Kyler
Fayetteville, North Carolina
I can still taste the metallic edge of blood in the back of my throat—dry, cracked lip split during the last ruck of week one and it hasn’t been able to heal.
My lungs ache. My hands are scraped raw.
I’m pretty sure I’ll have to get a few of my tattoos redone after the nasty fall I took, completely skinning my right shin. But I made it.
Selection’s done.
I don’t let myself feel much. Because nothing’s guaranteed, not until the final call comes in.
Just because I survived the last few weeks doesn’t mean I’ve made the team.
There's still the board. The background checks. The interviews. The waiting. And if I do get the call—if I’m one of the ones who make it through—it only gets harder from here.
OTC’s waiting. Six relentless months of training. A full reset. New standard. New world. The hardest part of my life hasn’t even started yet.
But something in my chest has settled, heavy and solid. Like a door has opened, and I already stepped through.
Novak, Santiago, and Olson also passed selection and wanted to grab a drink.
Quiet bar off-post, barely lit, with a sticky floor and a single TV hanging crooked on the wall.
It’s the kind of place no one looks twice at you, which is exactly what I need.
I’m not interested in celebrating. Not yet.
My body’s too wrecked and my brain’s too wired.
And that’s when I see her.
She walks in like the rest of the room doesn't exist.
She’s small. Ridiculously so. Maybe five feet tall, with a dancer’s frame, compact but elegant.
Like her body was built with grace and made for control.
Her blonde hair in some kind of ballet knot, it doesn’t move when she turns her head.
Her posture’s perfect. Chin high, shoulders down.
Flawless makeup—smokey eyes, long, curled lashes, soft pink lips.
She’s not flashy. No heels. No sparkles. Just jeans that hug her curves and a plain dark green T-shirt tucked in slightly in the front.
She and her friend slide onto two barstools at the far end. They order wine, actual wine. Not whatever’s on draft—and I clock the way she moves. Every motion is intentional. Like even the way she lifts the glass is choreographed.
She doesn’t belong here.
And yet she fits. Like she’s claimed the space without even trying.
“Earth to Wade,” Novak says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m still watching her.
She laughs at something her friend says, head tipped back just slightly, and I feel it like a punch straight to the chest. Honest laughter. Unbothered.
I don’t remember the last time I looked at someone and felt this kind of pull. This kind of stillness within.
“Yeah, I’m—” I start to answer, but I never finish.
Her friend slides off the barstool, laughing as she heads toward the bathroom. And the second she’s by herself, she turns her head, like she already knew I’d been watching.
And fuck me. I freeze.
Not because she caught me staring. I don’t embarrass that easy. But because of what happens next.
She smiles.
Not a polite one. Not a bored, barroom smirk meant to bait attention.
It’s full. Genuine. A quiet, knock-the-air-out-of-your-chest kind of smile.
Like she’s not trying to be anything but exactly who she is.
And for a second, it’s like the noise of the room fades out completely.
Her amber eyes catch the light and glow warm.
Curious. Bright. That single look tells me she’s the kind of woman who feels everything deeply and doesn't waste time pretending otherwise.
I don’t look away.
Neither does she.
It’s maybe two seconds, maybe ten, before she lifts her glass, takes a sip of wine, and tilts her head, just enough to say well? without using a single word.
And hell if I don’t move.
I mutter something to the guys—probably “back in a minute,” though I doubt they hear me—and slide off my barstool. Arms aching, back screaming, boots feeling like cement blocks. But I cross the room anyway.
She watches me the whole time, chin still high, lashes low, like she already knows how this is going to go.
Close up, she’s even more stunning. The kind of pretty that sneaks up on you. Her skin’s flushed, maybe it’s the lighting, maybe it’s the wine, and there’s a faint smudge of eyeliner beneath one eye like she’s human after all.
She tilts her head as if studying me. “Do you always stare at women across the bar, or am I just lucky?”
A short breath of a laugh escapes me. “Just you.”
Her lips quirk, pleased but not smug. “Good answer.”
She scoots slightly on the stool, a subtle invitation. I don’t sit. Not yet. Instead, I brace a hand lightly on the bar beside her, close enough to smell her perfume. Something clean and faintly floral. Not overpowering, but it makes me lean in.
She tilts her head, studying me. “You look like hell.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Um, thanks?”
She smiles, just a little. “Long day?”
“Long month. I’m Kyler,” I offer.
“My name is Ivy.”
Of course it is.
She turns her wine glass between her fingers—thoughtful—and says, “I had an audition earlier. At a local ballet company for Swan Lake this season.”
That explains the hair and makeup. The posture. The grace in every motion.
“Did it go well?” I ask.
She shrugs one shoulder, elegant even in that. “Hard to say. I felt good. But they don’t always care how you feel.”
I nod. I know that truth too well.
Her eyes narrow, scanning me. Taking in the exposed ink on my left arm, the way I carry myself, the black boots, the close-cropped haircut. “Are you military?” she asks.
I pause. “Yeah.”
“Army?”
“Something like that,” I say, keeping my tone light.
She arches a brow. “That vague, huh?”
I grin, taking a sip of my beer. “That vague.”
She turns her wine glass between her fingers again, but her eyes stay on mine. “You don’t seem like you came here looking for company.”
“I didn’t,” I admit.
“But you came over anyway.”
I nod once. “Yes.”
Her cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink.
She looks down for a second, then back up at me through her lashes, like she’s trying to decide what kind of man I am.
If I’m dangerous. If I’m worth the risk.
