Chapter 3 - Hailey
The event was a clear success, full of laughter and easy conversation, but my thoughts keep circling back to Wes.
We barely spoke—half a conversation, unfinished—and then he was gone.
Still, I caught him watching me more than once, especially when I moved through the room serving others.
The second time I offered him a beer, he only shook his head slowly, a quiet refusal that lingered longer than words would have.
He’s impossible to read. Closed off. Or maybe he’s simply lived too long in a world where communication is reduced to orders and precision. Michael warned me not to take it personally, said Wes isn’t talkative with anyone, that silence is just part of who he is.
That doesn’t change the way his presence settles into a room.
It doesn’t explain why my gaze kept drifting toward him, why some part of me needed to know exactly where he was at all times.
There’s something in the way he moves—measured, deliberate—and in the control threaded through his voice, as if every word is chosen carefully, held back just enough to keep something contained.
Like he’s constantly fighting a battle no one else can see.
And I feel it.
I can’t help imagining those strong arms around me, the weight of him close, the low seriousness of his voice when he speaks.
The way his eyes shift when he’s listening, as though whoever has his attention has all of it—fully, intensely.
He broke that focus twice tonight, lifting his gaze to mine and holding it there.
Each time, my whole body reacted.
Just the sense that he was watching me, that he liked what he saw, that maybe—just maybe—he might come back over because he wanted to made my heart race and my breath catch.
I almost laugh at myself when I get to work the next morning. Today I’m supposed to help with laundry, but Michael asks me to stop by the activities hall first. We end up talking longer than planned, drifting into ideas for the Post—small things that might make a difference.
That’s how the idea of home-cooked meals comes up.
Not anything elaborate. Just once a week.
Something warm and familiar. I know most military personnel are used to MREs, to efficiency and the bare minimum, but I keep thinking that a real meal—something made with intention—can feel like more than food.
Like a pause. Like proof that someone thought about them.
A quiet reward after a week of doing everything that’s expected of them.
And there’s a lot expected. I see it everywhere—men and women moving through the halls with purpose, always on, always ready.
“I can cover the bar in the evenings,” I offer. “After dinner, I mean.”
Michael studies me for a moment, not critically, just thoughtfully.
“Your father hoped you’d be a little more involved,” he says gently. “And as president of the Legion, it’s my responsibility to help with that.” His smile softens. “But it’s also my privilege to give you room to find what matters to you.”
I bite my bottom lip, unsure how to explain what I haven’t quite figured out myself. My father isn’t trying to control me—he’s testing me. He and my mom both enlisted at eighteen. In his mind, I’m behind schedule. Taking time feels like standing still. To him, this summer is guidance. Direction.
To me, it’s space.
We talk it through calmly, back and forth, until we settle on a compromise. I’ll run errands for the office, help out as an assistant wherever I’m needed, and work the bar in the evenings.
It’s a lot. But it feels… balanced.
When I leave his office, my thoughts trail after me down the hallway. My father loves me. He wants to give me a future he understands. I just want the chance to discover my own—to find my passion, to support people in ways that feel right to me.
I wonder, not for the first time, if that should be enough.
I shake my head, then look up just in time to keep myself from running directly into Wes.
Suddenly, all those worries and thoughts about my future fade away. All I can do is stare up at him, memorizing every intense detail of him. I think he’s wearing some kind of aftershave or cologne today, since I feel dizzy after one whiff. I just want to lean in to have more of him.
“Hailey,” he greets.
“Wes,” I whisper, hoping I’m not blushing even though my heart is racing.
He steps forward, his posture straightening. “Captain Holt.”
“Captain. Right. I need to get used to the titles,” I murmur, glancing from his eyes down the thick column of his neck. I can see his pulse thudding there and I can’t help thinking it would be wonderful spot to kiss.
He watches me, not exactly angry or even grumpy, just waiting for a question or something to respond to. I step to the side, but he continues watching me. “Do you need help with something?” he asks.
“No,” I say too quickly. And immediately regret it, because saying yes would have meant a few more minutes of him standing this close. “I mean—no. I’m getting the hang of things. I was just… lost in my head for a second.”
He nods, like that explanation makes sense to him. Then his eyes lift fully to mine, and whatever composure I was holding onto dissolves.
It isn’t anything like the romance books. There’s no fluttering drama, no cinematic sweep. It’s heavier than that. Quieter. Something that settles low in my body and refuses to be ignored, roots me to the spot and makes my breath feel suddenly too shallow.
“If you need orientation materials,” he says evenly, professional to the core, “I can have someone get you a labeled map of the hall and the current timesheet. It’ll save you some unnecessary backtracking.”
Helpful. Practical. Exactly what a Captain would offer.
And yet my traitorous mind immediately supplies a very different image—him standing behind me, guiding me instead, his hands firm at my hips as he shows me where everything is. The thought hits fast and leaves me warm in a way I absolutely do not acknowledge.
I swallow, forcing myself to focus on his face instead of the low, steady sound of his voice.
“That would be really helpful, W- Captain.”
He inclines his head once.
“I’ll be working the bar most nights,” I say, forcing myself to sound casual.
“So I’ll be easy to find. And it looks like the Ridgehouse is going to keep me busy anyway.
If you need an assistant, you can let Mi—President Trent know.
