Chapter 9 - Hailey
“Problem incoming,” Melissa whispers on Tuesday.
I look up, hoping it’s Wes since she calls him ‘my problem’ or ‘my distraction’ regularly even though he hasn’t stayed longer than having a beer since our conversation on Saturday. He hasn’t come to the bar directly in almost a week.
Instead, I find him at his usual table along the far wall, working on paperwork while occasionally lifting his head just enough that I can see his eyes even though they don’t land on me. A clatter draws my attention to the person Melissa’s talking about.
One of the older guys, probably in his forties, staggers in, leaning on tables and toppling others’ drinks. When one of the guys stands up to talk to him, his voice is so loud it carries. “Sit your ass down and respect your rank, fucker!”
Okay. I was told when I started that PTSD or overly drunken people could walk in any time and the best move was to try to calm them. Considering Sergeant Dow is clearly drunk at best and has high rank, I’m not entirely sure what Melissa’s willing to do if he gives orders.
“Don’t serve him,” Melissa whispers. “No matter what he orders.”
He stumbles to the bar and I walk around when he nearly falls off the stool. I offer my help and he sneers. “Your dad don’t mean anything. He never saw what I saw.”
“Sergeant,” I say gently. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is I wan—want a drink,” he slurs, tapping the bar too hard. “Pour it.”
I don’t move. “I can’t do that,” I say calmly. “You’ve had enough.”
His brows knit together like the words take effort to process. He leans closer instead. Too close.
“We both know it’s not about the drinks,” he mutters, eyes unfocused. “You keep me company. That’s what girls like you do. Drinks and company.”
“I can offer conversation,” I reply evenly, already stepping back to create space. “Nothing else.”
He squints at me like the room won’t stay still. “Not even ranked,” he mutters, gaze dragging where it doesn’t belong. “Soft thing like you. Too nice to waste on talking.”
“Sir,” I say, firmer now, putting space between us. “Let’s keep this appropriate.”
His voice jumps, loud and sloppy. “You don’t tell me what to—”
Wes is there before the words finish leaving his mouth. He steps in fast, broad frame cutting the space cleanly in half, one hand pressing flat to Dow’s chest and driving him back a step.
“Back away,” Wes says, voice low and absolute.
Dow tries to puff up, drunk bravado flaring. “Who the hell do you think—”
He swings. It’s clumsy and wide.
Wes shifts just enough to avoid it and answers with a single, controlled punch that lands squarely and knocks the breath out of him. Dow stumbles back into the bar, glass rattling as he barely keeps his feet.
Wes doesn’t let up. He advances immediately, positioning himself fully in front of me, blocking Dow’s line of sight as much as his body, one arm out to keep distance.
“You’re done,” Wes says evenly. “You raised your voice. You disrespected staff. And you’re going to apologize.”
Dow laughs harshly, rubbing his jaw. “I don’t owe—”
Wes steps closer, presence overwhelming, his tone dropping into something unmistakably commanding. “You owe her an apology. Now.”
Michael is already beside them, steady and silent, reinforcing the line Wes has drawn. Dow looks from Wes to Michael, then around the room, realizing there’s no support coming.
His shoulders sag a fraction. He swallows, jaw tight. He turns his head just enough to look past Wes. “I… shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” he mutters, words thick but clear enough. “I’m sorry.”
Wes holds his gaze a second longer, making sure it’s real. “Say it properly.”
Dow exhales, defeated. “I’m sorry, Hailey.”
Only then does Wes step back half a pace. “Good. Now you’re leaving.”
Michael takes Dow by the elbow and guides him toward the door. Dow doesn’t argue this time. As he’s walked out, he keeps his head down, the weight of the room heavy on him.
The door closes behind them.
Wes stays where he is for a moment, still between me and the space Dow occupied, his posture easing only when the threat is completely gone. He turns slightly, just enough to check my face.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod, my hands still trembling, but my breath coming easier now.
“I’m taking her home,” Wes says to Melissa. “You’ll have a quiet night from now on. If you need help, Michael will be here.”
She doesn’t argue, half because his tone makes it clear it’s an order and second because he gently puts his hand on my lower back and guides me out of the bar before Melissa has a chance to say anything.
“I can’t drive,” I whisper.
