Chapter 5-Honor
“What?”
Miles doesn’t even look at me.
Just keeps stacking lumber in the bed of my new pickup like we’re talking about the weather.
“I said,” I repeat, slower this time, because apparently, I enjoy humiliation, “I want to ask Rosalind out. What do you think?”
The words hang there between us, heavy as the pressure-treated beams in my hands.
Business is booming. We’re booked solid for the next three months. The truck bed is nearly full.
This should feel good.
Like progress.
Like proof that I’m building something instead of just killing time.
Miles grunts.
Not a yes-grunt.
Not a thinking-grunt.
The other kind.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Honor.”
I freeze, board half-lifted. “What? Why the hell not?”
He exhales slowly, like he’s choosing every word with care.
“Rosalind isn’t like other women.”
That does it.
I drop the board harder than necessary and turn on him.
“What the fuck do you mean by that? I know she’s not like other women. She’s prettier. Smarter. Funnier. Hell, I don’t know—she just is.”
“Easy, man. I didn’t mean nothing by that. Why do you wanna ask her out, anyway?” Miles asks, canting his head in a way that reminds me of a curious cat.
“I just know I want to be with her.”
The words come out rough.
Honest.
Maybe too honest.
“Fuck,” Miles mutters, dragging a hand down his face.
“Honor—”
“Look,” I cut in, jaw tight, “I’m not asking for permission, Miles. I just thought maybe you could give me some pointers since you know her better than I do. I’ve been out of the game a while.”
That’s putting it mildly.
He finally looks at me then. Really looks. And whatever he sees there makes his shoulders sag a little.
“I get it,” he says quietly. “I do.”
That takes some of the fight out of me.
“It’s just…” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Rosalind’s kind of… kid sister territory to me. You feel me? And there’s Hope to think about, too.”
The way he says it matters.
He’s not saying you’re not good enough.
He’s saying be careful.
I nod slowly.
Truth is, I wouldn’t blame him if he was objecting to me in particular.
I’m not a good guy.
I’ve done bad shit.
Seen worse.
Carried it all home with me like invisible weight I can’t put down.
I don’t sleep right.
When I do sleep, it’s light and fractured—dreams breaking apart before they finish, my body snapping awake like it’s waiting for an order that never comes.
I don’t trust rest. Not really.
Too many nights overseas taught me what happens when you let your guard down.
I don’t trust easy, either.
People lie. Situations change.
Promises evaporate the second things get hard.
I learned that early and I learned it deep.
And I sure as hell don’t believe in clean endings.
Nothing I’ve ever walked away from stayed behind me.
It all comes with memories, scars, ghosts that don’t know when to shut up.
And lately?
I swear to fuck I’m hearing things that aren’t there.
Sounds in the woods behind the house.
Not the normal kind—no birdsong, no rustle of leaves.
It’s heavier than that. Closer.
Like something breathing just out of sight.
Growling.
Panting.
Low huffs that crawl up my spine and settle there.
Like the damn Animal Planet channel decided to go live behind my childhood home.
So maybe I’m losing it. Maybe my sanity’s hanging on by a frayed thread.
I’ve seen a therapist. Did the work. Sat on the couch and talked through the ugly parts.
He mentioned PTSD, said it wouldn’t be surprising after the ops I ran overseas.
Night hypervigilance. Auditory stress hallucinations. All the textbook shit.
Maybe he’s right.
But Rosalind?
She’s like sunshine breaking through all of it.
When she’s around, the noises fade. The edge dulls.
My chest doesn’t feel so damn tight.
She looks at me like I’m more than the worst things I’ve done—like maybe I’m still someone worth knowing.
And for the first time in a long time, I catch myself wondering if maybe I didn’t come back to Barvale to escape those memories that haunt me so.
Maybe I came back because something here—someone—was waiting to remind me how to live again.
Warm. Steady. Bright in a way that feels dangerous to someone who’s been cold for so damn long.
When she smiles at me, something inside my chest loosens—like maybe I don’t have to carry everything alone.
I stare at the lumber, at the calluses on my hands, at the life I’m trying to build from pieces that don’t quite fit.
“I’m not trying to screw with her or fuck up Hope’s friendship,” I say quietly. “I just, I don’t want to miss what might be my only chance to have something real.”
Miles studies me for a long moment, then sighs.
“I can’t tell you what to do, Honor. My advice? Don’t rush her. And don’t assume she’s looking for what you are.”
Fair.
Still doesn’t stop the ache.
Because whether Miles approves or not, whether it’s a good idea or a terrible one, I already know the truth.
Rosalind makes me feel human again.
And I don’t know how to walk away from that.