9. Chapter 9
Heath woke up to the soft glow of the streetlamp outside, casting just enough light into Maddie’s bedroom for Heath to see the mess they’d made of the sheets.
He looked down and broke inside at the way she was curled against him, her breath slow and even. His arm was pinned beneath her. His body ached in the best damn way.
But his brain? His brain was screaming one word.
Work.
He blinked at the red numbers on the alarm clock across the room. 0432 hours.
Shit.
He had three hours before he had to report to base, and he was in La Jolla, not Coronado. Morning traffic would be a bitch. So was the headache creeping in from that second bottle of wine.
His first instinct was to say fuck it and go back to sleep.
His second was to wake her.
To kiss her again. To lose another hour with her just because he could.
His hand slid over the warm, bare skin of her hip, his lips grazing the edge of her shoulder, the scent of her sleep-warmed skin sinking into him, already familiar.
Maddie sighed softly, stirring beneath him, shifting closer.
Heath smirked, brushing his mouth over her ear. “I gotta go, Speedy.”
She murmured something incoherent, burrowing deeper into the pillows.
He kissed her again—slow, coaxing, waking her the way he wanted to.
This time, her lashes fluttered, her breath catching, a quiet, sleepy little sound escaping her lips that had no damn business being that sexy.
“Work,” he murmured, dragging a thumb over her cheek. “Traffic’s gonna screw me.”
Her eyes barely opened, a dazed, satisfied glow in them that made his chest tighten in ways he didn’t like.
“Mm.” She stretched, blinking up at him. “Come back later?”
He smiled, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I’ll text you.”
That was all he gave her.
That was all he could.
He rolled out of bed, running a hand through his hair, flexing his shoulders, feeling the deep ache in his muscles from everything they had done last night.
Pulling on his jeans, he grabbed his shirt off the floor and padded barefoot through the house.
And that’s when he saw the job they left behind.
The half-stripped wallpaper. The scrapers resting on the drop cloth.
A couple of empty wine bottles on the floor.
He exhaled, rubbing his temple.
His head hurt. His body hurt.
And this woman? This woman was making him downright unprofessional.
Because this was supposed to be a job.
A simple house project.
Not… this.
Not him waking up in her bed, her body wrapped around him, making promises to come back.
He wasn’t one to mix business and pleasure.
Clearly, his cock had decided which one this would be.
He rolled his shoulders, grabbed his boots, and headed for the door.
But as he stepped onto her porch, he already knew.
Every job he did here? It was going to be free.
Because he was just fixing the house. Helping a friend. At least, that’s what he told himself as he climbed into his truck and pulled away—leaving her, but not really leaving at all.
* * * * *
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, mixing with the low hum of conversation as SEAL Team 7’s operators filed into the debriefing room. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, gun oil, and exhaustion, the remnants of a brutal training day still clinging to every man in the room.
Heath rolled his shoulders, flexing out the soreness. His own head pounded from last night’s wine, a dull reminder of choices made in the heat of the moment.
But at least he could function.
Zach?
Not so much.
Heath clocked it the second Reed sat down in the back row. His movements were just a fraction too slow, his skin pale, his focus sharp—but forced. Like he was working overtime to keep it together.
Colson, standing at the front of the room in his usual LPO stance—feet planted, arms crossed, expression unreadable—let his gaze flick over Zach. He didn’t call him out. Not yet.
The debrief began.
Run-throughs of today’s exercises. Who moved too slow, who left gaps in formation, who needed more time on the range.
Zach sat stone-still, listening, taking it in, giving nothing away.
Heath gritted his teeth.
The second the debrief wrapped and the men started filing out, Zach stood too quickly—like he was ready to be anywhere else.
Heath wasn’t about to let that happen.
He stepped into his path, blocking him.
“Hold up.”
Zach stopped immediately, his posture straightening instinctively, rank awareness kicking in.
