Kyler
Fayetteville, North Carolina
She fucking glows onstage.
Ivy’s always been beautiful—hell, heart-stopping. She can wreck me without even trying. When she’s half asleep in one of my old Army PT shirts, hair a tangled halo, makeup smudged under her lashes, mouth still swollen from kissing me stupid, I think she’s it. End of story.
But this?
This is something else entirely.
Otherworldly.
She moves like the music lives in her blood. Controlled and chaotic all at once. Silk threaded with steel. Every movement is deliberate. Every extension, every pointed toe, every impossibly slow développé, it all whispers something primal.
I’ve seen her dance before. In the Nutcracker at Christmastime. In videos and over FaceTime while she was in South Africa. At home, in the kitchen, barefoot and tipsy on red wine, teasing me with turns and pirouettes between spoonfuls of ice cream.
But never like this.
Never this version of her commanding an audience, commanding me, without saying a word.
This is her debut as a soloist with the Fayetteville Ballet Company. It’s a small venue. Local crowd. A hundred folding chairs and a squeaky spotlight. But it matters to her.
So it matters to me.
I put on a suit. Bought a bouquet big enough to embarrass her. Showered. Shaved. Used the expensive cologne she bought me as a wedding present.
After a week of nonstop ops—land nav in ankle-deep mud, shoot-house rotations, two back-to-back jumps, and one dislocated shoulder in the platoon—I still showed up.
Because she’s showing up. For herself. For her dream.
And she’s never looked more untouchable than she does right now.
When the final note fades and the applause starts, I’m already halfway to the wings.
I tell the staff my name and duck behind the curtain with the bouquet, delphiniums, poppies, and some spiky greenery the florist insisted on.
It cost more than we should be spending on flowers but I don’t care. She deserves to be spoiled.
She comes offstage breathless. Glowing.
Her cheeks are flushed, a dewy pink. Her bun is still flawless, twisted like a crown at the back of her head.
Her costume clings to her in all the ways that make my throat tight.
Her pale, pearl-gray tutu flares around her hips in soft, ethereal layers, light catching the tiny crystals that are sewn along the bodice with every breath she takes.
Her ribbons are still tied perfectly around her ankles, pointe shoes dulled at the tips, like the weaponized version of something delicate.
She looks like a dream.
Like something carved out of grace and willpower and absolute control.
And she’s mine.
A split second flickers across her face and she flies straight into my arms.
I catch her, lifting her off the ground instinctively, bouquet crushed between us.
Her mouth crashes into mine, and for just a moment, it feels like nothing in the world has teeth.
Like we’re still who we used to be. Ivy and Ky.
No distance. No blood. Just this thing between us that keeps choosing each other.
“Hi,” she whispers, breathless against my jaw, her legs still wrapped around my waist. “You came.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” I murmur, brushing my lips to her temple. “You were...you were unreal.”
She laughs, soft and a little shy, and it hits me in the sternum. I missed that sound. She untangles her legs from my body and I set her down reluctantly. Her glossy lips are a breath from mine but then the mob hits.
Her friends swarm us from the wings. Tights, stage makeup, ballerina buns and glitter still dusting their arms. They gush over Ivy. How perfect she was. Then they realize I’m there, too.
“Wait, you’re Kyler?” one of them says then leans toward Ivy like she’s sharing a secret but doesn’t actually whisper. “He’s real?” she asks Ivy. Then says to the other girl, “He’s real.”
Ivy rolls her eyes but she’s blushing. She tugs me closer like she’s staking her claim, arms looped casually around my waist, head resting on my chest.
I play along. I smile like I’m not still tense from a week of missions. Crack a joke. Throw an arm around her shoulder and kiss her hair.
She stays close. Doesn’t let go of me once. Not when she changes in the cramped dressing room. Not when she’s gathering flowers and cards and half-melted chocolate from well-wishers. Not even when the crowd finally filters out and the theater goes quiet again.
All the way to the truck, she’s glowing.
Like the stage left residue on her skin. Like the applause is still echoing inside her ribs. She’s lighter. Brighter. Unburdened for the first time in months.
