Chapter 6 - Wes
Ten days since Hailey arrived. I know the count without trying. I shouldn’t. I should be locked into my own routines, my own priorities. Instead, she’s there—steady in my thoughts, the image of her clear and persistent.
She didn’t flinch when I spoke about things most men deflect with humor or bravado.
She didn’t try to soften it or make it easier.
She stayed. Solid. When her hand brushed mine, it wasn’t nervous or tentative—it was offered.
Grounded. Her clean, vanilla scent cut through memories I usually keep buried. Sand. Smoke. Gunpowder.
She isn’t just soft. She’s capable. Present. Warm without being fragile. That combination hits harder than it should.
I don’t like how much I notice her. I don’t like the edge of satisfaction that settles in my chest every time our paths cross—especially when I’m the one making sure they do.
I’ve taken a regular seat at the bar now.
Not every night. I don’t overdo anything.
Beer sometimes. Soda other times. Control matters.
Watching her work tells me everything I need to know. She commands attention without asking for it. People lean toward her, open up around her.
She gives each of them her full attention—but the moment she spots me, something shifts.
Her focus narrows.
She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t change what she’s doing. But I feel it the second her eyes find mine—the way she tracks me without staring, the way she holds space for me even while talking to someone else.
She notices me.
Her body turns towards mine. My skin warms. She seems to drift into me like we’re magnets coming together even when she takes her time to fall into my orbit.
My stomach tightens and my focus redirects.
It’s the same sensation I should be fighting, yet keeps me coming back to the bar every other night.
Then she speaks, talks with me about life in a way that’s casual and effortless, yet shows a hidden depth of understanding that makes her glow brighter, makes my mind work to keep up, and draws out all of our conversations longer than I plan.
“You think more than you say, don’t you, Captain Holt?” she asks, lingering near me while others go to drink together and dance to the music.
I shrug. “Not everything that crosses my mind needs to be shared.”
“Even when someone’s actually interested in what you’re thinking?” She asks, resting her elbows on the bar.
That gets my attention. I angle closer, lowering my voice. “I don’t see anyone here being forced to listen.”
Her face heats. “You know exactly what I mean. I like our conversations. The deeper the better.”
I catch myself smiling wider than I mean to.
“How’s the search for your purpose going?
”“Slowly”, she admits. “Ten days isn’t enough to figure out a life…
I’ve hardly figured out if I like the decorations in my room that I’m not supposed to have.
A purpose … It takes most people a lifetime and plenty of false starts to find that. ”
“You’re not most people,” I play with the tip of her long ponytail for a second before regaining control. “I have faith in you discovering it quickly.”
“I appreciate your faith in me,” she says, then wavers. “I’m just not sure how to separate out dreams and ambition. Then ambition from goals. And balance passion and personal fulfillment with a stable future. How did you comb through the options to find your purpose?”
“I didn’t have to search. I knew early what I wanted to do. Doing something that improves the lives of others, others that might never realize what their life could have been without protection … it’s always fit.”
She makes a pleased sound in the back of her throat, one that settles low in me before I can stop it.
“Well, you do have broad enough shoulders to lift the weight of the world,” she adds lightly, “figuratively and literally.”
I shake my head, a quiet huff escaping me as I hook the toe of my boot under the stool, anchoring myself in place. Holding ground has always come easily. It’s everything else that’s starting to feel dangerous.
Because beneath the teasing, beneath the easy banter, something else is taking shape.
The need to understand her. To peel back the layers. To connect.
It presses against the discipline I’ve lived by for years, bending it, reshaping it into something sharper and far more personal—something that feels less like duty now, and far more like desire.
Her eyes flit over my shoulder and she smiles gently. “Hi, Michael.”
“President Trent,” I say without turning away from her.
She’s in jeans that fit her perfectly and green top that compliments her eyes.
In just the right moments, I can catch a sliver of her cleavage or a strip of her lower back.
I shouldn’t look. She’s fifteen years younger than me, simply doing her job, but looking and not commenting seems to be the most control I can muster.
“Hey, you ready for your break? I cover for you.” Melissa asks.
