Pairing: Sam* (Warfare) x OFC Jolene Johnson *Walsh is the last name I gave him for purposes of this story
Series Warnings: mentions of life in the military/active duty; mentions of death; mentions of cancer; parental loss; PTSD; mentions of childbirth (of another female character not the main OC); smut; dominate in bed kind of smut; oral sex, outdoor sex; family dynamics; loneliness
Rating: NSFW (18+) no minors allowed!
Word Count: 10,909
Author's Note: Hey everyone! Before you jump in, please take a quick look at the disclaimer, listed on the series masterlist below. This story isn’t meant to glorify the military or injuries in combat. It’s about the messy, complex realities that come with service, and the ways those ripples reach the people waiting back home. This fic was inspired by real stories and experiences shared with me by people I care deeply about, whom I’m incredibly thankful for their honesty and trust. I also want to acknowledge that Warfare is based on real-life events and Sam being based on a real individual. This story is meant to exist separately from that. It’s my own exploration of the fictionalized version of Sam as seen in the film. That said, the real man behind the inspiration has shared his experiences with incredible candor and reflection, and I’d honestly encourage everyone to seek out his perspective and listen to his story firsthand. Since there’s not much canon info on Sam (we don’t even get a last name!), a lot of what you’ll see here comes from my own interpretation and imagination. This story also started from an anonymous request, so to that anon: thank you! You unknowingly kicked off something I’ve become really proud of. As this fic grows and evolves, I’m excited to keep exploring these characters, their flaws, and all the chaos and tenderness that comes with them. Thanks for being here at the start of it all. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I’ve loved bringing it to life. Peace and Love ~ Mae
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Sam
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An unpaid babysitter. That’s exactly how Sam felt. Like an unpaid babysitter.
It wasn’t that he lacked a bond with his squadmates; far from it. They had been forged in fire, traveled to hell and made it back, with their shared survival being a hard-won badge of honor. Their deployments had plunged them into the deadliest corners of the world, but nearly all had come back intact. That was the point, wasn’t it? To endure. To survive.
So when the rare gift of a one-month reprieve arrived, Sam had thrown himself into it with a hunger born of exhaustion and relief. He went home.
He spent long, days back home in the proximity of his mother and father, and with his grandparents who still smelled faintly of pine and old leather. He returned just in time to catch his baby sister coming back from her first semester in college. A moment frozen in time, his smiling face catching her tears as she sobbed into his arms, overwhelmed by his safe return home from deployment. The annual blue fish festival came and went like clockwork, and Sam kayaked out to Cedar Island every day, tracing the shoreline, drinking in the unspoiled beauty of a world untouched by the chaos he’d left behind.
Every second of it felt like an odd liminal space. Time to allow for physical healing, such as that bum shoulder that continued to flare up every now and again from when his arm came out of socket. It was also nice to get a brief sanctuary from the constant gunfire, drills, and endless heavy lifting. A life he’d knowingly signed up for, yet never truly imagined he’d have to endure.
Sam had enlisted in the Navy back in January 1998, a decision born of quiet desperation. College wasn’t for him. No matter how much his mother hoped it would be. Sure, he’d always been good at math, exceptional even, but the idea of a life behind a desk, crunching numbers in starched pants, felt suffocating. It was the opposite of what he craved. Intensity.
From boyhood, athletics had been his refuge: Football, baseball, lacrosse. Fields where he thrived. After a long conversation with his grandfather, a stoic World War 2 veteran who shared Sam’s love of the outdoors and quiet strength, he marched straight into his college’s recruiting office. Then to his advisor, to officially withdraw from classes. Twenty-one years old, Navy SEAL training bound.
He was deep in his first real deployment when the news came. They allowed them to watch the footage, a grim silence settling over the barracks. Few moments in his life had made his stomach drop like this. Sure, there had been the Tower of Terror at Disney World on his sister’s birthday, or that nerve-wracking first kiss from a girl in biology class. Those had been thrilling in a different way. Exhilarating even.
