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Then, to my surprise, she smiled—a small, fragile thing that caught the light like glass.
I didn’t feel the same release. The world seemed to narrow until all I could register was the sound of her breathing beside me. Everything else fell away—the walls, the years of training, even the air in my lungs.
“This is…” I started, but the words caught. I cleared my throat, tried again. “This is new. And unexpected.”
Her gaze flicked up, meeting mine. “Yeah.”
She tried to hold my gaze, but I saw the flicker of uncertainty there—the look of someone waiting for rejection, for the man beside her to bolt.
I wanted to tell her I wasn’t going anywhere, but my mouth wouldn’t move. My pulse still hadn’t slowed.
She set the test down carefully and stepped back, her hands trembling just enough for me to notice. I reached for the counter to steady myself, pressing my palm flat against the cool surface. The tile edge bit into my skin, grounding me.
I’d faced chaos before. Fire, loss, noise. But this—this quiet moment in a small bathroom with two pink lines staring back at me—felt more life-altering than anything that had ever come before.
I reached for her hand before I could talk myself out of it. “I want to be here—for you, for this baby,” I said quietly. “But I need to talk to Monique first.”
Her brows drew together, confusion morphing across her face. “Your counselor?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, feeling the word stick in my throat. “She runs the VA therapy group. I’ve got work to do before I can promise anything.”
The admission burned on the way out, but it was the truth.
A memory flashed—Monique leaning forward in her office, voice steady but not unkind. ‘You can’t build a future from unhealed ground, Sawyer. It doesn’t hold.’
I’d brushed her off then. I couldn’t right now.
“I want to be the man you deserve,” I said, meeting Lilly’s eyes. “But right now, I need help figuring out how.”
Her breath caught, and for a second, I thought she might cry. But Lilly, being Lilly, didn’t. She just nodded, eyes bright and shining in the dim light. “Then do that,” she whispered. “Just… don’t disappear.”
The words sounded more grounded than I expected. She wasn’t asking for everything—just not to be left behind without a word.
I tightened my grip on her hand for a moment, memorizing the warmth in her fingers. Then, slowly, I brushed my thumb across her knuckles.
“I won’t,” I said. And even though I meant it, I knew that stepping back—getting my head right—was the only way I’d ever be able to come back to her for real.
When I finally let go, her hand felt colder than before.
Sunny padded to the door as I stepped out, tail hanging low, eyes tracking me like she knew something was off. She didn’t wag this time—just sat there, ears tilted, the picture of quiet worry.
I turned back once. Lilly stood in the hallway, and the light behind her made a halo around her head. She was holding the test again like proof of something neither of us knew how to name yet.
“I’ll call you later,” I muttered. “As soon as I make the appointment with Monique, I’ll let you know.”
She nodded, a small, tired smile flickering across her face. “Okay.”
For a beat, neither of us said anything else. The air between us felt like that thin line you cross when you’re leaving base—one step and there’s no turning back.
Sunny gave a soft whine, and I reached down to scratch behind her ears. “Look after her for me, huh?” I murmured.
Then I straightened, shoved my hands into my pockets, and forced myself down the steps. The midday sun hit me full in the face, so bright it made my eyes water.
This isn’t a retreat, I told myself. It’s regrouping.
Still, by the time I reached the truck, my chest was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack open. I wasn’t sure if it was fear, hope, or both—but for the first time in a long time, it felt like something worth fighting for.