” I hesitate, then add more softly, “Or… you could tell me yourself, if you make a habit of coming by. If you need help with paperwork or anything like that.”
His eyes hold mine as he considers his answer, the pause deliberate, measured.
“I appreciate the offer,” he says at last. “But I prefer to handle my work myself.” Then, after a beat, “Have a good day, Hailey.”
The way he says my name lands heavier than it should.
“Bye… Captain,” I reply, careful with the title, watching as he turns and walks down the hall toward Michael’s office, his posture unyielding, controlled.
I don’t move until he’s out of sight.
God.
His uniform really is meant for him. The way it hugs his muscular thighs, shows off his tight ass … I let the thought trail off without finishing it.
Captain has a dangerous ring to it. Especially when it seems to erase everything else the moment it leaves my lips.
Something shifts in him when I say it—so subtle I might imagine it if I weren’t watching closely.
Like he moves closer without actually stepping forward.
Like he almost doesn’t want to hear it spoken by me.
And I realize, with a slow, heated certainty, that I don’t want his title on my tongue.
I want him.
It’s a silly thought! I barely know him.
What am I thinking? Still, I catch myself touching my lips more than once throughout the day, as if my body remembers something my mind refuses to take seriously.
I stay busy on purpose, moving from task to task, determined to keep my focus sharp and myself out of trouble.
A part of me wants to at least fit in, to contribute, to give this place—and the idea of a future in the military—a real chance…
the other part wonders if Wes would be the one who punishes or praises me for a job well done.
The thought makes my lips turn up at the corner.
If I get alone time with Wes for being bad … that doesn’t really sound like a punishment, I think.
I manage to shake it off, losing myself in the steady rhythm of working and living here—until I’m back behind the bar again.
I love the easy connection, the small moments of bonding. Melissa stays close, keeping me focused, calling out orders when the room gets loud, making sure I don’t fall behind. I’m mid-pour, handing off a drink, when I feel it.
The shift.
A pair of deep blue eyes catches mine, and everything else fades.
It’s honestly a miracle I don’t spill the glass in my hand.
Wes doesn’t simply appear—he moves through the room like he belongs at its center, parting the crowd without effort, as if space has learned to make room for him.
Melissa smirks knowingly, but I’m already stepping away from the bar, drawn forward before I can talk myself out of it.
I stop in front of him and look up, forcing my breath to steady, my pulse to slow. His presence presses in on me—his height, his stillness, the weight of his gaze holding mine.
“Captain,” I say, my voice careful. “A beer?”
He studies me for a beat, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
“Coffee,” he says at last. “Decaf.”
A few people glance over at him, then subtly straighten, clearing their throats like they’ve suddenly remembered where they are and who they’re standing near.
I have a feeling he’s going to be terrible for sales—and even worse for fun—but I pour him a decaf coffee anyway and slide it across the bar.
“Relaxing after a long day?” I venture.
He gives a small nod. “There are better and worse ways to accomplish it.”
That catches my attention.
I arch an eyebrow as I turn to serve another customer, filling a beer without breaking rhythm.
When I look back, my gaze betrays me, tracing the line of Wes’s body—the way his shirt pulls across his chest, how his posture broadens his shoulders, the quiet authority in the way he stands like the room belongs to him.
Heat rises to my cheeks. I lick my bottom lip before I can stop myself.
Wes notices.
His brow lifts slightly, but it’s his eyes that change—darkening, sharpening, something hot flickering there before he reins it in. Controlled. Always controlled.
I clear my throat, grasping for neutrality.
“Maybe you could outline the better ways,” I say lightly. “I’m new to life at the Ridgehouse. I could use a few pointers.”
The words hang between us—innocent enough to anyone listening.
But his gaze stays locked on mine, steady and unreadable, as if he knows exactly how many meanings I just layered into that sentence.
I pour him a decaf coffee and slide it across the bar. He wraps his hand around the mug, fingers steady, posture unchanged.
“Long day?” I ask.
“Full,” he says. “That’s usually enough.”
I nod, then turn to serve someone else, keeping my movements smooth even though I can feel him there. When I glance back, his attention hasn’t drifted. It never really does.
“You seem to fit in here,” he says after a moment. Not a compliment. An observation.
I blink, caught off guard. “Do I?”
“You move easily between people,” he continues. “You listen. That matters in places like this.”
Heat blooms low in my chest, not from flirtation this time, but from being seen. “I like it,” I admit. “I like helping. Making things feel… lighter, I guess.”
He studies me over the rim of his mug. “Is that what you want to do long-term?”
The question settles between us, heavier than the coffee. I lean my elbows lightly on the counter, lowering my voice without thinking. “I’m still figuring that out. I grew up with expectations. Uniforms. Timelines.” I shrug. “This feels different. Like I can choose how I show up.”
His jaw tightens slightly, as if something resonates there. “Choosing your own reason is harder than following orders.”
I meet his gaze, surprised by how personal that sounds. “But worth it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. “Yes.”
Our eyes hold. Not charged with heat this time, but with something steadier. Deeper.
Someone calls my name down the bar, breaking the moment. I straighten, already reaching for the next order.
When I look back at him, he’s still there, coffee untouched, gaze on me like he’s just learned something he wasn’t expecting to care about.
And for reasons I don’t fully understand yet, that feels like a beginning.