But nothing could have prepared him for the cold, unyielding truth: five more years locked into a contract with Uncle Sam, and a nation shattered, still reeling from a terrorist attack that changed everything. The ground beneath his feet had shifted, the world he knew rewritten overnight. His mission was now stark and unforgiving. Seek retribution, or die trying.
And yet, despite the weight of it all, Sam loved his job.
There was something inherently him about it. The relentless challenges, the physical barriers that pushed his body to the edge, and the mental battles that demanded he stare down doubt and failure only to prove himself wrong again and again. The isolation that came with grueling training or distant deployments, the sharpened instinct to think fast and act faster. Skills he’d been honing since he was a boy racing through the woods behind his grandfather’s cabin.
There was also comfort in the routine. The uniform chosen for him, the simplicity of a life stripped of needless fuss and pretense. Sam was a straightforward man. Never one to waste energy on appearances or tangled relationships outside the Walsh family. He’d been respectful enough, sure, but his high school romance faded before he left for college. Prom pictures were never even printed.
He’d had the difficult conversation with Rachel. The girl who had once been everything to him. He was bound for Yale, she for Duke, and neither had the patience or will for long distance. Worse, by senior year, she had grown possessive, her jealousy suffocating. The night she slapped him across the face still stung, but it was the cold shoulder she gave him at graduation that cut deeper.
College held little respite. There was the girl in his Latin class. Well-bred, polished, from a family whose wealth had bought her a place he’d earned through raw grit and high SAT scores. She had a patronizing charm, dismissing his hometown as “charming,” which in her world meant run-down and insignificant. Worse, she acted as if he were a stranger to the world outside his bubble. As if he’d never glimpsed life beyond the school walls. Maybe her nanny and butler had shielded her from real people growing up. But just like Rachel, she had eventually suffocated him with expectations and condescension. He ended things before the walls closed in completely. Not that she wouldn’t have ended things herself the day he’d dropped out of college. She certainly would’ve.
And then… there was his truest commitment: The United States Navy.
He’d watched too many of his brothers-in-arms buckle under that relentless pressure. The weight so many men in uniform carried silently. He understood the practical reasons behind it all. Marriage brought better housing, extra pay, a touch of normalcy in a life ruled by chaos. Having someone waiting for you at home softened the edge of danger, made the thought of dying a little less unbearable knowing you’d been loved. It offered a tether to the world beyond the battlefield, a promise that life might continue, even if you didn’t.
But for Sam, it was wholly unnecessary, not to mention, deeply unfair.
He could never, ever live with himself if he tangled someone else’s heart in the storm of his existence. His life was a minefield of risk, passion, and obsession. Not the kind of world you brought someone innocent into. The brutal reality of his job – the kind nobody outside the military could understand – meant that any hope, any love, could be shattered in an instant. A poorly made bomb under the desert sun, a stray bullet halfway around the world, a mission gone sideways. It was sickening to even imagine some pretty girl waiting for him at the end of the day, only to be met with a solemn knock on the door, a folded flag, and a letter from his superior.
That kind of heartbreak wasn’t something he’d subject anyone to. Not a sweet daughter, not a hopeful sister, not a woman brave enough to love a man built for war. Loneliness was a small price to pay compared to the burden of dragging someone else into that. Sam Walsh refused to be the man who gave loneliness as a gift, and loss as a legacy.
Which was why he couldn’t help but roll his eyes every time one of his squadmates eagerly launched into plans to find a girl during their scheduled training at Little Creek. Their initial training had taken place in California, but this latest cycle was stationed on the East Coast, six long months in Virginia before they’d be redeployed to the Middle East. At least it had the silver lining of keeping him in the same time zone as his family, a small mercy in a life defined by distance and unpredictability.
But it also meant the familiar weight of responsibility settled heavier on his shoulders. The steady, weary burden of supervisor to a group of young men who drank away their worries every night at the same bar. While they sought oblivion in cheap beer and reckless laughter, Sam remained the reluctant anchor, watching over their foolishness, constantly preventing their irresponsibility from turning into a larger issue. He wasn’t interested in distractions or fleeting connections; not when the lives of his squadmates depended on his vigilance. The role wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary, and it left him isolated.
