Chapter Forty Six
Hunter
Things with Camille had been going well.
The noise in my head went quiet when I was at her place—Zeke’s laughter echoing down the hall, the twins’ squeals mixing with the smell of her favorite candle and half-broken crayons scattered across the table.
It was chaos, sure, but it was good chaos.
Real. They made space for me without even trying, and before I knew it, I’d fallen into our life.
Mornings half-awake, hair a mess, standing barefoot at her stove cooking eggs while she stole sips of my coffee when she thought I wasn’t looking.
She’d even started riding with me more. Out there, on the road, it was just us.
The wind, the hum of the engine, her arms around me.
Every mile stripped something heavy off my chest. With her on the back of the bike, I didn’t think about the past or the things I couldn’t fix.
I just felt; her laughter against my shoulder, the warmth of her hands, the quiet trust in the way she leaned into every turn.
One night, when we pulled back into the garage, I caught her eyes in the mirror.
Her helmet was off, hair wild, cheeks flushed from the ride.
She looked alive in a way that made my throat tighten.
I’d said the first thing that came to mind.
“You did good, Beautiful.” She pretended it didn’t make her blush, but I saw the pink rise on her warm cheeks.
And right then, it hit me how damn easy it would be to give all of myself to her. To them.
How, without even trying, they’d made the world feel like something worth coming back to.
At least until fireworks went off early one night, a sharp pop that split the daze of summer.
The sound twisted, became the crack of a gunshot, gunpowder thick in the air, desert heat pressing close.
My shoulders drew up, muscles tight, heart pounding against my ribs.
My breath caught, shallow and sharp, pulling me backward.
My ears rang, my jaw ached, and I stayed locked in that instant.
Her living room faded, replaced by a memory I would have given anything to forget.
That whip-crack pulled me straight into desert nights. Every muscle braced for the next hit. Air thin, breath tight. Past and present tangled until I couldn’t tell one from the other. In my head, I was back in the desert with dust in my eyes, ground shaking under my boots, screams in my ears.
I forced myself to look around, anchored to what was real. Zeke sprawled on the rug, twins clapping, laughter bouncing off the old couch. Camille, in a red dress, bent over her books, blue mug in hand. They were safe. I was here. My body didn’t buy it.
That’s the worst part, my own mind betraying me, ripping me out of safety, leaving me raw. PTSD doesn’t wait. It kicks down the door, wrecks your peace, and drags you right to the edge, and it doesn’t matter if you scream or not.
So I stepped back. Kissed her forehead, muttered about being tired, got out before the night could unravel.
I didn’t want her kids to see me fall apart, but she noticed.
Eyes wide, searching. I wished I could explain how each blast yanked me out of the house and right back to the desert.
Gunpowder in my nose, sweat and sand on my skin, body braced up and tight, every breath a fight.
I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t separate now from then.
Just caught in the loop, hoping it would pass.
At first, I played the part. I smiled, brought cookies, wrestled with the kids, and stole kisses from Camille in the laundry room.
On the surface, I looked steady. Underneath, I was unraveling.
But I didn’t want the kids to see me fall apart, didn’t want Zeke to catch my hands shaking or the twins to see the panic in my eyes.
So I stayed distant, told myself it was safer.
Yet each time Camille looked at me, worry in her face, the guilt pressed in.
I was breaking something good before it had a chance.
It’s been this way since my second deployment.
July creeps up, pressure builds. Fireworks, crowds, flags waving, and everyone celebrating while I brace for impact.
The nights are worse. Dreams I can’t wake from.
Faces I can’t forget. Then the days hit me with smaller things like a slammed door, a car backfiring, even a toy dropping, and suddenly I’m back there again.
She didn’t know that part of me yet. Not really.
The part that flinches at the wrong sound, that wakes up drenched in sweat, that stares at the ceiling trying to remember where I am.
And I couldn’t bring myself to tell her.
How do you explain something like that to someone who finally made you feel normal again?
Truth is, I pulled away because I was scared.
What if she saw the parts of me I tried to hide?
What if her kids noticed me flinch when popcorn popped in the kitchen?
I can’t explain PTSD to a five-year-old.
Hell, I can barely explain it to myself.
Would letting her in show the cracks, or would that finally be real strength?
I hated the space between us. I noticed how her shoulders tightened when I left early, how her eyes lingered when my smile didn’t quite land. She thought it was her, too much, too complicated. But she wasn’t too much. She was everything. I was just afraid of breaking what we had.