7. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
I saac lay on his side, his arms wrapped loosely around Rosie’s warm, familiar body, her back pressed against his chest, his fingers threading lazily through the strands of her dark brown hair. It was soft, slipping between his fingers like silk, something delicate, something meant to be handled with care.
The porcelain skin of her bare thighs was warm against his, so smooth, so untouched in a way that made something inside him tighten.
Because he knew.
He knew Rosie.
Knew that she didn’t let people in, didn’t trust easily, didn’t waste her time on men who weren’t worth it.
And yet, here she was.
Letting him hold her.
Trusting him like she always had.
His fingers traced slowly along the curve of her shoulder, then back up to her hair, twirling a long strand around his knuckles. She smelled faintly like vanilla and paint, something warm and familiar, something that made his pulse sit too heavy in his throat.
It took everything in his power not to press his mouth against the back of her neck.
Not to sink his teeth into her skin, not to kiss her senseless.
Because fuck, he wanted to.
And that was a problem.
His jaw ticked, exhaling slowly, trying to shift his focus.
Rosie shifted slightly against him, her body pressing deeper into his hold, her skin brushing against his. His cock throbbed.
Jesus Christ.
He closed his eyes, reeling it in, thinking about literally anything else.
But it wasn’t working.
Because the truth was, he was fucked up.
The thing with Elodie? It wasn’t serious. He wasn’t dumb enough to get locked into a long-distance, committed relationship with a woman he only saw a handful of times a year.
But he also wasn’t so sophisticated that he could sit in complete abstinence for months on end.
In fact, the one thing he’d wanted to do after his last deployment was fuck a bunch of chicks and shake off the weight of everything.
But the one thing he hadn’t done?
Exactly that.
Instead, he was here.
In bed with Rosie.
Hard as fucking steel.
And there was nowhere to go from here.
His hand stilled in her hair, fingers tensing slightly.
“Rosie,” he muttered, voice rougher than he intended.
She hummed softly, a lazy sound of acknowledgment.
He hesitated, then sighed, shaking his head slightly. Fuck it.
“I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me,” he admitted.
She was silent for a second, then—“Define ‘wrong with me.’”
Isaac let out a low, humorless chuckle. “How long you got?”
Rosie smiled against the pillow, and fuck, he felt that.
“Seriously,” he muttered, his hand slipping from her hair to rest on her hip, fingers curling loosely against the fabric of her t-shirt. “I came off rotation thinking I’d go on a fucking bender. You know, drink, smoke, fuck my way back to normal.”
She made a quiet, knowing sound.
“But instead,” he exhaled, “I’ve done exactly none of that.”
Rosie shifted slightly, tilting her head just enough to glance at him. Blue eyes too sharp, too knowing.
“And?” she prompted.
“And,” Isaac sighed, “I don’t know what that means.”
Rosie was silent for a moment, then—“Maybe it means you’re exhausted.”
Isaac huffed a laugh. “Always.”
“Maybe it means,” she said, shifting against him again—fuck, that wasn’t helping—“you’re realizing that distractions don’t actually fix anything.”
Isaac let out a slow breath, dragging his hand over his face.
“Bitch,” he muttered. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Say some wise, deep shit that makes me feel like a fucking child.”
Rosie smirked against the pillow. “Well, one of us has to be the adult.”
Isaac chuckled, shaking his head. “God help us if it’s you.”
She laughed, and for a second, it felt like home again.
Like they weren’t standing on the edge of something dangerous.
Like nothing between them had changed.
But it had.
And they both knew it.
Isaac sighed, rubbing slow circles against her hip, grounding himself.
“That kiss,” he muttered.
Rosie inhaled sharply, going still.
Then, carefully, “Yeah?”
He swallowed, voice quieter now. “We’re putting it behind us.”
A pause.
Rosie shifted, then nodded. “Yeah. We won’t ruin our friendship with that stuff.”
Isaac’s grip on her hip tightened for just a second, before he forced himself to let go.
“Good,” he said, but it didn’t feel good at all.
And as they lay there, in the dark, wrapped around each other, pretending this wasn’t the biggest lie they’d ever told—Isaac knew one thing for sure. There was something he knew now that he couldn’t just un-know.
Isaac sank into sleep wrapped around her, his face buried in her hair, the scent of her soft, familiar, intoxicating. The night blurred into warmth, into the slow, steady rise and fall of Rosie’s breathing against him, falling asleep.