And I feel it too.
A shift in the air. A breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
For the first time in too long, we’re not fighting. Not tiptoeing. Not haunted by ghosts.
Tonight, she danced. And I remembered what hope feels like.
We’re back home by nine. I cook—sort of. Throw steaks on the grill, pour her wine, slice vegetables while she sits on the counter with her legs swinging. It’s stupidly domestic. And I want to freeze it.
This thing between us? It hasn’t been easy lately. Not since the rescue. Not since the sleepless nights or the mornings I find her curled in the closet, trembling but refusing to talk about it.
But tonight feels like how it should be.
Normal. Happy. Fucking ours.
We’re in the kitchen cleaning up.
The lights are dim, just the soft pendant over the sink and the glow of the range hood casting gold over her bare shoulders. She’s at the sink, humming something classical, probably still stuck in her head from the performance, cheeks flushed from wine and praise.
She’s in one of my old T-shirts now. It hangs off one shoulder and barely hits mid-thigh, legs bare and ballerina-perfect, all toned muscle and sunkissed.
I toss a dish towel at her.
She catches it without looking, one-handed. Smirks. "You’re so smug for someone who burned the first steak," she says, tossing it back at my chest.
"Just building suspense," I fire back, leaning against the counter. "Like your dramatic-ass solo."
She snorts, nose crinkling. I grin. And for one sharp, unexpected second, it feels easy. Like we’re us again. Like the weight we’ve been carrying took the night off.
Maybe we’ll be okay.
I push off the counter and close the space between us.
She doesn’t flinch when I come up behind her. Doesn’t pull away. I slide my hands around her waist, palms warm against the thin cotton of my shirt, and press a kiss to the curve of her neck, right where her pulse flutters.
"Do you have any idea," I murmur against her skin, "how sexy you were up there." Another kiss, lower this time. "Made me want to drag you offstage. Right in front of everybody."
She giggles, soft and breathy, tilting her head to give me more room. "Pretty sure I would’ve let you."
That does something dangerous to me.
My hands tighten on her hips.
Her ass shifts into me just enough to feel it. Deliberate. Testing. She’s still got that dancer’s posture, even here—back straight, chin lifted, body humming with control. But she’s melting into me too, the last of the wine loosening her edges.
She turns in my arms, towel dropped, hands sliding up my chest.
"You really wore a suit," she whispers, smiling like it’s a secret. "And even used the cologne I like."
"I had to impress this hot ballerina I’m married to," I say, leaning down until our noses brush. "Think it worked?"
"Hmm." Her fingers toy with the buttons of my shirt. "Might need some extra convincing."
We’re toeing the line. That place where laughter softens into something heavier. Where tension turns electric. Her body fits against mine like it remembers every night we didn’t sleep, every wall we’ve tried to rebuild. Her lips part like she’s about to speak but I don’t give her the chance.
I kiss her. Slow. Sure. Like I mean it. Like I missed this, her taste, her mouth, the way she sighs into me like I’m still safe.
And for that one perfect heartbeat, she kisses me back like nothing’s broken.
Like maybe we’ve still got a shot. Her mouth is warm and urgent against mine.
I kiss her like I’ve got nowhere else to be.
Nothing else in the world to do but memorize the soft, gasping sounds she makes when my hands roam under the hem of my shirt, her shirt now, really, skimming the smooth line of her back, the sharp dip of her waist.
"Ky—" she breathes, fingers working at the buttons of my shirt again, tugging it free. "I missed you."
"I’m right here," I murmur, kissing the corner of her mouth, then lower, along her jaw. "I’m not going anywhere."
She arches against me, nails digging lightly into my skin. My hands find her thighs and I lift her onto the counter in one smooth motion. She gasps, legs wrapping around my hips, mouth already finding mine again. It’s hungry. A little messy.
But it’s still her. Still us.
My hand fumbles blindly along the counter, knocking aside a stack of clean dishes as I brace my weight beside her. A fork clatters into the sink. A plate shifts. And then. A sharp, violent shatter.