So, he settled in for the thirteenth straight night at the same bar just off base, exactly as he had every night before. The place wasn’t flashy, but it had character. An older joint with walls lined by faded photographs and relics of a bygone era. The worn leather seats, the faint scent of spilled whiskey, the faint hum of old rock on the jukebox, all unmistakable signs of a sanctuary for those who’d seen too much.
Behind the bar stood Randy, an older man with a gruff demeanor, the kind of presence you couldn’t miss. His skin was weathered, leathery, and marked by an anchor tattoo. The silent emblem of a former SEAL. Randy owned the place and had never quite managed to leave the military behind. It took him all of ten seconds to read Sam’s posture. The tightness in his shoulders, the quiet exhaustion behind his eyes, before sliding a free drink his way.
Their conversations were terse at first, the kind of tight-lipped exchange only soldiers could understand. No need for unnecessary words when experience spoke volumes. But over the past two weeks, something had shifted. Randy’s edges softened, and a more personal warmth crept into their talks.
Randy’s wife, Loretta, was a force of nature. She had gone to high school with Randy and stood steadfast through his trainings and deployments, a pillar of strength in a brutal world. Somewhere along the line, ovarian cancer had struck her down, and she fought the battle mostly alone. On top of that, she’d taken in the child of one of Randy’s squadmates after the girl’s mother died from a hemorrhage during Randy and her father’s deployment. A quiet act of compassion that echoed in the bar’s worn corners. Loretta reminded Sam eerily of his grandmother. Full of sass, unbreakable strength, and a warmth that wrapped around you like a well-worn blanket. They were infinitely more worth his time than an alcohol driven exchange with a woman he’d never see again.
Sam sat at the bar, nursing no more than two beers, exchanging quiet moments with Randy and Loretta. Meanwhile, the rest of his men drank themselves into oblivion, chasing loose girls who haunted the bar’s sticky floors looking for husbands, or simply making fools of themselves around the pool table in the next room.
He was mid-conversation with Randy, casually recounting the day’s grueling task. His skin, no longer salty from the morning’s plunge into cold bay water, now carried the faint scent of Old Spice as he wrapped one hand around a cold beer bottle. The other hand animatedly traced the memory of their jump from the plane into the churning water below, when the bar door swung open with a soft creak.
Normally, his eyes would have snapped to the entrance without hesitation. Years of training had wired him to scan every room, constantly assessing threats, reading every shadow and silhouette. But tonight, surrounded by familiar faces, his fellow soldiers, and in a place where the owner’s reputation for looking out for the downtrodden was well-known, Sam didn’t bother. He barely registered the footsteps growing louder in his peripheral vision.
That is, until Randy’s attention shifted abruptly.
Sam had come to know the man’s playful stoicism well. The kind of gruff exterior that lasted all of five seconds before it melted into teasing ribbing or quiet kindness. So when Randy’s rough face broke into a warm, almost tender smile, his mustache twitching with amusement, it caught Sam off guard. Randy stepped over and settled just to Sam’s right, leaning in close with a gravelly voice that carried a hint of affection.
“You take a wrong turn gettin’ back to the Creek, lil’ missy?”
It was the kind of greeting that meant you missed me, coming from Randy’s mouth.
The voice that answered was unmistakably feminine, yet edged with a roughness that was rare. A touch deeper than most women Sam had known, carrying a hint of grit and resilience like someone who’d been tempered by life’s hard lessons. She had that kind of presence that could hold her own in any room, standing toe-to-toe with men without flinching.
“I was gone for all of two weeks, old man,” she scoffed.
Sam’s head whipped toward her like his mother’s lazy Susan spinning at Sunday lunch after church. What he saw nearly sent his beer bottle tipping over.
All auburn hair. Wild, curly, and impossibly vibrant cascading down past her shoulders, framing a face dotted with pale freckles that caught the dim bar light. Her wide green eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, and her full lips curved into a smile that was equal parts challenge and invitation. She stood a good head shorter than him, a fact that made his palms sweat for reasons he didn’t fully understand. There was something about women who were smaller, something primal, protective, almost like a deep-seated cave-man instinct that stirred inside him.