“I’m well aware.”
“You … You had a beer.”
“I’m perfectly safe to drive. Safer than you,” he says, the words ground out between his teeth.
He walks me to my car without a word, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. When we reach it, he holds out his hand for the keys. I don’t hesitate. I place them in his palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He opens the door for me and waits until I’m seated before leaning in slightly. For a second, our faces are too close. I can’t stop looking at him. He still looks wound tight, like the fight never really ended for him, like something is chewing at the edges of his control.
“Seatbelt,” he says quietly.
I obey, hands clumsy. He shuts the door with care, almost gentle, then moves around the car and gets in behind the wheel. I don’t ask how he knows where my dorm is. I assume he does. Or that he asked. Or that he simply noticed. Right now, I’m not sure I could form a full sentence even if I tried.
He pulls out smoothly, eyes forward, jaw set. His hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly, knuckles pale, like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored. He looks as charged as Dow did before he lost control—but the difference is stark.
Wes is holding it all in.
The power is there. I saw it. How fast he moved.
How easily he took over. How completely he ended it.
Seeing that calm authority clash with the restraint he’s forcing on himself now makes my breath catch.
My body reacts before my mind can make sense of it, a low ripple of something warm and confusing that I don’t yet have a name for.
He’s always composed. Always steady.
And knowing how much force he keeps leashed inside himself—how deliberately he chooses not to unleash it—does something to me I don’t fully understand.
Just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I don’t know what it’s like to be turned on.
Just because I’ve stopped every make-out session at second base doesn’t mean I haven’t gotten wet.
Right now, watching Wes trying to control himself while clearly seething has me on another level entirely.
I’m vibrating, sure I’m hot to the touch, and can’t breathe without getting caught in his aura.
It’s only when I’m out of the car and at my dorm that I can suck in a full breathe and a part of me hates it. He’s still right there, glancing around like preparing for another attack. When his eyes finally land on me, they’re sizzling. My knees go weak, but I still remember my manners.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He brushes my hair behind my ear and leans in. I expect him to say something, anything, especially when I lean into him, holding onto his hips for support.
“Breathe, Hailey,” he says quietly, like it’s an order meant only for me. “You’re safe with me.”
“I know,” I whisper, my voice unsteady.
His thumb traces my jaw again, slower this time, firmer, before he lifts my chin.
The way he looks at me makes my stomach tighten—like he’s done holding back, like whatever he’s been containing has reached its limit.
His breath stutters once, warm and uneven against my lips.
His mouth hovers there, close enough that I can feel the tension in him, the fight he’s losing.
“Please,” I murmur, barely more than a breath.
That’s all it takes.
He kisses me like a man who’s been denying himself too long. Not rough—but decisive. Claiming. His lips close over mine with heat and purpose, firm and sure, like he needs to ground himself in the reality of me. The kiss steals my breath instantly, makes my knees soften, my pulse spike.
His mouth is warm, insistent, molding to mine as if he’s memorizing the shape of my lips. I make a small sound without meaning to, and that’s when his restraint cracks just enough. His lips part, coaxing, inviting—and I open for him.
The kiss deepens slowly, deliberately. His tongue slides against mine in a languid stroke that makes my toes curl, unhurried but overwhelming. It’s not frantic. It’s controlled hunger. Like he’s tasting me properly now that he’s finally allowed himself to.
My hand lifts on instinct, fingers threading into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck.
It’s softer than I expected, warm beneath my palm, and the quiet sound he makes in response sends a shiver straight through me.
I pull him closer without thinking, anchoring myself to him as he presses me gently back against the car door.
One of his hands braces beside my shoulder, the other cradles my jaw as he adjusts the angle, deepening the kiss just enough to make my head spin. Then his grip shifts—slow, deliberate—his palm settling at my lower back, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
The contact makes my breath hitch.
He presses in just enough for me to feel how affected he is, the solid heat of him unmistakable even through layers of clothing. It sends a sharp, electric awareness through me, pooling low in my belly as his lips continue to move against mine with controlled confidence.
Every kiss is chosen. Every touch intentional.
And the knowledge that he’s reacting just as strongly as I am only makes the moment burn hotter.
It feels like surrender—but not mine alone.