Chapter 9-Honor
Being back in Barvale, around Hope and Miles again—it’s doing something to me.
Or maybe it’s her.
Rosalind.
My Rosie, as I tend to think about her.
I can’t stop thinking about her. Not since that dinner the other night. Sharing her favorite pizza, talking over beer and salad like we’d done it a dozen times before.
Sure, Hope and Miles were there too, but still—it felt like something.
Not a date, exactly. But close enough that my mind keeps replaying every second.
The way her fingers brushed mine when we both reached for the same slice.
The way she blushed when Hope teased her.
The way she avoided looking at me too long—but still looked.
I’m aware of her on a level I didn’t know existed. Like I could walk into a room blindfolded and know if she was in it.
And ever since that night, I’ve been dreaming things—wanting things—I didn’t think I was supposed to want.
But maybe I’m ready for more.
Whatever more is.
Maybe I’m ready to settle into a real life.
I mean, I have a job. Orson Outdoors keeps me busy most days.
Miles and I are slowly building something here—solid, honest work.
We split jobs sometimes, but mostly it’s the two of us.
I like working with my hands. Always have. Physical labor is good for a mind like mine—it quiets the noise.
But even with all that distraction, my thoughts still find their way back to her.
I finished early today.
Not because I’m tired.
Because I wanted to. I needed to.
Back at the house, I spot Hope out in the yard, watering the little row of potted plants she’s somehow keeping alive despite admitting she forgets about them half the time.
Now’s the time.
Before I lose my nerve.
I cross the grass, wiping my hands on my jeans just to do something with them. She sees me coming and grins.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual. Not like a man about to ask his sister to be his wingman.
“Hey yourself,” she replies, giving me a knowing look as she sets the watering can down. “You’re done early.”
“Yeah.” I hesitate, then push forward. “Hope, I… uh… wanted to ask something.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, amused. “Okay?”
“That night with the pizza? It was really nice. And I was just wondering if I could maybe—” I rub the back of my neck.
Shit, I feel like I’m twelve again.
“Do you think I could get Rosalind’s number?”
Hope blinks. Then her grin goes full smug-sister.
I try to ask it like it’s nothing.
Like my heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of my chest.
Like my palms aren’t already damp.
Hope pauses mid-motion, a white sheet fluttering in the breeze as she clips it to the line.
She’s barefoot in the grass, hair pulled back, domestic as hell.
Just like Mom used to be.
The smell hits me then—clean cotton and sunshine—and for half a second nostalgia wraps tight around my ribs. I smile despite myself.
The yard looks different now. Better.
Miles’s touches are everywhere if you know how to look.
A tall fence runs the perimeter, clean lines and solid posts. Security cameras tucked discreetly under the eaves. Floodlights positioned just right.
High-end stuff. Thoughtful. Protective.
I get it. You can never be too sure.
And although I won’t go so far as to say I like the big man, I am a fan of how he cares for my sister.
“Uh,” Hope says slowly, turning to face me, “what exactly do you want Rosalind’s number for, big brother?”
Her eyebrows climb so high they’re practically in her hairline.
For God’s sake.
I sigh and scrub a hand over my face.
“For shits and giggles, Hope. Obviously.” I pause, then add, “Come on. I want to ask her to dinner. With me. On a date.”
She studies me like she’s deciding whether to pat my head or interrogate me under a bright light.
“If you want a woman’s number,” she says, way too calmly, “you should ask her for it.”
“How am I supposed to ask her if I don’t have the number?” I counter. “Think about it.”
She narrows her eyes.
I can practically hear the gears grinding.
“What?” I scoff. “Can’t a guy ask for a number without it being a thing?”
“It is a thing,” she says smugly. “You have a crush.”
“I’m not twelve.”
“No, but you’re blushing like you are.”
“I’m not—” I stop, because yeah, I probably am. “Just—can I have it or not?”
She laughs, pulls out her phone, and starts tapping.
“I’ll text her and ask if she’s okay with it,” Hope says. “Because, you know, consent matters.”
“Right. Of course.” I pause. “Thanks.”
She gives me a long look, softer this time.
