Chapter 7 Morgan
SEVEN
Morgan
I felt a thin thread of panic as I weighed Cole’s suggestion about office work. It wasn’t what I’d pictured for myself when I first signed enlistment papers, but that was before Gabbi had become my priority.
Office work. A desk. A routine. A badge on a lanyard instead of learning and maybe teaching.
I used to joke I’d rather chew glass, but that was when my life was just mine.
Now I’d do anything—even the quiet and boring stuff—even as a flicker of fear ran under my skin at the thought of being trapped somewhere I couldn’t run from.
I didn’t have a college degree. My skillset outside the Army was a patchwork of whatever I’d needed to survive from one deployment to the next. But eight years of service were enough to qualify me for the GI Bill. Enough to give me a chance to learn something else. Something stable.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, though the truth was my options were pathetically thin.
“Good. I mean… you know the boss,” he deadpanned, thumbed at himself, and then went scarlet. “I didn’t mean…what I meant was…” He rolled his eyes. “Stupid joke.”
I didn’t have it in me to joke back. My head was buzzing with everything I couldn’t say, and then the door swung open. Jazz stepped inside, Rascal perched on his shoulder like some tiny, judgmental kitty guardian angel.
At breakfast, he’d quietly volunteered to watch Gabbi while I went to my first therapy session.
The offer had blindsided me. I didn’t want to let her out of my sight for a second, but I also knew how it would look if I walked into therapy clutching my daughter like the building was on fire and she was the only thing worth saving.
I wasn’t ready to let her go. Not for minutes let alone an hour.
“Ready for it?” Jazz said, avoiding the therapy word in front of Cole.
“I guess so,” I said, but didn’t move.
Jazz drifted closer, Rascal immediately abandoning his shoulder for Cole’s lap. Cole huffed a soft laugh and scratched the kitten’s head, his big hand dwarfing the tiny body.
“Traitor,” Jazz muttered.
“Rascal has good taste,” Cole fired back, and when Jazz rolled his eyes, Cole added, “What? I’m great. Adorable animals love me.”
Jazz snorted. “Adorable animals tolerate you. Big difference.”
Their bickering was light, easy, familiar, and Cole fussed the kitten until it purred loud enough to fill the room. I hated how much I wanted him to keep doing it.
“Here, let me take Gabbi,” Jazz said.
I stood and handed Gabbi to Jazz. “She’s due a bottle in an hour.
She’s napped, so you might have to entertain her.
She likes the swing, but only on the lowest setting.
She hates being put down cold, and if she starts fussing, humming works better than talking.
Oh—and don’t let her near your hoodie strings; she’ll eat them. ”
Jazz took me completely seriously, nodding along as if I were briefing him for a hostage rescue.
“And—okay, also—she startles easily,” I added, my voice speeding up without my permission.
“Loud noises make her flail, but if you keep a hand on her belly, she settles faster. She likes looking at faces, so don’t, uh…
don’t walk away too far. And if she spits up, it’s not always much, but it looks like a lot, so don’t freak out.
And she gets a little cough sometimes before she cries—it’s not choking, it’s just a thing she does.
And her blanket—the blue one, not the yellow—she likes that one because it’s softer, don’t mix them up. And—”
Jazz raised a hand. “Morgan. I’ve got her. I swear.”
My pulse was doing its own panicked drumbeat. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. I won’t be long.” Please god don’t let the therapy session be long.
Cole made a show of checking his watch. “I guess I need to get going, too…”
Fuck, I wanted to ask him to stay, so he’d be here when I came out, but the words lodged in me because what the hell was I even thinking?
I didn’t know whether I wanted him to stay so I could avoid therapy…
or because he was ridiculously nice to look at.
Or because when he was here, the air in my lungs didn’t feel as if it had to fight its way out.
“You could stick around,” Jazz said. “Marcus is cooking chili, and we’re doing a games night later.”
Cole glanced at me, then back at Jazz. “If that’s okay?”
