11. Christian
Christian
F or once in a long time, I didn't have a nightmare.
Instead, I dreamt of Claire, her big green eyes looking up at me with that curious mix of kindness—the genuine kind, not the fake kindness most people employed—and determination.
Her lips brushed against my cheek, soft and fleeting, leaving a trail of warmth.
I woke up feeling… content. The sensation was unfamiliar, like finding a forgotten photograph in an old book. A slow warmth spread through me, thawing the ever-present chill I'd grown accustomed to.
The morning light filtered through the worn curtains of the small room I'd rented. I lay there for a moment, savoring the lingering remnants of the dream. Her face was still vivid in my mind, her smile genuine and disarming.
Rising from the bed, I stretched, feeling the tension in my muscles ease slightly.
Downstairs, I could hear the faint sounds of life stirring. The scent of fresh coffee wafted up from the kitchen, mingling with the crisp winter air seeping through the window cracks.
I pushed myself out of bed, the dream still clinging to my mind like a stubborn fog.
The room was small but functional, the kind of place where you could vanish if you wanted to.
I dropped to the floor and started my routine—push-ups, sit-ups, planks—each movement methodical and deliberate.
The familiar burn in my muscles was comforting, a reminder of discipline and control.
Afterward, I stood and stretched, rolling my shoulders to release the last bits of tension.
A quick glance at the clock told me it was time to shower.
I stepped into the small bathroom and turned on the water.
The pipes groaned in protest before finally spitting out a stream that was lukewarm at best.
As I stood under the water, I let it wash away the sweat and lingering remnants of sleep. My thoughts drifted back to her. It was unnerving how quickly she'd managed to break through my defenses, even if just for a moment.
Shaking off the thoughts, I finished my shower and dressed in simple clothes: jeans, a plain shirt, and a worn jacket. The familiar weight of my dog tags settled against my chest as I made my way downstairs.
The smell of coffee grew stronger with each step. Downstairs, the inn's kitchen was alive with activity. Claire's voice floated through the air, mingling with the clatter of dishes and the murmur of other guests.
There was a sense of anticipation that hung in the air like static before a storm. It prickled at me, making me aware of how much I'd started to expect—no, want—to see her every day. But that was dangerous territory. Attachment meant vulnerability, and I'd had enough of that in my life.
As I entered the kitchen, I spotted her by the coffeepot. She looked up as I approached; her smile brightening her face.
"Morning," she greeted me with that same disarming warmth. There was powder on her nose and on her clothes. I wondered what she was making in that kitchen.
I nodded in return, keeping my expression neutral despite the flutter in my chest. "Morning."
I reached for a mug and poured myself some coffee, focusing on the simple task to keep from getting too caught up in her presence.
"Can I get you anything for breakfast?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with morning energy.
"I don't suppose you have beans and toast," I replied, half-joking.
Her brow arched in surprise.
I waved it away. "Something my gran would make... Eggs and toast is fine."
She nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "I'll be right back."
As she headed into the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of her grandmother by the oven. The sight was a relief, a small confirmation that things could be normal, even after such devastation.
I took a seat at the small wooden table, my hands wrapping around the warm mug of coffee. The hum of conversation from other guests faded into the background as I let my thoughts wander.
From where I sat, I could see Claire moving efficiently in the kitchen, her movements graceful and purposeful. She exchanged a few words with her grandmother, who nodded and continued working with practiced ease. It was a scene that felt oddly comforting, like watching a well-rehearsed dance.
The clatter of plates brought me back to the present. Claire's grandmother turned slightly, catching my eye for a moment. She gave me a nod, one that carried an unspoken message of understanding and acceptance.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the warmth of the room seep into my bones.
Claire returned with a plate in hand, placing it gently in front of me. "Eggs and toast," she announced with a hint of pride.
"Perfect," I replied, meeting her gaze. "Thanks."
She lingered for a moment before returning to the kitchen, leaving me to my thoughts once more. The eggs were cooked just right—soft and slightly runny—while the toast had a satisfying crunch. It was simple but comforting.
As I ate, I couldn't help but feel grateful for this small reprieve from the chaos that had defined my life for so long. For once, there was no need to be on guard, no immediate threat lurking in the shadows.
Claire continued bustling around the kitchen, her movements graceful and efficient. There was something about watching her that felt almost... normal. And normal was something I hadn't felt in a long time.
But normal wasn't something I could afford right now.
Other guests chatted around me, their voices blending into a comforting hum. For now, I'd keep to myself—distance was safety.
Claire came back out of the kitchen with a plate balanced carefully in her hands. She placed it in front of me with a small, triumphant smile.