Somewhere in the haze of dreams, the world shifted.
He was floating, weightless and reckless, drifting through the echoes of a thousand indulgences. Whiskey burning down his throat. Blunt smoke curling from his lips. A woman beneath him, moaning, writhing, tight and wet and willing.
And then—
It wasn’t just any woman. It was Rosie.
Her body pressed back against him, soft curves molding into the hard length of his arousal. His fingers slid over her hip, skin so smooth, so warm, dipping to the soft give of her stomach, the firm, toned lines of her thighs.
His cock pulsed, thick and aching, grinding into the bare, perfect curve of her ass.
And fuck—
She moved against him. A slow, lazy press. Her breath hitched, just barely. The softest sound, but it shot straight to his dick.
Isaac’s grip tightened on her tiny waist, hips rolling forward on instinct, dragging against her so slow, so unbearably good.
She let out a little sigh, a half-sleepy moan.
Fucking hell.
He swallowed hard, fighting for control, but his body wasn’t listening. He needed to stop. This was his best friend. His Rosalie.
And she was grinding back on him, wet and pliant, letting him touch her, letting him—
The dream faded.
And suddenly, he was awake.
His body rocked still against hers, cock hard and throbbing, heat pooling low in his stomach, pulse hammering in his throat.
She was still asleep.
Fuck.
Isaac went completely still, breath caught in his chest. But fingers were still on her skin. His cock was still pressing against her. His whole fucking body was wired, aching, restless. And he needed to get the fuck out of this bed before he did something stupid.
Carefully—so carefully—he loosened his grip and peeled himself away, muscles tight, body screaming for the friction, for the warmth, for the fucking forbidden thing he had just been doing.
He ran a hand down his face, his jaw clenched so hard it ached, forcing himself to breathe.
It was just a dream. A fever dream. It had to be. He’s horny as fuck. He needs to get laid. That’s all. It was a fucking mistake to let her into his bed in this state. That’s what he told himself.
Even if he could still feel her on his hands, on his cock, in the way his whole fucking body burned for her.
Isaac exhaled sharply, pushing out of bed, muscles tight as he grabbed a fresh towel and stalked toward the bathroom.
It was Monday.
He had to work.
And then he had to get this shit out of his system before it killed him.
* * * * *
Isaac stood in the shower until his skin burned. Not because he had time. But because he needed pain to stop thinking about her. Steam clung to his skin, curling around his wrists like a memory. Like restraint. Like the weight of her in his bed.
Not yours.
Not really.
His hands still smelled like her shampoo—vanilla and paint, something soft and completely not combat ready. His sheets still held the ghost of her sigh, that half-sound she made when she turned into him. His dick was still furious, his chest still tight, and his head?
A fucking minefield.
That dream…
It wasn’t a dream. Not really.
It was a truth his body had stopped pretending not to know.
He leaned his forehead against the tile. Cold. Steady.
He wasn’t in love with her.
Couldn’t be.
She was his past. His friend. His escape hatch. His Rosalie.
And now he was fucked six ways to Sunday, and somehow the quiet between them felt louder than any deployment he’d ever survived.
The last thing he wanted was to talk about it.
So of course, the moment he walked into the garage to grab his gym bag, his phone started vibrating on the workbench.
Team Comms Chat.
Fuck his life.
Isaac picked up his phone, thumbing through everything he’d missed. The group chat was now called the “Isaac Rayleigh Emotional Debrief (feat. Adam Carrington)”.
Apparently renamed by Shay after Isaac showed up to work looking like he’d seen God and lost custody.
Colson:
Rayleigh, where the fuck are you?
Heath:
Late one hour.
That’s not normal.
Even for Isaac.
Isaac:
I’m not late. What the fuck?
Colson:
You forgot?
Isaac:
No.
Shay:
That’s a strong yes. Who is in your bed right now?
Adam:
Do I want to know what this thread is?
Heath:
We added you because you looked like a man one bad call away from screaming into a car stereo.
Colson:
You’ve been barking at the lieutenant colonel like your coffee betrayed you.
Shay:
This is emotional hygiene, sir. Mandatory.
Adam:
I’m not here for your psych experiments.
Isaac:
Then leave.
Adam:
No.
I’m invested now. Why are you late for work?
Chris:
Did she stay over?
Isaac:
Unrelated.
