6. Felix
CHAPTER 6
FELIX
I reach for her before I’m fully awake, my hand finding only cool sheets where Letty’s warm body should be. The disconnect jolts me into consciousness.
“Letty?” My voice comes out rough with sleep and something like fear.
Silence. Daylight stabs through the curtains and I sit up, scanning the room, hoping to spot her in the bathroom doorway or by the window.
Then I see it—a folded piece of paper on her pillow. My heart plummets before I even read a word. This is a move I know too well from my own past life: the classic morning-after escape.
I unfold the note and begin to read, her elegant handwriting slanted across the hotel stationery.
Felix,
I need some time to think. This feels overwhelming in the best possible way, and I have to be sure I’m ready. Thank you for last night—for everything.
—L
Not goodbye, at least. Just a pause.
Thank god.
I drag a hand down my face, the sheets tangled around my waist, still damp and smelling of our musk. My cock stiffens again as memories of last night come flooding back—her sighs as I kissed down her throat, the way she came screaming my name, how she’d clung to me afterward, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
Best sex of my goddamn life, hands down.
Fuck .
Every instinct screams at me to call her, to track her down at the food truck or her house and make sure she’s okay. The Marine in me wants to charge into battle, to fix this, to win . But that’s the old Felix.
This Felix—the one who survived when his squad brothers didn’t, and who has learned that patience isn’t weakness—knows better. If she needs space, I need to respect that.
I shower mechanically, the water scalding. I press a palm to the tile, head bowed. The phantom pain is bad this morning, a burning sensation where my calf should be. Stress tends to aggravate it.
My phone buzzes with a message from Troy about final Memorial Day preparations. The ceremony is tomorrow, and there’s still work to be done on the tribute display. It’ll be a welcome distraction.
Be right there, I text back.
At the community center, I throw myself into arranging the photos and mementos that families have contributed. Each one represents someone who didn’t come home, their loved ones carrying their memory like I do Gordy’s.
My fingers linger on his photograph—cocky grin, eyes squinting in the sun, desert sand in the background. The man who loved Letty.
“You okay?” Troy asks, coming up beside me with a stack of programs.
I nod, carefully placing the frame on the display. “Yeah. I know this particular Marine, is all.”
Troy’s quiet for a moment. “Letty’s husband? Really? You served with him?”
“Same squad.” My throat constricts. “Great guy.”
Troy’s eyes flash. “Does Letty know?”
“She does now.”
He lets out a low whistle but doesn’t pry further, just claps me on the shoulder in silent solidarity, understanding some things don’t need words.
We work side by side for hours, the tribute wall taking shape. Every time the community center door opens, my head snaps up, hoping it’s Letty. She never appears.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve drafted and deleted a dozen messages to her, ranging from casual to desperately honest. None of them feels right.
“Time for a break,” Troy announces, handing me a sandwich. “Zoe insists.”
We sit outside on the community center steps, the May sunshine warm on our faces as we look at the mountains rising in the distance.
“So,” Troy says between bites, “I’m guessing I won the bet?”
“Yeah.” I chuckle. “We had dinner at the Inn and worked on our project and… She’s amazing. I want to see her again…and again…and again.” I huff out a breath. “If she’ll have me, that is.”
“It’s complicated, falling for a widow.” He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Even more so when you served with her husband.”
I take a long drink of water, wondering how much to say. Troy waits patiently, knowing that some conversations can’t be rushed.
“I never expected this,” I blurt. “Came to town for the Memorial Day event. Thought I’d be in and out, back to my foundation work. Then she was there, fixing carne asada in that food truck, needing help with the stove, and I just...” I trail off, unable to articulate how completely Letty blindsided me.
“Yup. Life’s funny that way,” Troy nods. “Took me forty-plus years to find Zoe. Then I drifted into town around Christmas looking for work, and bam—suddenly I can’t imagine life without her and our kids.”
Our kids. It hits me in the middle of my chest. I remember Gordy telling me once that he and Letty were going to try for a baby when he got back.
“I think I love her,” I say, the words feeling strange but true on my tongue. “Not because of Jason, or some savior complex, or guilt. Because she’s... incredible. Resilient. Passionate about what she does.” I shake my head. “And god help me, she’s fucking gorgeous.”
Troy studies me. “Does she know that? That it’s her you care about, not just the connection to Gordy?”
His question hits like a thunderbolt. Did I ever make that clear?
“I need to tell her,” I say, standing abruptly. “But not yet. She asked for time.”
The rest of the day passes in a blur as I focus on preparations.
Back at the Inn, Talia intercepts me with a foil-wrapped plate of leftovers that I take up to my room. I stare at my phone as I eat. Finally, the right words crystallize, and I type quickly and hit send before I lose my nerve.
Letty, take all the time you need. What happened between us wasn’t about the past—it was about us, here in the present. I care about YOU. The woman who makes amazing tacos. Who’s a super auntie to a beautiful baby. Who’s rebuilding her life with quiet strength. Whatever you decide, just know that I’m not going anywhere.
After a moment, I add:
P.S. The wall of honor turned out beautifully. Thanks for your help.
I set the phone down and walk to the window, watching as twilight settles over the lake. Tomorrow is the ceremony. I’ll stand before this community and speak about honor, sacrifice, and living fully for those who can’t.
I’ll also see Letty again.
And whatever happens next, I’ll face it supremely grateful for every day I’ve been given that Gordy wasn’t.
Because that’s what survivors do. We live.