She wore tight boot-cut jeans that hugged her toned legs, the obvious outline of worn leather boots just peeking out from beneath the cuffs. Her tank top clung snugly to her athletic frame, revealing lean, defined muscles beneath curves that hinted at strength rather than softness. Her nails were kept short and practical, with no frills or polish. Her makeup was minimal, subtle shadows and a light sweep of mascara, nothing flashy or overtly artificial. Something he figured most of his squadmates wouldn’t even notice, and he only had the eye for given he’d grown up with a sister. The only note of femininity was her fiery red hair, a wild cascade that seemed to have a life of its own. She was every bit a tomboy, unapologetically tough and real, the kind of woman who didn’t need to soften herself to fit in.
“Retta’s gonna wanna know all about it, you know,” Randy said, his voice low and teasing as his gaze settled fully on the woman.
Sam might as well have disappeared. The moment she stepped into the room, Randy’s world shifted its center of gravity. As if everyone else blurred into the background, Sam included. Their familiarity was unmissable. The kind of closeness built over years, not months. They spoke with glances more than words, and for a brief moment, it was as if the rest of the bar didn’t exist.
That’s when Sam noticed it. The resemblance. It was subtle at first. A strange sense of déjà vu, but then it hit him all at once. The same wild curls. The same sharp, glinting green eyes that danced with mischief. The same tomboy swagger, like she’d grown up climbing trees and outrunning boys twice her size. His gaze drifted behind the bar, to the cluster of old photographs near the register, tucked just to the right of the liquor shelf. He’d seen them a dozen times in passing, but hadn’t really looked at them. A couple of Christmas snapshots. One of a grinning teenager holding a fish half her size on a kayak. Another, much older image of a toddler perched on a much younger Loretta’s lap, curls like wildfire and eyes already full of trouble.
He hadn't paid much attention before. Observation was instinct for him, even when he wasn’t actively scanning for threats, he still registered details. That’s just how his mind worked. But in that moment, something clicked into place.
Loretta had mentioned her goddaughter once or twice in passing, in that offhand way older women do when talking about someone they hold close to the heart but don’t want to make a fuss over. Sam recalled the story in fragments. How Loretta watched over the baby for nearly a year while going through her own cancer remission. How she and Randy took the girl in at seventeen, after Randy’s best friend and former squadmate succumbed to cancer and left her behind. A girl they helped raise like their own. And now, seven inches to Sam’s right, stood that girl. All grown up, wrapped in denim, boots and a quiet, commanding fire.
Sam took another sip of his beer, already half-planning his exit. He figured he'd slip away quietly, give them the space they clearly hadn’t realized they needed. Sure, he’d grown to enjoy the quiet companionship of Randy and Loretta. Steady, salt-of-the-earth people who didn’t ask questions they didn’t need answers to. But he understood family. Wanted to understand what it could mean to reconnect after time apart. Even if said time was no more than a few weeks. He was just about to excuse himself when the woman let out a short, sharp laugh and pointed toward the specials board on the wall. Her voice cut through the low hum of the bar. Her voice was smoky, low, and steeped in Southern drawl.
“The hell is a Jolene?” she scoffed, brows raised as she shot a look back at Randy.
Sam blinked, caught between the sound of her voice and the curve of mock horror in her smile. It wasn’t a question so much as a challenge. Randy’s face immediately stiffened. He rolled his eyes like a man already caught red-handed. “Retta wanted to try it out while you were gone. See if it’d catch on. I told her you’d object, whole-heartedly–” he started, already reaching for a glass behind the bar.
The woman’s eyebrow lifted with a sharpness that said don’t even think about it, but Randy poured anyway. By the time the drink landed on the sticky varnish in front of her, she was eyeing it like it might grow legs and walk off the counter.
“Peach Crown and ginger ale,” Randy muttered, almost apologetically.
“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered, picking it up like it offended her on principle. She took a sip and immediately grimaced.
Sam watched the whole thing unfold like a well-rehearsed comedy bit. The moment her face puckered, Randy burst out laughing, a deep, chesty sound that filled the space like thunder.
