25. Hailey
Hailey
I don't know how long I sleep or what wakes me. I do know that when I open my eyes, it's fully dark outside, the moon glowing low on the horizon. Lennon is sitting at the foot of the bed, fully dressed. Interesting.
Despite the sheer exhaustion we all collapsed under, he’s somehow managed to get out of bed, get dressed, and sit there without waking me.
I wouldn't even be awake now if something deep inside me hadn't stirred—a kind of internal alarm, warning me he was about to go, and I wasn't ready for him to leave without saying goodbye.
I watch him in the moonlight. He's so still. Too still. His face is carefully blank, unreadable, and that's what sends my anxiety skittering. Oh God—did he hate it? Does he hate me now? Is he judging me? Regretting everything?
But then he smiles.
It's small. Gentle. Real. And all those panicked thoughts unravel.
He leans down, brushing a kiss over my forehead, then my lips.
His eyes meet mine—and in that moment, everything is said without a single word.
I see confusion there. Affection. Gratitude.
A glimmer of something that might even be hope.
I try to return the look, try to tell him without speaking: I feel it too. Whatever this is, I felt it.
He presses his forehead to mine for a moment… and then he's gone.
I let out a breath.
I don't know what this all means—what any of us are supposed to do now.
I do know I've had the most incredible sex of my life.
Mind-blowing, soul-shaking, orbit-altering sex that launched me into another stratosphere.
I don't know if I'll ever be able to have sex like that with anyone else…
and I'm not sure I want to try. Not when I'm still here.
Not when it's right there for the taking.
Which means… what, exactly?
Well, for starters, it means I'm done pretending I can stay away from Reed.
Not that I was doing a stellar job of it anyway.
We're obviously into each other. We're adults.
There's no rule saying we can't enjoy ourselves. Have a little fun. Reed even mentioned they’d done it before.
I'll… explain it to Dean. Somehow. And ignore the crushing awkwardness of telling my boss that I'm sleeping with both his friends. Plural.
God, who even am I right now?
This whole situation is a disaster zone—the kind I should be running from. If I had any brain cells left, I would be running. But unfortunately, they were all thoroughly fucked out of me by two magnificent, insatiable cowboys… and now all I can think about is how to make sure it happens again.
I lie back, letting the mattress cradle me. The room still smells like sex. Sweat. Skin. Heat. It's dangerously arousing. I roll onto my side and spot Reed lying next to me, softly snoring, completely relaxed. He looks boyish in sleep. Adorable.
And yeah… I'm in trouble.
In a flash, the peace is gone.
Reed's expression shifts—from soft to hard, from calm to angry… and from relaxed to all out terrified. So terrified.
"No," he mutters, body twitching. His hand curls like it's holding a weapon, finger hovering over an invisible trigger. His breathing shifts—shallow, silent—and he goes completely still, rigid with tension. He looks like he's back in a warzone, waiting for the shot to come.
What's he dreaming about? Afghanistan? Combat? Something worse?
I hesitate, unsure if waking him will help or hurt. But the pain etched into his face is too much to bear.
"Reed," I whisper, leaning in and gently brushing his shoulder. "Reed."
His eyes fly open, wild and unblinking. He doesn't see me. Not at first. His mind is still caught somewhere else, still fighting to make sense of where—and when—he is.
But then… slowly… recognition dawns. His shoulders drop. A sigh escapes his lips. He lifts a hand to my cheek, and I lean into it, relieved.
"You okay?" I ask softly.
He nods once.
"Bad dream?"
Another nod.
Then he pulls me against him, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and holding me tight. I stay like that, quietly tracing soothing circles on his skin whilst he drifts back to sleep.
Eventually, much later, he wakes again and I murmur, "You should probably sneak out before sunrise. Don't want the hands catching you doing the walk of shame."
"Fuck them," he says, voice low, no heat.
"I hope not," I deadpan, and he snorts—the tension easing a little. When I glance up, his eyes are open, thoughtful. Still distant but focused now. Present.
"You know this isn't just a one-time thing, right?" he says quietly. "It's gonna happen again. Probably a lot. At least until we get each other out of our systems."
I hesitate—then nod. There's no point pretending anymore. The attraction is too strong, too real.
"I know it's not the last time," I say.
"You do?"
"Yeah."
He exhales—a half-laugh, half-sigh—then pauses. "And… what do you think about that? About sleeping with the two of us? And perhaps Dean as well?"
