Kyler
Fort Bragg
Ivy’s asleep when I walk in.
Curled on her side, bare shoulder just visible above the sheets, blonde hair fanned across the pillow like a goddamn painting. Like the kind of dream you wake up aching for.
I should be quiet. I should shower. I smell like the desert—sweat, dust, gunpowder, fear.
But I don’t move.
I just stand there, chest burning, watching her breathe.
I was supposed to be home two days ago. But shit happened—again. Mission shift. Quick tasking. One of those jobs I’m not allowed to talk about. So I didn’t. Not to her. I didn’t even call. I had five minutes. Probably could’ve stretched it to ten.
Instead, I sat with the phone in my hand and told myself she’d understand.
She always does.
My eyes drop to the nightstand.
But now, standing here, I know.
She doesn’t. Not anymore.
Her wedding ring is sitting there like it doesn’t fucking mean anything. Like it’s just metal now.
My stomach sinks.
Ivy never takes it off. I’ve seen her with torn-up feet, blood in her pointe shoes, sobbing in the shower after rehearsals that broke her. But that ring? Still on. Always.
Until now.
My pulse kicks hard in my throat.
I take a slow step forward—and that’s when I see it.
The suitcase.
Tucked against the dresser, half zipped like she hasn’t quite committed to the trip. One side of it’s sagging open, sneakers peeking out between a rolled T-shirt and the edge of her passport case.
She was going to leave.
I don’t remember moving. I’m just there, sitting too hard on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under my weight and she stirs, eyes blinking open in the dark.
She sees me. Really sees me.
And she goes still.
Not surprised.
Not relieved.
Just...braced.
That’s the part that kills me.
She’s braced for me.
I flick on the bedside lamp.
“Ky,” she says, voice rough from sleep. Careful. Like she’s talking to something unstable.
I reach out. My fingers barely skim her shoulder—warm skin under my calloused hand—but she doesn’t lean in. She just…stays still.
“How long?” I ask, voice like gravel.
She swallows. “How long what?”
I nod toward the nightstand. The ring. “How long have you been thinking about leaving?”
She sits up slowly, the sheet falling, pooling around her legs like it’s got no idea it’s witnessing the end of us.
She’s wearing pale pink sleep shorts—soft, barely there ones with the little lace trim. And a matching tank. It’s not intentional, but it might as well be because I used to worship her in that outfit.
She’s the kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you. The kind that wrecks you when you’re not looking.
I’ve seen her like this a thousand times—in the quiet before dawn, legs tangled with mine, skin warm from sleep and her mouth lazy with I love yous.
But now?
Now she’s sitting there in the same damn pajamas, heartbroken and distant, and all I can think is I’ll never see her like that again. Now she just looks tired.
“Ky” she says again, and it’s not a greeting. It’s not a welcome. It’s a warning.
I thread my hands together to give them something to do. “You were going to leave.”
She doesn’t deny it. Her eyes lower, lashes dark against her cheeks.
I wait. But she stays silent.
“Say something,” I snap.
She swallows hard, then finally whispers, “I can’t do this anymore.”
I flinch. Physically. Like the words hit skin. “Do what?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely around the room, but I know what she means. “The waiting. The disappearing. The missed calls. The silence.”
“I told you—”
“You missed her first birthday, Kyler.”
My mouth opens. Closes.
“I sent you videos. Of her smashing cake and trying to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ with that tiny voice and a tiara sliding off her head. And you didn’t even text back.”
“I was on a fucking mission—”
“There’s always a mission!” Her voice cracks like glass. “There’s always something more important than us!”
“That’s not fair,” I growl, but she’s already on her feet, pulling the sheet with her like it’s armor.
But it’s too late. I already saw her little pink shorts that barely cover anything.
That thin tank, stretched across her chest, no bra underneath.
One strap slipping down her shoulder like an invitation she doesn’t mean to send.
Hair tangled from sleep. Eyes wild, cheeks flushed, lips parted from breathing too fast.
She looks wrecked. Raw. Like everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I’m about to lose.
And it hits me hard—how much I still want her. How I’d sell my soul just to run my hands down the length of her, taste that soft skin again, hear the sound she makes when I kiss just beneath her ear.
“No?” she spits. “You missed every anniversary. Every. One.”
“I never forgot them.”
“But you weren’t here, Ky. That’s the point. You weren’t here. Not for me. Not for Hadley. You’re like this—this ghost that shows up when he wants and then disappears without a trace.”
“I don’t get to pick when the phone rings,” I snap. “You knew what I did when you married me.”