“I told Retta that peach Crown and ginger ale were sure as shit not our Jolene,” he said between chuckles. “But you know how she is. Gets something in her head and rides it all the way into the ground, JJ.” Sam couldn’t help it, his lips twitched.
Jolene.
He’d only ever heard Randy call her “JJ,” like he’d just done now. Loretta, on the other hand, had always referred to her more distantly. Our goddaughter, even when she’d once pulled a photo from the collage behind the bar and handed it to Sam. The woman beside him now, sharp-eyed and wry-smiled, in an image where she was perched next to an overgrown german sheppard with a massive underbite.
“You seem just as stubborn as that girl,” Loretta had said at the time with a fond, knowing smile. Then she’d gone on a rambling tangent about her god daughter’s refusal to settle, her habit of running off men before they ever got too comfortable, and her fierce insistence on independence. There’d been no judgment in Loretta’s voice, just pride dressed up as exasperation. The kind that said “I’m glad she knows how to take care of herself,” in one breath but “I’d love grandbaby’s” in another.
And Sam had understood. That desire to be alone. The satisfaction in solitude. The quiet kind of self-preservation that came from not dragging someone else into the whirlwind of your life. It was the same thing that kept him here every night since he got to town. Sitting at the bar with a pair of old souls instead of chasing cheap hookups like the rest of his squad. He wasn't avoiding intimacy as much as he was protecting others from it.
He stole another glance at Jolene, who was still glaring at the fizzy drink like it had insulted her personally. Just then, Randy reached out with a chuckle, sliding the offending glass away and replacing it with a cold Sam Adams. “There,” he muttered, amused. “Let’s not pretend you’re a cocktail girl.”
Before she could reply, a familiar voice cut through the space. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Loretta’s voice rang out as she appeared from the hallway near the back, apron tied around her waist, hair pinned up in a no-nonsense bun that still managed to look elegant. “You didn’t even say hello before runnin’ your mouth.”
Jolene turned with a grin, her whole face lighting up. “I was ambushed by the board,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the specials chalked up on the wall. “You named a drink after me? A foul, fruity one at that.”
Loretta laughed as she came around the bar to wrap Jolene in a one-armed hug. Jolene leaned into the embrace with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. Their banter was seamless, practiced. A soft rhythm built from years of chosen family. “How was Baltimore?” Loretta asked, pulling back just enough to study her goddaughter’s face.
“Crowded. Loud. Full of assholes,” Jolene replied, deadpan. “In other words: Baltimore.”
Loretta gave her a light swat on the arm, shaking her head, “Everything went okay?”
Sam watched the exchange quietly, nursing the last of his beer, feeling like he was seeing something private. But not in an unwelcome way. More like he was peeking in on something maybe he shouldn’t be, but not having the strength to tear his eyes away. Then, for just a moment, Randy glanced his way. His expression was unreadable, until the corners of his mouth tugged into a wry, almost smug grin. “My goddaughter,” he said simply, voice low, eyes twinkling with quiet pride. Then he turned back to the two women without another word, fully re-immersed in their conversation, leaving Sam alone with the warm hum in his chest and the growing awareness that he was watching a hurricane of a woman.
“Victoria’s good. Baby’s good. Healthy and cute as a button,” Jolene said as she took a sip of her beer, the glass bottle balanced easily in one hand while the other reached into her back pocket. She pulled out a weathered leather bifold. Well-loved and broken in. The kind of wallet that looked like it had been sat on, sweated on, and dropped in the mud more than a few times. Sam clocked the detail absently, recognizing the same type of no-nonsense utility he lived by.
She slid a single photo out and passed it to Randy without ceremony. From where Sam sat, he couldn’t make out much. He wasn’t trying to snoop anyway. That would’ve been obvious, and the last thing he wanted was to get caught ogling over a stranger’s baby picture like some nosy neighbor. Still, curiosity tugged quietly at the edge of his attention.
“Damn, that’s a big kid,” Randy said with a short laugh, holding the photo out for Loretta.
“Twelve pounds, five ounces,” Jolene replied, deadpan. Though the way her eyes widened ever so slightly told a whole story of secondhand horror.
“Good Lord,” Loretta muttered as she took the photo, blinking at it. “You said Victoria was okay?”