She must decide I am—at least for now—because she sets her glass down, turns more fully toward me, and says, “Want to sit?”
I pull the stool beside her and sit, trying to ignore the way my knees creak from everything I just survived.
I’m twenty-seven but I might as well be sixty-five for all the hell the Army’s put my body through.
Ivy angles slightly toward me, elbow resting lightly on the edge of the bar, chin tipped just enough that I catch the light glinting off her lashes.
“So,” she says, swirling the last of her wine, “Kyler. Mysterious Army guy. Are you always so talkative?”
A faint smirk tugs at my mouth. “Only when the company’s worth it.”
“Mmm. Smooth.”
I grin again. “Wasn’t trying to be.”
“No?” She cocks an eyebrow. “So the line about me being the only woman you’ve ever stared at across a bar, that wasn’t a line?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Just the truth.”
She gives me a look like she’s trying to figure out if I’m full of shit.
“You’re not from here,” she says instead, watching me.
“I’m not.”
“Passing through?”
“Stationed here.”
She hums. “You know, you’re really good at saying nothing.”
I shrug. “I think it depends on the question.”
Ivy leans in slightly. “Okay, well how about this. What would you answer?”
Almost nothing from the last nine years.
I glance over at her. She’s watching me carefully, not pushing exactly, but not letting me skate by either. I shift on the stool, eyes on the bar.
“I’m from a nowhere town in Oklahoma,” I say eventually. “The kind with one traffic light and three churches.”
She nods slowly, letting that settle. “And?”
I blow out a slow breath. “And my dad was a drunk who took more swings at me than he did at sobriety. My mom left when I was nine. I haven’t seen her since.”
Where the fuck did that come from?
Her expression softens. Not pity, more like understanding. It flashes in her golden eyes but is gone just as quickly. “So you joined the Army.”
“Yeah.” I look down at the condensation on my bottle. “Got out as soon as I could and didn’t look back.”
When I glance back at her, she’s not looking away. No flinch. No awkwardness. “I figured there had to be a reason you look like you’ve got a permanent chip on your shoulder,” she says softly, but there’s no malice in it.
I let out a short breath, might’ve even been a laugh. “That obvious?”
“A little.” Her lips curve. “You’ve got that tortured-hero thing going, but it works for you.”
We fall into a quiet moment, the buzz of the bar around us fading like background noise. There’s something grounding about her presence, like I’m not expected to be anything other than what I am. Even tattered. Even vague. Even guarded.
And then, before I can say a word, she rises onto her toes and presses a kiss to my cheek.
Not rushed. Not coy. Just soft. Deliberate.
“I don’t know what you’ve been through,” she whispers, “but whatever it is...you looked like you needed a reason to breathe tonight.” She pulls back, her soft, amber eyes sparkling in the dim light.
She glances over my shoulder. Her friend’s on her way back. Ivy leans in, close enough that I feel the warmth of her breath against my cheek again. She pulls a pen from her purse, scribbles her number on a napkin, and presses it into my hand.
I close my fingers around it.
A moment later, her friend slides back onto the stool beside her. Same ballerina posture and perfect hair and makeup. She takes one look at Ivy, then at me, and her green eyes warm with something between curiosity and caution.
“Are you military?” she asks, not unkind.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, giving a polite nod, then cringing at the automatic response. This girl has to be barely old enough to be in a bar and I just ma’amed her.
She laughs like being ma’amed is something she’s used to. Her gaze flicks down to the napkin still half-visible in my hand, then back up to Ivy who’s suddenly pretending to be very interested in her wine glass.
The brunette smiles. It’s gentle. Knowing. “Figures,” she murmurs. “You’ve got that Call of Duty incarnate look.”
I smirk and the entire interaction earns a laugh from Ivy.
I push off the stool. “Nice to meet you,” I say, nodding to her.
She offers a small smile. “You too. I’m Lila.”
“Kyler.”
She nods once, then glances at Ivy who’s watching me like she’s not sure she wants this moment to end.
Which is exactly why I have to walk away.
“I hope you both have a nice night.” I tip my bottle toward them, then turn and start weaving through the crowd.
“You too, Kyler.”
It’s Ivy’s voice. I glance back. She’s smiling softly. And hell if it doesn’t land somewhere deep in my chest. I’m still smiling like an idiot when I get back to the table.
Novak clocks it first. “Shit, he’s grinning. That’s suspicious as hell.”
Santiago leans forward, narrowing his eyes. “Be honest. Is she magic or something? I’ve never seen you chase after anything that wasn’t classified.”
I shake my head, dropping into the seat. The napkin is still in my hand. I don’t let go of it. “Fuck off,” I say, huffing a laugh.
“Bro, I’ve watched women trip over each other to talk to you,” Novak says. “You usually don’t even look up from your drink.”
“Yeah,” Olson snorts. “But this one? You got up and walked all the way across the bar when you can barely move like some kind of golden retriever with a hard-on.”
They all laugh. I don’t.
Santiago points at the napkin in my hand. “So she gave you the number?”
I nod once. “She did.”
I glance back toward the bar. She’s still there mid conversation with Lila. She’s not looking this way. Just sitting quietly, spinning the stem of her wine glass like she doesn’t realize she’s doing it. Her lips are parted like she’s about to say something.
I look away.
Then take a long pull of my beer but it goes down like warm tap water.
“What happened?” Novak asks finally, more serious this time.
I pause. It’s loud around us, glasses clinking, music thumping, laughter spilling from the booth behind us but somehow, all I hear is her voice saying my name.
I shift in my seat. And then I say it. Quiet. Honest. “I don’t know.”