Chapter 5 - Hailey
Disappointment courses through me the next day when I don’t see Wes. I sigh and try to shake it off. He works. He’s stable. He does things like he’s supposed to. No one has to remind him to stay on task or things like that.
He’s right that it’s reliable. It’s nice to have a clearly cut path without wondering if you’re doing the right things, but I feel like I’m itching, trying to claw out of my skin.
I’ve been here for four and a half days and other than seeing Wes, I’m already desperate for a break in my routine.
There’s something about having every moment structured that makes me feel like I’m in a cage.
“Melissa, I’m going to take a break,” I say.
“You know you only get two, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
I know we’ve barely started working, but I just need to be outside and away from everyone. How else can I actually breathe properly? Once I’m outside and can hear the trees rustling in the breeze and people talking, something unwinds in me.
Just as I’m about to close my eyes to find a sense of ‘normal,’ I hear a whistle and a sharp command I can’t make out. On the field next to the activity center, I see well-sculpted men dropping for pushups. They settle into a plank, then mountain-climbers, then push themselves up.
I spot Wes just as they wrap up. He stretches, his arms up high, his shirt matted to every line of muscle across his body, except where it pulls up to reveal an adonis cut that sharpens his hips and leads down to …
Oh god, his fatigues might hide plenty, but sweat-soaked, they cling to him and give me a decent idea of what he’d offer.
If I laid under him for his pushups, would I feel every inch against my belly? Would he get hard while staring into my eyes. Would they go from blue to black like I’ve seen when I flirt with him? His heavy breathing, him grunting my name …
He turns to shake a hand, giving me a view of his muscled shoulders, the way his body tapers at his hips, his tight, yet round ass that would be perfect to sink my fingers into.
My mouth waters and my throat dries as he takes off his top shirt, revealing only a tank top.
He wipes himself down, then spots me, blue eyes focused on mine.
He walks forward, making the choice for both of us.
His biceps flex as he shoves his top shirt in his back pocket.
He’s panting, his breathing not slowing even when he’s standing with me, staring at me, letting the moment sizzle between us while I wonder if I said any part of my shockingly dirty fantasy out loud.
“Hailey,” Wes’s voice washes over me and I shudder.
With that heated gaze on me, that tick in his jaw that tells me he’s chewing the inside of his cheek, and his gorgeous post-workout intensity, I’m putty. “Hi, Weston.”
The use of his full name must shock him, because he freezes for a second. “Something wrong? Are you ok?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring far too long. I shake my head quickly, forcing a smile that’s a little too bright to be convincing.
“Yeah—sorry. I was just thinking.” I gesture vaguely, like thoughts are something I can physically wave away. “You know. About errands. Work stuff.”
I definitely don’t meet his eyes.
The silence stretches, and I can feel his attention still on me—steady, patient, waiting. It makes pretending feel pointless.
I rub my arm, grounding myself. “I mean… I was thinking,” I admit more quietly. “About what it’s like to actually choose your life.”
He watches me for a beat, then nods, giving me space instead of pressing. That alone steadies me.
“I guess,” I admit. “I want to play an active role in my life. Like you. Like most people here.” I glance around the hallway, then back at him. “You chose the military. You chose to stay. And every day, you choose how you show up—who you talk to, how you handle things. That matters.”
He steps a little closer, not crowding me, just enough that his presence feels warmer. His expression softens as he studies my face, like he’s actually listening instead of waiting to respond.
“I want that same sense of choice,” I continue. “That same drive. It feels like you’ve never doubted where you’re headed.” I hesitate. “How do you get that kind of self-assurance?”
He thinks about it. Really thinks. His shoulders ease, posture relaxing, like what he’s about to say isn’t something he offers often. His hand shifts, almost lifting toward me before he catches himself and brushes it down his thigh instead.
“It’s not always that simple,” he says quietly.
“Then you make it look convincing,” I say, smiling faintly, trying to keep things light.
“It’s not for everyone,” he replies, leaning back against the wall beside me.
His gaze drops to my shoes, then slowly travels up, unhurried, thoughtful.
It makes my heart pick up its pace anyway.
“There are trade-offs. It’s not just direction or orders.
It’s about building something inside yourself—and letting it be tested. ”
“Tested how?” I ask. “Being away from home? Living by rules? Titles and expectations?” I pause. “Or resisting the urge to walk away when something easier looks tempting?”
“At first,” he says simply.