Hailey glances at me, then nods. There’s an invitation in her eyes, maybe even a request, but Michael standing next to me keeps me rooted to the spot.
He’s a reminder of reality before I can get swept up in another conversation that I won’t want to end, one that becomes more than a scratch along the surface.
Melissa slides him a beer and drifts off to talk with a few of the others, leaving Michael studying me with quiet intent.
“You’re here more than usual,” he says mildly. “I’d wager something… or someone has caught your attention, Captain Holt.”
“Not something,” I answer, honest without volunteering more.
He considers that, then nods once. When his hand comes to rest on my arm, it’s not a reprimand. It’s steadier than that. Familiar.
“I like to think I know people, Weston,” he says gently. “I won’t make assumptions. But I will say this—not everyone is as fragile as you believe.”
My shoulder tightens under his touch.
“And not everyone needs saving,” he continues. “Protecting someone is honorable. It’s what you’ve done your whole life.” His gaze holds mine, kind but unyielding. “But letting yourself care? Letting yourself be happy? That takes a different kind of strength.”
I look away.
“You’ve trained men and women to face fear,” he adds quietly. “You’ve carried responsibility longer than most. At some point, you’re allowed to want more than duty.”
“I know what happens when emotions get involved,” I say darkly.
Michael doesn’t flinch.
“So do I,” he replies. “And I also know what happens when a man convinces himself he doesn’t deserve joy.”
My eyes flick to his and hold.
“I’ve seen too many old guys in here who realize too late that work isn’t as fulfilling as they once thought and that loneliness isn’t noble,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to see you become one of them.”
“I’m not fifty and hopeless,” I defend. “And everyone walks a different path.”
“Some have the same scenery even if they don’t fully overlap,” he answers with a shrug. “Just keep that in mind with your frequent visits.”
I almost roll my eyes, but instead, head out, leaving cash for my soda. Conversations I look forward to and a woman that is somehow always more than I expect and a familiar comfort at the same time isn’t a promised love connection.
***
When I get back to my bunk, I scoff at Michael’s comments. The lust is there for sure, but she’s not mine to enjoy. So, I put myself to bed like I’m supposed to, hoping it will clear her from my thoughts.
It doesn’t. She wraps herself around me, eager to listen and know me in a way so few ever are.
She doesn’t look at me like I’m an opportunity she can use; she’s there, whispering her questions in my ear while holding me through my answers, pulling me closer and closer into her until our lips meet, until groans and soft pants make up our conversations.
I wake up panting, hard, my whole body wired by a kiss I’ve never actually tasted. My hand slips under my blanket and my boxers as I wrap my hand around myself.
Fighting lust is possible, but Hailey’s beyond that. I stroke myself while thinking about her deep eyes, her lips parting, the blush across her face making her golden hair seem lighter.
My hand works faster, giving extra attention to the head of my cock while my mind burns.
I can picture her stroking me, looking up at me for guidance.
I’d help her down on my cock, then roll on top of her, thrusting into her while she gripped me tightly, her little breathy pants and soft moans filling my ear.
Her pussy would tighten around me, hot and wet and mine.
My eyes close as I work myself up faster, harder, so desperate for her, so overwhelmed by her constant presence, her smell lingering in my head, the soft brushes of her hand and that soulful understanding she always shows.
There’s no escaping her. I’m the captive and I’m not frustrated by it, not annoyed, just so fucking pleased that she could be mine to protect and please in equal measure. Mine to take care of and revel in.
I come hard, faster than I should, and taste the sheer bliss of a release that’s more than lust or a way to let off steam.
I picture her smile, that breathless look I’ve seen on her face after she completes a hard task, the delight filling her gaze, but it slowly melts away as guilt and shame tighten around my heart.
She’s not mine. Could never be mine. And I’m a fool for giving in …
even if touching myself to the thought of her opens more emotions than I’ve felt in years.
My chest tightens and the need to clean up, to lock this moment away, to let the guilt drive out the pleasure feels like the only way to breathe again.
Mabe it’s just because she isn’t here. Because I don’t know how she feels.
That thought belongs to a dreamer, someone who doesn’t have honor or respect for the woman he just touched himself to. A woman he’ll never actually have.