“Sure,” Jazz said, casual as anything, as if he hadn’t just made my damn day by inviting Cole to stay.
“I’ll, uh… yeah, I’ll… see you later,” I managed, every word tripping over the next as though my mouth had forgotten how talking worked. Heat crawled up my neck, and before I embarrassed myself further, I ducked down to kiss Gabbi’s head instead. “Thanks, Jazz.”
“No worries. You know where you’re going?”
“Yeah.” Room 7. Dr. Whitman—Elena. Easy enough to remember. Just… a hell of a lot harder to convince myself it wouldn’t go badly.
Elena was a woman in her late forties with a calm, motherly presence that somehow filled the whole room without crowding me.
We’d met briefly in the kitchen, where she’d made a fuss of Gabbi, but we hadn’t spoken much other than exchanging pleasantries.
Her office smelled of lavender and old books—not unpleasant, but it made my skin itch anyway, like I was supposed to relax on command.
A couch sat next to the wall, soft and low, and a single chair angled beside it as if she’d planned exactly where I’d sit before I walked in.
“Morgan?” she said. “Come in. Sit wherever you feel comfortable.”
I hovered, because I didn’t feel comfortable anywhere, and it took a moment for me to drop into the chair, hands clasped between my knees.
“Just so you know,” I blurted before she sat down, “I don’t need counseling about deployment. Or being a dad. Or about Gabbi’s mom dying.” The words crashed out in a single breath. “I’m fine. All of that—I’m fine.”
Elena didn’t flinch. “Thank you for telling me what you don’t want to talk about.” She folded her hands in her lap, steady and unbothered. “How about we start with something simple, then? Tell me about your favorite book—any one that comes to mind.”
My head jerked up before I could stop it. “How did you know I like books?” I snapped—too defensive. Like she’d pried something out of me I hadn’t meant to give.
Elena stayed calm. “You mentioned reading during breakfast yesterday. You were talking to Jazz about Gabbi liking the sound of you reading aloud.” She tipped her head, warm but not pitying. “It seemed like a good place to start.”
I opened my mouth to argue again—because apparently that was my default now—but the words jammed in my throat. Christ. Why was I coming in so hot? She hadn’t accused me of anything, but I was acting as if she’d cornered me in an interrogation room.
I dragged a hand over my face. “Sorry. I’m not—I don’t usually… snap like that.”
Elena’s smile was small and patient. “People often get defensive when they’re scared. It’s human. You don’t need to apologize for being human, Morgan.”
Great. So now I was defensive and predictable, and I couldn’t get the words out of my head. I took a breath and a moment to center myself.
“I like a lot of books,” I said at last, the words stiff at first, then loosening.
“Mostly thrillers. Action-adventure. Stuff where the danger’s on the page, not real life.
” My leg started bouncing, and I forced it still.
“When I was a kid, I used to read Willard Price. Those… uh, animal adventure ones? I must’ve read Adventure like twenty times. ”
Her expression warmed. “Those are wonderful books.”
“Yeah.” My voice came out quieter. “And then later I got into detective stuff. Police procedurals. Mysteries. Figured if I couldn’t fix anything in real life, at least someone got justice in a book.”
The second the words left my mouth, my stomach dropped. Jesus. Why the hell had I said that? That was… personal. Too personal. And I hadn’t meant to hand it over like it was nothing.
I felt myself stiffen, every muscle bracing for her to dig, to poke at the soft, stupid place I’d just exposed.
But Elena didn’t pounce.
She nodded, slow and thoughtful, as though what I’d said made perfect sense. “Stories where justice comes through can be comforting,” she said. “Especially for people who’ve seen too much of the opposite.”
I didn’t know what to say to that—didn’t know how to pretend it didn’t hit dead-center. I lifted a shoulder, trying for indifferent and landing somewhere closer to fragile.
“It’s just books,” I muttered. “Nothing deep.”
Elena smiled—not calling me out. “Most meaningful things look simple on the surface. We can come back to that later. For now… tell me what you liked about those Willard Price adventures. What made you pick them up again and again?”