Shay:
Unclothed?
Isaac:
Still unrelated.
Colson:
Did you or did you not whisper at her while she was sleeping?
Isaac:
What the hell—
Heath:
Oh my God.
You did.
Adam:
This is tragic.
Chris:
Can’t wait for the wedding. I’m gonna object during the vows and say “you’re lying to her and yourself.”
Isaac:
I hate all of you.
Heath:
You’re in it, bro.
You’re Dom but more hydrated.
Colson:
Meanwhile Adam’s wife is halfway to Montana and we’re pretending that’s not a situation.
Adam:
Stop.
Shay:
You ever text Lila back?
Adam:
This chat is a violation of operational protocol and basic human dignity.
Heath:
So… no?
Adam:
I’m going to reassign all of you to traffic control at MCAS Miramar.
Isaac:
Fine by me.
I need a reason not to come home.
[pause]
Adam:
...yeah.
Colson:
Did we just have a moment?
Chris:
I’m deleting the chat before it gets wholesome.
Shay:
Too late.
We’re all officially compromised.
Heath:
Lila’s gonna love that.
The armory was colder than usual.
Fluorescents buzzing overhead. Metal counters lined with inventory. The click of boots on concrete. Familiar, controlled, clinical.
Isaac cataloged his gear in silence—vest, mags, sidearm, hydration, comms—anything to keep his hands busy. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten more than a protein bar, and his mind wouldn’t shut up.
Rosalie.
The bed.
That fucking dream.
The sound her breath made when she turned into him.
He gritted his teeth and moved on to weapons check.
Someone stepped into the room behind him. No words. Just presence.
Dom.
He didn’t look up.
“Locker code wrong again?” Dom asked.
Isaac gave a short, quiet snort. “Reflexes are slow.”
Dom opened his own locker, methodical. “That why you’re vibrating like you snorted regret?”
Isaac said nothing.
Dom waited. Then, simply:
“She stayed over.”
Isaac sighed. “Yeah.”
“She knows?”
“No.”
Dom nodded. “You tell her you’re fine?”
“Of course.”
Dom gave him a long, unreadable look. “That’s a lie.”
Isaac set down the rifle he was reassembling. “You got something to say?”
Dom shrugged. “Just recognizing the pattern. That’s all.”
Isaac’s jaw clenched. “What pattern?”
Dom met his eyes. Steady. Unapologetic. “The one where you convince yourself it’s safer to lose her quietly than risk letting her stay.”
The silence hung.
Then—Dom turned back to his gear.
Isaac stared at him. “You’re not this wise.”
“I’m not.” Dom reloaded a mag. “I just fucked it up already, so I get to notice when someone else is halfway there.”
Isaac didn’t say anything.
Didn’t have to.
Later, in the hallway outside the comms office, Adam intercepted him.
No clipboard. No orders in hand.
Just the CO standing there with that tired, married-too-long look in his eyes.
“You cleared inventory?” Adam asked.
“Yeah,” Isaac said. “Twice.”
Adam nodded.
A beat.
Then: “You seeing her again?”
Isaac stiffened. “That a question or an order?”
Adam didn’t smile. “Neither.”
They stood in the hallway, static between them. Just enough traffic that neither of them had to speak louder than necessary. Just enough military etiquette to keep them from saying anything too honest.
Finally, Isaac asked, “How’s Lila?”
Adam’s face twitched, barely visible. “She sent a photo of a dog. Said it misses me. I’m pretty sure it’s our dog. Not one hundred percent confident.”
“That mean you’re going home?”
“Means I answered ‘Thanks’ and didn’t say anything else.”
Isaac nodded slowly. “So… no.”
Another pause.
“You want advice?” Adam asked.
“No.”
“Good.” Adam turned to walk away. “Because I’ve got none.”
By 1500, Isaac was back in the dive prep room. Alone. The room smelled like neoprene and salt and metal.
He stripped down the rebreather system just to do it again. Every motion exact. Every seal checked, re-checked. Every valve turned with tension that wouldn’t release.
The routine helped.
Until it didn’t.
Because her voice still echoed in his ears.
Her laugh.
That exhale.
That kiss they weren’t talking about.
That dream he couldn’t stop dreaming.
He closed his eyes.
Then opened them again.
Back to work.
Back to protocol.
Back to pretending this wasn’t the most dangerous thing he’d ever felt.