She exhales, trembling. “I thought I could handle it. But I didn’t know it would feel like this.”
I don’t even know what this means. I don’t think she does either.
“You knew I loved you,” I say, quieter now.
“I did.” Her eyes shine. “And I loved you, too. But I don’t think that’s enough anymore.”
Something tears open inside me. Deep.
“You think I haven’t tried?” I say, voice sharp now. “You think I don’t lie awake at night in some shitty cot wondering what else I missed? Wondering if our baby girl’s saying new words? If she’s asking for me and you don’t know how to answer?”
Her amber eyes meet mine in the soft light.
“You think I wanted to miss her birthday?” I keep going. “You think I wanted to spend my anniversary tracking a warlord through a jungle while our fucking wedding song was playing on repeat in my head?”
She wipes at her eyes like she’s angry for crying. “You didn’t even call, Kyler.”
“Because I couldn’t,” I snap. “Because there was no signal. Because I was off-grid. Because if I used a sat phone, someone could’ve triangulated it and put a goddamn bullet in my skull. That’s the job. That’s what I do.”
She looks at me, golden eyes flashing. “And what about what I do? What about being Hadley’s mother twenty-four hours a day while I wait to see if the next knock on the door is someone coming to tell me you’re gone?”
My own eyes burn with tears that I know will never fall.
I step toward her before I can stop myself, and then she’s in my arms—angry and shaking and finally goddamn real. Her fists are balled against my chest, but I wrap her up and pull her in, burying my face in her hair.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice raw. “I never meant for you to carry this alone.”
She exhales hard against my neck, her breath ragged. “But I did. I do.”
She tilts her face up to mine, and we’re too close. Too far gone.
Our mouths crash together in a kiss that tastes like fury and longing and goodbye. Her hands are under my shirt in seconds, dragging it up and over my head. My fingers are in her hair, tugging gently, then sliding down her back as the sheet falls.
She’s fire in my arms. And I feel it. All of it.
The way her chest is rising fast against mine.
The way she presses closer, hips arching like her body remembers every place I used to touch her.
The way her breath stutters when I kiss down her neck.
In the desperate little sound she makes when I slip my hands beneath the waistband of her pink shorts and tug her closer.
She wants this.
She wants me.
And fuck, I want her, too.
I walk her backward until her spine meets the wall, my hands splayed at her hips, mouth devouring hers like it’s the last time—and it might be.
Her tank is the next thing to go, peeled over her head and tossed somewhere behind me. Her bare skin against my chest sends a bolt of heat through me so fierce I nearly lose it right there.
But then—I stop.
I just freeze.
My heart’s racing so fast it’s almost painful. My breathing’s gone to hell. And she’s standing there half naked, pupils blown, lips swollen, chest heaving.
She looks like mine.
But she’s not.
Not really.
Not anymore.
I blow out a harsh breath, press my forehead to hers. “We can’t.”
She stills, barely breathing. “Why not?”
My hands tighten at her waist. I don’t want to let go.
“Because we’re trying to bury a wound by fucking on top of it.” My voice is low. “And that doesn’t heal anything.”
She closes her eyes. Like she hates that I’m right.
I back up, force myself to grab her tank off the floor and give it to her. I press it into her hands, like some fucked-up peace offering. Like if I just hand her the fabric, I can pull myself back from the edge. My fingers brush hers and the contact nearly kills me.
She doesn’t lift it. Doesn’t cover herself.
Instead, she stares at me with flushed cheeks and fierce eyes and a stubborn tilt to her chin that I know way too well.
“I’m not putting it back on,” she says.
My jaw tightens. “Ivy.”
“No.” Her voice cracks, but she doesn’t back down. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to want me, kiss me like that, touch me how you used to, and then push me away because it’s easier to leave than stay.”
Her words hit harder than they should. Because they’re true.
I drag a hand down my face. “I’m trying to do the right thing—”
“Since when?” she snaps, stepping forward, letting the tank fall to the floor again. “You’re not a saint, Ky. You’re a soldier. A man. My husband.” Her hands find my waist. Her lips graze my jaw. “And I’m still your wife.”
My breath hitches.
She knows exactly what she’s doing—and it’s working.
“Ivy…” My voice is a warning. Or maybe a plea.
Her lips are at my throat. Her fingers slipping past my waistband. She’s warm and bare and here, and I’m one heartbeat away from giving in. From letting her make me forget all the ways we’ve already fallen apart.
But if I take her now…there’s no coming back.
And I know—we’re not ready for this. We’re not whole. We’re not healed.
We’re still bleeding.
So I pull back, just enough to see her eyes.