My mouth opened before my brain caught up. “My dad used to read them to me.” The words were quiet, almost unsure, like they weren’t mine yet. “Before he… before he passed. Cancer. I was eight.”
Elena’s expression softened, but she didn’t tilt her head or say she was sorry or give me that look people do when they don’t know what to do with grief that old. She just… listened.
“Mom wasn’t much of a reader,” I went on, heat prickling the back of my neck. “After he died, it was just me and the books. Same ones, over and over. Felt like…” I swallowed. “Felt like I could still hear him when I opened them.”
Elena’s voice stayed gentle. “There’s safety in repetition. In knowing what comes next. In opening a book and finding the same words waiting for you, unchanged, when everything else has shifted under your feet.”
My chest was too tight. She’d gotten too close, too fast, without even trying.
I stared at my hands. “Yeah. I guess… I liked knowing nothing bad could surprise me. Not in those books. I knew the dangers—they were written down. I knew the ending. I knew the brothers always made it out. Safe. Together.” My throat ached.
“Real life isn’t always like that,” Elena said. “But the things we return to—stories, routines, old books—they show us what our nervous system is trying to find again. Predictability. Safety. A place where you don’t have to brace for the next hit.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t meant to. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
Elena let the quiet settle—not heavy, not awkward, just… room to breathe. She asked a few easy things after that. What Gabbi liked. Whether I’d always been a morning person. If I’d tried Marcus’s chili yet. Was I looking forward to New Year’s Eve? Nothing that mattered enough to hurt.
And somehow, talking about absolutely nothing made it easier to sit there without feeling like my skin was too tight.
After a while, she closed the notebook she’d barely written in. “I think that’s a good start for today.”
Panic flickered—too fast, too stupid. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she said, smiling as if she knew exactly what that question meant. “For homework, I want you to get those Willard Price books again. Start with the one you loved most. Read it—out loud to Gabbi if that feels right. Let repetition be something safe, not something you’re surviving.”
I blinked at her. “That’s… seriously all?”
“Seriously, all,” she said with a smile. “We build trust slowly here. One familiar chapter at a time.”
Her words shouldn’t have landed the way they did, but they sank deeper than I was ready for.
I stood too fast, mumbled a thanks that barely sounded like me, and backed out before she could nudge me anywhere real. Maybe if I kept moving—kept busy—I could dodge the harder conversations while I was at Guardian Hall.
Yeah. Sure. I’ve got this.
I headed straight for the music room, already reaching for that tiny burst of relief I always felt when I saw Gabbi—except the room was empty. No blanket. No kitten. No baby.
My pulse jumped before my brain caught up. Jazz had her. Right. Jazz had her. Everything was okay. I followed the noise—voices, clatter, the low hum of people who felt comfortable here—and made my way toward the kitchen.
Sure enough, that was where they all were.
Jazz sat at the table with Gabbi propped in his arms, Rascal curled snugly next to them. Cole sat beside them, one hand steadying Gabbi’s tiny foot as he made faces at her to make her laugh.
Marcus was at the stove, wooden spoon in one hand, pot of chili bubbling away. Tyler hovered beside him, chopping something badly but enthusiastically—Marcus muttering corrections the whole time.
None of the other guests were around yet, but they’d be down soon enough.
And then the kitchen would be packed, loud, crowded…
but this many people I could handle. Cole noticed me hovering, brightened, and lifted Gabbi’s tiny hand to wiggle it in my direction.
“And here’s Daddy!” he announced to her, as if it were the best part of her whole day.
Something inside me just—melted. No warning, no permission. Just heat spreading through me, which was terrifying and way too much. Daddy. As if being Gabbi’s father wasn’t a complicated mess. As if it wasn’t something I was still figuring out in real time. As if it were simple.
Gabbi gurgled as if she agreed, her tiny fist flailing toward me, and Cole looked back up at me with this open, easy grin that made my knees forget how to function for a second.
Jesus. I was in trouble.