"What do you think?" she asked, her eyes dancing with anticipation.
I looked down at the plate and raised an eyebrow. "They're cookies."
Her smile widened, and for a moment, the room seemed a bit brighter. "Yes," she said. "My grandmother and I are taking them to the Christmas market. Try one."
I hesitated. Sweets had never been my thing, even as a kid. But there was something in her earnest expression that made it impossible to refuse. With a resigned sigh, I picked up one of the cookies and examined it.
It was golden brown with a dusting of powdered sugar on top. The edges were crisp, while the center appeared soft and chewy. I took a cautious bite.
The flavor surprised me. A burst of buttery richness filled my mouth, followed by a hint of vanilla and the warmth of cinnamon.
The texture was perfect—crisp edges giving way to a tender, melt-in-your-mouth center.
It was simple yet comforting, like a taste of home I hadn't realized I'd been missing.
Claire watched me expectantly, her hands clasped together in front of her apron.
"It's good," I admitted, swallowing the last bite. "Really good."
Her smile grew even more radiant, if that was possible. "I'm glad you like it," she said, sounding genuinely pleased.
For a moment, I allowed myself to bask in that sunshine smile and the lingering sweetness on my tongue. It was such a simple thing—a cookie—but it felt like more than that. It was an offering of kindness and connection in a world that often felt cold and indifferent.
"Thank you," I said softly, meeting her gaze.
She nodded, her eyes shining with unspoken understanding.
"You're welcome. She’ll be pleased to know you enjoyed it.
We do this every year. The Christmas market, I mean.
" She paused, glancing at me with a hint of hesitation.
"Actually, did you want to come with? We have a booth there, but you don't have to stay.
You can look around. People sell so many different things there.
And the hot chocolate—Lucy has the best hot chocolate. "
I opened my mouth to say no, ready to retreat back into my solitude. The words were on the tip of my tongue.
But then I looked at her. Really looked at her.
"Yeah," I said, nodding slowly as if testing the word out. "Yeah, that'd be nice."
Her face lit up with a smile so bright it could've powered the town's Christmas tree all on its own. It was the kind of smile that made you believe in things you thought you'd left behind.
"Great," she replied, practically bouncing on her feet. "We're going to leave when the final batch cools. Maybe twenty minutes?"
"Sounds good," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt.
She beamed again, and for a moment, it felt like everything stopped—the noise of the inn, the chatter of other guests, even my own thoughts. All I could see was her smile and how it made me feel something I hadn't felt in years: hope.
Want.
As she turned to go back into the kitchen, I found myself sitting there, coffee in hand and heart pounding in my chest. This small act of joining her at the market seemed monumental, like stepping out onto thin ice and hoping it would hold.
But as I watched Claire disappear into the kitchen with that radiant smile still lingering in my mind, I realized maybe it was worth the risk even though it terrified the fuck out of me. Even more than Hong Kong. Even more than any place I'd ever been stationed.
I sipped my coffee; the warmth seeping into my bones. What the hell had I done? I should back out, tell her I couldn't go. That it was too much. That I wasn't ready for this kind of interaction. But the thought of disappointing her made my stomach twist in a way that combat never had.
I stared at the dark liquid in my cup, its surface rippling slightly with my unsteady hand.
The sensible part of me screamed to walk away, to keep the walls up and remain an enigma in this small town.
But there was another part, one that was growing louder each day I spent here. The part that wanted to go with her.
And that realization hit me like a punch to the gut.
I wanted to go with her. I wanted to see her smile again, hear her laugh, and maybe even share a few more moments like the one we'd had fixing those Christmas lights or watching the Christmas tree light up.
It was dangerous territory—attachment always led to vulnerability, and I'd sworn off vulnerability a long time ago.
But the idea of retreating back into my shell felt even more suffocating.
I drained the rest of my coffee, the bitterness grounding me in the present moment. I set the mug down and leaned back in my chair, staring out the window at the snow-covered streets. The town looked like something out of a postcard—idyllic and peaceful.
Maybe it was time for something different. Maybe it was time to let a little light in.
I glanced at the clock on the wall—fifteen minutes until we were supposed to leave for the market. Fifteen minutes to decide whether I was going to take this small step toward something new or retreat back into familiar isolation.
My mind raced with a hundred different scenarios, each one more terrifying than the last. But as I stood up and grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair, I realized that despite all my fears and reservations, there was one undeniable truth: I wanted this.
I wanted her.
And maybe that was dangerous, but it was also something I had never experienced before… and I wasn't ready to let that go just yet.