“Senior,” he acknowledged, voice measured, controlled. But Heath didn’t miss the slight tension in his jaw.
Heath’s arms crossed over his chest. “What’s your plan here, Reed?”
Zach exhaled through his nose. “Not sure I follow.”
Heath arched a brow. “You gonna drink yourself into a medical discharge? Or you wanna cut the shit before it gets to that?”
Zach’s jaw flexed, his spine going even straighter. “With all due respect, Senior—”
“That’s the only reason I’m still standing here having this conversation.” Heath’s voice was calm, even, but firm. “I’m not your damn rehab counselor. But I’m also not watching another operator go down this road and pretend it’s fine.”
Zach’s fingers flexed at his sides. “It’s not affecting my performance.”
Heath’s eyes narrowed. “Not yet.”
Silence stretched between them.
Zach held his gaze, and for a second—just a second—Heath thought he saw something crack beneath that carefully controlled surface.
Then, Zach’s attention shifted.
To the doorway.
To Jesse.
Who was standing against the frame, arms crossed, quiet as ever, watching.
Something flickered across Zach’s face—frustration, resentment, maybe even recognition.
Then, without another word, he stiffened, nodded once, and walked out.
Heath exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Shit.
Colson’s voice cut through the lingering silence. “You’re not wrong.”
Heath turned to find the LPO watching him, arms still crossed.
“But,” Colson continued, “he’s gotta decide if he wants help.”
Heath let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? And how long are we supposed to wait for that decision?”
Colson shrugged. “Long as it takes.” He clapped Heath on the shoulder before heading for the office.
Heath stayed where he was, jaw tight, frustration curling under his skin.
Zach had respect for rank, for the team, for the work.
But he was still slipping.
And Heath wasn’t about to stand by and let him fall.
* * * * *
By the time Heath pulled into his driveway, it was nearly seven, and the last bit of light was bleeding out of the sky. Another long-ass day.
He shut off the truck, rolling his shoulders as he grabbed his phone from the passenger seat. Powered it back on.
No messages.
No missed calls.
That was fine. He’d had his phone off all day anyway.
He stepped inside, kicking off his boots, stripping off his shirt, and immediately heading for the kitchen. Cooking something was the fastest way to get his mind off the workday, off Zach, off everything.
He fired off a quick text to Maddie while he pulled ingredients from the fridge.
Heath: Just got home. You alive over there?
Nothing.
He let it go, tossing some chicken on the stove, setting rice to simmer, and grabbing a beer from the fridge. Cooking had become routine. Something he could control.
By the time he sat down to eat, he still hadn’t heard from her.
He wasn’t gonna read into it. She was busy.
After dinner, he threw himself into a quick workout—pull-ups, push-ups, core. Something to burn out the restlessness in his muscles.
Still no response.
By midnight, he was showered, sprawled on the couch, flipping through the same mindless slop shows.
Still nothing.
It wasn’t a big deal. He wasn’t owed a response.
But damn it, he wanted one.
At some point, his eyes slipped shut.
When he jolted awake again, the clock on the screen read 2:07 AM.
His phone buzzed.
Maddie.
Sorry—got called back to the hospital to cover shifts. Not enough surgeons. Back to work for me now. I won’t be around this weekend. Working nights. Feel free to go to the house whenever you want. Garage code is 0417.
Heath stared at the message for a second, rubbing his eyes, pushing himself up off the couch.
He should just say okay.
Just acknowledge it and move on.
Instead, he smirked, thumb hovering over the keyboard before he typed.
Heath: No sleep, huh? What kind of contractor takes on free labor at 3AM?
A bubble appeared, then disappeared.
Then—
Maddie: A desperate one.
He huffed a quiet laugh.
Heath: I’ll get back to work then. See you when you come up for air, Doc.
He let the phone fall onto his chest, exhaling, staring up at the ceiling.
So much for taking the weekend off. Looks like he had a house to fix.