Ivy jerks like she’s been shot.
A thick glass plate lies in shards across the kitchen tile.
Her body stiffens. Her eyes go wide and flat all at once, the color draining from her face like someone flipped a switch.
“Ivy,” I say softly, backing off. I keep my voice low, hands raised just enough to show her I’m not a threat. “It’s just me.”
She blinks once. Twice. Her pupils are dilated. Her jaw’s tight, clenched so hard I can see the muscle ticcing beneath her cheekbone. She carefully slides off the counter like the wrong motion will shatter her next.
“Sorry,” she says too flatly. “That just startled me.”
Her hands are still trembling. Not just a little. Not a post performance adrenaline kind of tremble. This is deeper. Cellular. Like something in her system is still screaming even though her body’s trying to play it cool.
I take a step toward her.
But she spins before I can close the distance.
Her lips crash against mine messy, urgent, all teeth and breath and need.
It doesn’t feel like her anymore. Not really.
It’s Ivy’s mouth, Ivy’s scent, Ivy’s fingers dragging down my chest toward the buttons still closed.
But it’s not her mind that’s kissing me.
It’s something else. Some autopilot survival mechanism that knows how to mimic desire but not feel it.
My back hits the counter.
She’s already yanking at my shirt. Half of the buttons tear open before I can catch her wrists.
“Ivy—”
“Please, Ky.” Her voice cracks, almost inaudible. “I need this.”
No, she doesn’t. Not like this.
She can’t even look at me.
She’s staring past my shoulder. Through me. Somewhere far away, where her brain has burrowed for cover and left her body behind.
“Ivy, baby—”
Her hands drop to my belt, yanking hard, frantic. It’s not seductive. It’s panicked. Like if she doesn’t get it open fast enough, something inside her might implode.
I catch her hands.
Not rough. Just firm. Still.
Her whole body freezes. I feel it in the sudden absence of motion. Like someone hit pause on her bloodstream.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.
“Ivy,” I say again, slower this time. A tether. A lifeline. “Look at me.”
She lifts her head, barely. Her eyes finally meet mine, but they’re wide and glassy and rimmed in something sharp. Shame. Fear. Fury. I don’t know which.
“You’re not okay,” I say gently. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t want to talk.” Her voice snaps like a rubber band. She yanks her hands from mine and pushes off my chest, not enough to move me, just enough to reclaim space. “I just want…”
“To pretend like you’re fine?” I cut in before I can stop myself. “To forget something that’s still living in your skin?”
She jerks back like I hit her.
Her chest rises and falls in shallow bursts. Her face twists.
“You think I’m broken.”
“No.” My voice is low. Steady. I’m begging her to believe me without actually begging. “I think you’re hurting. And I’m your husband, Ivy. Let me be here for you.”
She crosses her arms. Armor. Her spine snaps straight, chin lifted, the same posture she used the night the extraction chopper lifted off.
Her voice is quieter when she speaks again. Brittle. Dangerous. “You’re not rejecting me, but it feels like you are. Do you know how fucked up that is?”
I swallow. Hard. And try to think of the last time I heard Ivy swear.
“Yeah,” I say. “I do. It is fucked. But so is pretending sex will fix something we haven’t even said out loud yet.”
Her eyes narrow, jaw clenches, and I know I’ve lost her. At least for tonight. She turns without a word. Walks out of the kitchen on bare, silent feet, her wineglass on the counter behind her. Her silhouette disappears into the living room.
I hear the soft creak of the wood floor as she settles onto the couch. The sound of her curling in on herself.
I stay where I am. Shirt open, belt hanging useless, hands braced on the edge of the counter.
My fingers curl into fists before I even realize I’m doing it.
Not because I’m angry. Because I feel like a fucking failure. Because this woman, this fierce, bright, beautiful woman I love with everything I’ve got, is unraveling in front of me. And I don’t know how to stop it.
I pulled her out of that goddamn compound with my own two hands. I carried her to the medevac. I didn’t leave her behind. But somehow she’s still trapped.
And I don’t know how to set her free.