Jolene leaned against the bar, raising an eyebrow as she recounted the tale, her voice dripping with dry humor. “I told Victoria not to date the linebacker in high school. Flash forward and she was screaming about a vasectomy while he was crowning.”
Sam choked on a breath. Not a full laugh, more like a stifled snort that punched out against his will, sharp and involuntary. Three sets of eyes turned to him at once. His face flushed instantly, heat creeping from his neck to the tips of his ears. He tried to clear his throat, lift his beer, act casual. Anything to disappear into the wood grain of the bar. “My bad,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.
But Jolene just smiled. Wide, amused, and undeniably dangerous. “I didn’t know we had an audience,” she said, voice laced with mischief, green eyes flicking over to him with interest.
Randy, ever the instigator, let out a low chuckle and clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “This one’s become a regular. Rolled in the day after you left. Been keeping your spot warm while you’ve been away.”
Sam rubbed the back of his neck, still red. “I wasn’t trying to listen in.”
“But you did,” Jolene hummed, taking a slow sip of her beer before leveling him with a look that was part challenge, part amusement. “You can’t help it, can you?” She tipped her head at him knowingly. “Your job’s to be observant.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “How’d you–?”
She grinned before he could finish, one of those are you serious right now kinds of expressions that made his stomach twist and his heart trip over itself. “Oh, come on,” she teased, lowering her beer and leaning one elbow on the bar. “I grew up in a SEAL household. I know one when I see one.”
Sam blinked.
“She’s not wrong,” Loretta chimed in from behind the bar, already half-laughing.
Randy smiled, clearly proud of both women. He gestured between them lazily. “Sam Walsh, meet Jolene Johnson. Our goddaughter. She’s got a talent for sniffin’ people out and sending all the men who try and look in her direction running for the hills.”
Jolene gave a mock salute, eyes never leaving Sam. “Nice to meet you, Walsh. You always eavesdrop when strangers talk about their friend’s childbirth trauma, or am I just special?”
Sam shook his head with a dry laugh, finally letting himself relax. “You’re definitely special.”
“Charmin’,” Loretta said, grinning wide now. “This one’s real charmin’ Jo, so please be a peach, and don’t run him off. I was just starting to like him.”
“Take that damn cocktail off the board and I’ll think about it,” Jolene said, gesturing to the board.
Randy chuckled as he reached for a bar towel, slinging it over one shoulder with the casual ease of someone who’d spent half his life behind a counter. “That one’s a spitfire, boy,” he said low, leaning in just slightly while the women launched into a playful debate over the drink named in Jolene’s honor. His voice dropped a notch, gravelly and knowing. “If I were you, I’d tread carefully.”
Then he straightened and looked away, giving Sam no chance to reply. But the message hung heavy in the air, sinking in deeper than any shotgun-on-the-porch, “have her home by ten” kind of warning Sam had gotten back in high school. This wasn’t about protecting some fragile girl from the big, bad sailor. This was a warning for him. Not laced with threat, but with understanding. The kind that passed between men who’d seen the world at its ugliest and knew exactly how rare women like her were. It wasn’t about guarding her heart. It was about guarding his.
Because it became obvious to him, with his limited knowledge, and now only few minutes of observing her, that Jolene Johnson obviously wasn’t delicate porcelain in need of a pedestal. She was barbed wire wrapped in beauty, and Randy, through the lens of old Navy instincts and godfather wisdom, was giving him the kind of heads-up a man only offered when he respected you enough to tell the truth: She’ll wreck you, son. And you’ll thank her for it.
Jolene smirked as she turned back toward Sam, her tone still light, but there was a flicker of something more thoughtful behind her eyes now. “So,” she drawled, propping an elbow on the bar. “What exactly did you do to charm both Loretta and Randy? Randy’s got a soft spot for anyone who’s worn the uniform, sure, but Loretta? She’s a bit more skeptical of sailors.”
Sam huffed a quiet laugh, tapping the neck of his beer bottle against the bar before lifting it. “Not really sure,” he said honestly.