“She’s a good one, Honor. Strong. Loyal. And she’s been through more than you know.”
I nod.
“I’m not looking to mess anything up.”
“Good.” Then she winks. “And hey—if she says yes, maybe pick a place with more than just pizza this time.”
“Maybe,” I say, hiding my smile. “But she really likes pizza.”
And I really like her.
I wait while Hope texts Rosie, and it’s like time stops until I hear the telltale ping of a text coming in.
“She says okay,” Hope says at last, and I feel like shouting hooray. I don’t. But it’s a near thing.
“Alright, Honor, but if you hurt my friend—”
“I don’t want to hurt her,” I cut in quickly. “I just want to have dinner with her. That’s it.”
Hope searches my face, something soft flickering there. Then she exhales and pulls out her phone.
“Don’t screw this up,” she mutters, thumbs moving.
My phone buzzes a second later.
Number received.
My heart slams harder now, adrenaline spiking like I’m about to breach a door instead of send a text.
I step away from the clothesline, from Hope’s knowing stare, and lean against the fence.
The woods loom just beyond it—quiet, dense, watchful. I shove that thought away and focus on the screen in my hand.
Okay.
Just text her.
Simple.
I lick my lips and type.
Hey, what’re you doing tonight?
No. Delete.
That ain’t right. Too casual.
I try again.
Hey, this is Honor.
Delete.
Too abrupt.
Hey, this is Honor D’Amato.
Delete.
What am I, a fucking politician?
I try again.
Honor
Hey—this is Honor. I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me tonight?
I stare at it.
Read it again.
God, I sound like a moron.
I add another line.
No pressure. Just thought I’d ask.
That somehow makes it worse.
My thumb hovers over send, heart pounding so hard it’s almost painful.
I haven’t felt like this in years—not before an op, not before a firefight.
This is different.
This is vulnerable.
I close my eyes and hit send before I can overthink it into oblivion.
The message whooshes away.
Now all I can do is wait.
And hope that the woman who feels like sunshine doesn’t decide I’m better left in the dark.
A couple of minutes pass.
Too many minutes.
My phone stays stubbornly silent in my hand, the screen dark and judgmental. I stare at it like maybe I can will a response into existence.
Nothing.
Shit.
I swallow, jaw tightening, and accept my embarrassing defeat like a grown man who absolutely is not spiraling.
Clearly, she’s busy.
Or polite.
Or gently letting me down because I sounded like an awkward idiot.
Yeah. That tracks.
I shove the phone into my pocket and stalk upstairs to my room before Hope can ask any questions I don’t have answers for.
The door shuts slightly harder than necessary behind me.
I strip out of my clothes, movements sharp, mechanical, and step into the bathroom.
The shower roars to life, hot water slamming down on my shoulders as I brace my hands against the tile and bow my head.
Fuck.
I stand there, letting the steam rise, trying to tell myself this is fine.
That rejection is normal.
That I’ve handled worse than a woman not texting me back.
Which is true.
Doesn’t make it hurt less.
I reach for the soap—and my phone buzzes on the counter.
The sound slices straight through me.
My head snaps up so fast I nearly slip, heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
I lunge for the counter, water dripping off my arms as I grab the phone with shaking fingers.
And there it is.
My Sunshine.
Pure and blinding.
My chest tightens so hard I have to suck in a breath as I read the screen.
Rosie
Sounds good. Wanna meet somewhere?
Rosie.
That’s how I entered her contact info. It feels right.
Suits her.
I grin like a damn fool, warmth blooming low and fast, chasing away every dark thought from five seconds ago.
I wipe my wet hand on a towel and type back, fingers clumsy with relief and excitement.
Honor
I’ll come get you.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Then reappear again.
Rosie
Oh, but I’m at work till 6:30.
I don’t even hesitate.
Honor
Sounds perfect. Gimme an address and I’ll be there.
I stare at the phone after I hit send, water still pounding behind me, steam fogging up the mirror.
My reflection looks stunned. Hopeful. Alive in a way I haven’t seen in years.
For the first time in a long damn while, the world doesn’t feel so heavy.
Because Rosie said yes.
And suddenly, tonight matters.