Chapter 8 Cole #2
Across from us, Jazz froze mid-juggle, his expression softening.
He whistled low for Rascal, scooped the kitten up, and rose without a word.
He didn’t make a joke, didn’t fill the silence the way he usually did.
He just gave me one quiet look—stay with him—then slipped out, the door gently shutting behind him.
The room felt smaller without him. Quieter. More exposed.
Morgan drew in a shaky breath, another, and then… he broke. His face crumpled, the tears hitting fast and hot, silent at first, like he was ashamed to make a sound. He hunched over Gabbi protectively, as if he could cry without her noticing, as if hiding it made it less real.
He tried to swallow it down. Tried to apologize through it.
“I’m—sorry—” he choked, the words barely audible, raw and cracking. “I don’t—I didn’t mean to—I’m just tired, and I can’t—I can’t seem to—”
“Hey,” I murmured, already shifting closer without thinking. “No. You don’t owe me an apology.”
Gabbi wriggled in his arms, confused by the tension, so I reached out and steadied her, my hand brushing Morgan’s. He flinched—not away, just startled—and then, slowly, he turned his palm up and reached for me.
I let him take my hand.
His fingers wrapped around mine, desperate, grounding himself with that small grip as though he thought he might fall apart if he let go.
“Cole…” His voice cracked again, his breath stuttering as he tried to get control. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t be—falling apart like this. Not in front of you. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” I said as firm as I could. “It’s human. And you don’t have to hide from me.”
He squeezed my hand harder, head bowed, tears hitting the back of Gabbi’s tiny shirt.
He dragged in a shaky breath, trying to get the words out.
“Group was… hard today,” he whispered. “They wanted us to talk about the things we keep pretending don’t hurt anymore—the stuff from before.
I keep telling myself I’m okay—that I don’t need to think about back then—but I’m not okay, Cole. I’m not.”
“I’m listening.” It felt important to say that.
“They asked us to share one memory,” he whispered, voice thin. “Not even one of the big ones. Just… something from before everything fell apart. Something that stuck.” He swallowed hard. “I couldn’t pick. They all hurt. But then one came up, and I couldn’t stop seeing it.”
I moved closer, keeping our hands joined.
“It was deployment,” he murmured. “The second one. Out in the desert for weeks. We got hit. Mortars. Close. No warning.” His breath snagged.
“Everyone dropped. Training takes over—your body just moves. You don’t think.
But he…” Morgan swallowed hard. “My friend Benny froze. Just stood there in the open.”
He blinked rapidly, tears gathering again.
“I grabbed him. Pulled him down. Shoved him behind the wall with me. He was shaking so bad he couldn’t even hold his rifle.”
His eyes shut tight, pain pulling at every line of his face.
“I kept telling him we had to move. Had to run. But he just stared at me like—like I could fix it.”
Another breath. Shaky. Broken.
“And then the second mortar hit.” He flinched as though he felt the shockwave all over again. “It hit the wall. The part he was leaning on.”
His voice cracked. “He didn’t make a sound. He just—disappeared.”
He dragged a hand over his face, breath shaking, tears spilling unchecked.
“I didn’t even have time to check if he was alive. Couldn’t. I had to move. I had to keep going.”
He sucked in a fractured breath.
“And today… they asked us that question. ‘When did you realize you weren’t safe?’” He let out a broken laugh. “And that moment jumped out like my brain was right back there. Dust, heat, noise. Benny… just gone.”
He opened his eyes again, raw and shining.
He drew a ragged breath.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I feel like I’m failing Gabbi,” he whispered. “Every day. Every decision. I’m so scared I’ll get something wrong, and they’ll—take her. Or judge me. Or say I’m broken, and that I’m not enough.”
“You are enough,” I said, the words leaving me before I could second-guess them. “You’re doing everything right. She’s safe. She’s loved. And you’re not alone, Morgan. You don’t have to be.”
He shook his head, overwhelmed, but he didn’t let go of my hand.
If anything, he held on tighter.
I shifted until our knees touched, closing the space between us, making it impossible for him to pretend I wasn’t right there with him.
“Look at me,” I said quietly.
He lifted his head—red-rimmed eyes, tear-streaked face, every emotion stripped bare.
God. It wrecked me.
“We’re all here for you,” I said, then amended it. “I’m here.”
Something in him broke again—but quieter this time, and he leaned into me, shoulder brushing mine, still holding my hand as if it was the only thing keeping him steady.
Gabbi made a little sound, pressing her cheek to his chest, and Morgan’s grip fluttered as if he was trying to get himself under control again. His breath shook, but he didn’t pull back. If anything, he shifted closer, our thighs pressed together, our joined hands resting on his knee.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, quieter this time, like an exhausted reflex rather than a belief. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“I want to see you,” I said, and he startled at the honesty in it. “Not the version you think you have to be. You. The person you are right now.”
His chin trembled. He blinked hard, as if he was trying to force back tears, but new ones slipped free anyway.
“Morgan,” I murmured, letting my thumb brush the back of his hand, slow and steady. “You don’t have to be okay with me.”
He exhaled on a broken sound—half sob, half relief—and turned his hand so our fingers laced properly, holding on as if he meant it.
“I don’t know why you’re being this kind to me,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.
I did. But I wasn’t about to say it. Not yet. Instead, I leaned in, my shoulder pressed fully to his, letting my warmth settle around him.
“Because you deserve it,” I said.
He stared at me as though no one had ever told him that before.
Then Gabbi shifted again, reaching toward me, tiny fingers brushing my arm. I huffed a laugh and eased my free hand up to steady her.
Morgan watched that too—really watched me—and something in his expression changed. More open. Scared, but wanting.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“You don’t have to thank me,” I said. “Just… let us all be here.”
He nodded, small, fragile, but honest.
And then—slowly, cautiously—he leaned his weight on me, trusting me to hold him up.
So, I did.