I nod, absorbing that. “You chose this path,” I say. “So… how do you know if someone’s right for it?”
“No one really does, Hailey. Not until a moment that can break them comes along. Some people are fit for the air force and only for taking care of the planes. Some find their place and still struggle anyway. Keeping a schedule and maintaining dedication is just the start, but that’s a lot like life in general. ”
“Yeah. I know life is a balance between finding things that make life worth living alongside surviving. Sustainability and passion.”
“Not everyone gets … passion.” His eyes meet mine at the word and I see that slight darkening, see his jaw clench as he exhales through his nose.
I’d kill to be your passion. You’d get me every night, maybe in the morning too, I think before chiding on myself. We’re having a real conversation FFS!
“They choose a path because they decide what matters most. Does having reliable income, a comfortable life, and a work life that’s tolerable, but not passion-based mean more than enjoying every second of your life other than the stress of bills and living? It’s a personal decision,” he says.
“Ah, the worst kind. All gray area answers, no definitive right and wrong.”
“The military helps make that clearer,” he says with a slight smile.
“Or hazier. Because then it wouldn’t feel like a personal decision. It would feel like upholding a legacy – for me anyway. I don’t think I’d be fit for battle. I don’t think I could handle a lot of what’s out there. Those decisions …”
“Are life and death,” he says, that wistful note in his voice back. The kind that makes me want to comfort him. I shift closer to him. “And it would be easier if it was just a decision for you and not others.”
“Unforgiving and heavy stakes,” I agree, my fingers brushing his.
He meets my eyes and brushes his fingers across mine almost like an invitation to hold his hand. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty of stories while working the bar.”
“Yeah. Men watching their friends fall and not being able to save anything to give their loved ones. Others that didn’t realize something was happening until they were in agony. I’ve also heard miracles happening. Is that perspective or chaos or …”
“That’s just life. One person’s miracle is another’s horror story,” he murmurs. “Even if battles end, the consequences and memories don’t.”
“Sounds like personal experience is speaking,” I whisper.
He nods and touches an extra set of dog tags on the chain that hold his.
He clears his throat. “My best friend and I joined together. We went overseas together. He loved learning languages, thought it could bring people together. Really believed in diplomacy. He wanted to see the best in people … trusted me to protect him from the worst.”
“Wes,” I say, sliding my fingers along his. Our shoulders brush.
“He wanted me to trust his perspective after he gave me shit about assuming the worst and being surprised when I got it. I didn’t trust my gut because I wanted to trust him. One second. One moment where I should have put logic over emotion. That’s all it took.”
He goes quiet for a beat, then continues, voice lower.
“After that came the doubt,” he says. “It creeps in. Makes you question every call. If you let it lead, you stop choosing what you want and start choosing what feels safest. That kind of thinking gets people hurt. At best, it leaves you stuck somewhere you never meant to be.”
The noise of the base fades into the background, leaving only his voice and the weight of what he’s said.
I don’t interrupt. I don’t try to frame it or fix it.
Instead, I squeeze his fingers gently. “Thank you for trusting me with that when it’s not easy,” I say.
He shuts the door behind us. “You’re an easy person to trust and be honest with. Difficult topics or otherwise.”
“Then maybe that’s my purpose. Everyone needs a safe space to just talk and be heard. To lighten their load. I think that could be what I am for plenty of people,” I hum, mostly talking to myself.
“I think that’s just who you are, Hailey. Perfectly just you,” he says.
The words hit so gently I forget how to breathe for a second. I just stare at him, warmth spreading through my chest in a way that feels dangerously close to hope.
A glance at my watch snaps me back. “I should get back,” I say reluctantly. “Melissa’s covering for me, and she’s going to start glaring if I’m late.”
He nods, understanding without making it awkward. “Of course.”
We walk toward the Ridgehouse together, the open air giving way to the familiar hum of voices as we step inside. The weight of what he shared doesn’t vanish—it softens, settles—but I feel the need to lighten the mood before it sinks too deep.
Behind the bar again, I talk. Too much, probably. About an embarrassing high school moment. My plans for the summer. Even redecorating my room, like that somehow makes this place feel more mine.
When I lose my train of thought after serving someone else, he fills in the gap, easing me back without judgment or hurry. Just his quiet presence at the corner of the bar.
He feels safe. Steady. Familiar in a way that unsettles me.
I don’t know if what’s between us is real or imagined. I only know that with him standing there, I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.