Is that insecurity in his voice? Coming from Reed, of all people?
I don't answer—not with words. Instead, I roll on top of him, straddling his waist, grinning as I feel him harden against my thigh.
Then I lean down, lips brushing his ear, and suck his earlobe gently into my mouth.
He groans, desire sparking hot between us.
"Let me show you exactly how I feel about it."
Later, well past midnight, I finally ask Reed what his nightmare was about.
"Nothing important," he says with a yawn, rubbing a hand over his face. "Just old shit. The past."
"You mean your military days?" I ask.
He nods.
"Yeah. It was about a mission—one of the shittier ones.
" He hesitates, eyes darkening. I can sense the weight of the memory pressing down on him, the tug-of-war between wanting to speak and wanting to shove it all back inside.
He meets my eyes, and I try to show him, without words, that it's safe. That I'm here. That I won't judge him.
Whatever he sees in my face must reassure him, because his mouth twitches—a ghost of a smile—and he keeps going.
"We thought it was a successful mission. We were sent in to destroy the enemy's stash—weapons, explosives, whatever they had. Disable it, burn it, make sure they couldn't use it again. And we did. Every last bit. But it turned out the whole thing was a setup. A decoy."
He swallows hard.
"They let us think we'd won. Let us celebrate. We made it back to base, got a few drinks in us, let our guard down. That's when they hit us. Ambushed us right there, at home."
He pauses, jaw tight, voice lower now.
"Dean was the first one to realize something was off, but it was too late. One of them jumped out of hiding and opened fire—right at me. Dean… he threw himself in front of the shot. Took a bullet for me. Actually, took several. While I?—"
He stops, eyes dropping. "I ran for cover. Like a coward."
"No." I reach for his hand, wrapping my fingers around his. The word coward drips with so much shame it makes my chest ache. "You didn't run like a coward. You ran like a man under fire. Like someone who'd watched his best friend go down and had the sense to live to fight another day."
He snorts softly. "That's a first—no one's ever accused me of being smart before."
But his response lands gently, a little less bitterness in his words than before. My words seem to have hit something real. He draws a breath and goes on.
"Most of our squad didn't make it. Dean survived by some miracle—they managed to stabilize him.
And Lennon… he was the only one sober enough to keep his head.
He fought back. Held the line for long enough for the rest of the platoon to reach us.
We were lucky, they happened to be nearby, on their way back from an earlier engagement.
Heard the gunfire and came to see what was happening.
If it hadn't been for those two, I'd be dead.
No question. Even so, over half of the squad bought it that night. "
He looks down at our hands, out of words, deep in memories.
I don't think even Reed realizes it. But after Dean took that bullet for him, and after Lennon held the line to save what remained of his squad when all hope appeared to be lost, Reed must've silently made his decision—a decision to always be there for them.
A decision to repay that debt as much as he could, and in any way he could.
It's probably why he rarely pushes back when Dean gets bossy, even though they're not that far apart in age.
I squeeze his hand, giving him every bit of comfort I can manage.
Hearing his story helps me understand him in a new way—and it explains why he's here at the ranch at all, even though ranching doesn't seem to bring him much joy.
There's a reverence in the way he treats Dean—different from how he is with Lennon—and now, I get it. I see it clearly.
And I know what I have to do.
Before, I needed to talk to Reed about Lennon. Now I need to talk to Dean about this whole thing—about Lennon and Reed and what he means to them. Because I don’t think he knows. He deserves to hear this, to understand how deeply he's shaped the people around him.
So, the next morning, before breakfast—after Reed quietly slips back to his own room—I make my way to Dean's office, where all the paperwork is kept, and where Dean wrestles with the accounting books and with all the invoices and bill payments.
There's no response when I knock, so I gently push open the door.
He's at his desk, furiously typing, neck muscles tense, brow furrowed, jaw tight.
It takes all of two seconds to realize what he's doing—wrangling with the company's profit and loss statement, trying his level best—but failing nevertheless—to get it to do what he needs it to do.
But it's not playing ball, and that's because he's not using his accounting software the right way.
He's glaring at the screen like it's personally offended him.
"You could've waited for me," I say softly. "Might've saved yourself some trouble."
He grunts in response, not looking up.
I take a breath, twisting my hands together. The words feel heavy on my tongue, but I know I can't keep this to myself.
"Dean," I say quietly, stepping closer. "I have something to tell you."