Jolene didn’t reply at first, just took another sip of her own beer, her eyes scanning the room lazily. Like she wasn’t entirely invested in the conversation but also hadn’t walked away. Loretta drifted toward the back, and Randy had moved down the bar to greet someone else, leaving the two of them in a small pocket of space that felt quieter than the rest of the bar.
She didn’t look at him when she asked, “You come here to drink alone, or...?”
Sam raised a brow, reading between the lines. “Squad. Officer. You can do the math.”
Jolene grinned, turning back to him. “Ah. So you’re the responsible one.”
“Something like that.”
“Or the married one,” she said, eyes dancing as she tipped her beer to her lips again. “Playing designated wingman for the rest of the idiots while he tries not to feel guilty about his ring tan if he flirts for a few hours.”
Sam shook his head, the reaction immediate and firm. “Not a fat chance.”
That made her pause. She studied him now, properly, like she’d just decided he was worth a closer look. “No wife back home?” she asked, but there was no flirt in it. Just blatant curiousity.
“Nope,” he said, setting his bottle down. “Never had one. Never planned to.”
Her brows rose slightly, not in judgment, but something more like appreciation. “Huh. That so?”
He nodded, leaning back slightly, arms crossed over his chest. “Never felt right dragging someone into this life. Lots of my guys talk themselves into it. Better pay, better housing. Someone to come home to. Makes sense on paper. But in practice? You’re just gambling with someone else’s peace if you ask me.”
Jolene went still for a second, her smirk fading into something quieter. She tilted her bottle in a silent toast before taking another sip. “I get that,” she said, softer now. “People don’t always realize how easy it is to wreck someone when all you know is chaos.”
Sam’s eyes flicked to her, and for a beat, neither of them said anything. Something about what she said just lived there, in the space between them, mutually understood. Here were two people who had learned, maybe the hard way, that solitude wasn’t loneliness. It was survival. It was doing the right thing for another person, even if it meant you got used to the silence. A selfless act, even if it seemed unconventional.
“Well,” Jolene said, turning slightly in her stool to face him more fully, “you probably know more about me than any man should if you’ve been perched up at this bar for two weeks. Randy’s got a heart the size of Texas and a mouth to match.”
Sam chuckled under his breath, swirling the last sip of his beer in the bottle. “He does like to talk.”
“Mhm. Especially when it’s about me.” She tilted her head, watching him with those sharp green eyes. “So how even the score a little?” He raised a brow. “Let me buy you another beer, and you spill your guts so I don’t feel overly exposed here by my godparents” she offered, nodding toward the empty bottle in front of him. “After all, at least I can do to support our troops.”
That stopped him. Not because he was offended, but because he was surprised. He blinked. “You don’t strike me as the ‘buy a guy a drink’ type.”
She grinned, already waving down Loretta with two fingers. “What can I say Brown Eyes, I’m full of surprises.”
Just then, the scratch of a record starting up echoed through the bar’s old jukebox. A familiar guitar riff filtered into the space. More than a Feeling. Low, steady, and unmistakable. Jolene’s eyes flicked toward the sound, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Oh, hell yeah,” she murmured, half to herself. Shoulders slowly moving as if she was already lost in the song.
Sam glanced sideways at her. “Boston?”
“Yes sir,”
He gave a short laugh. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”
She leaned forward just enough to narrow the space between them, her tone easy. “And what type is that, exactly?”
He met her gaze, smiling softly. “The kind that listens to country.”
Jolene raised her eyebrows, clearly amused. “Well, you aren’t entirely wrong there.” She smiled and looked around the room. “Namesake and all,”
Loretta slid the two beers over without a word, her expression suspiciously neutral as she moved back down the bar. Sam took one and lifted it in a quiet thanks. Jolene clinked her bottle gently against his. “To classic rock bands, the blabbermouth bartenders I call family, and a night not playing wingman or getting thrown up on by newborns.”
He smirked, tapping his bottom towards hers and taking a drink. “I gotta be honest, I am not really understanding why Randy gave me a warning when it came to you.”
“Give it a few more minutes,” she said, settling back into her seat with that same calm confidence. “Eventually they all go running for the hills faster than that Naval regime can carry them,”
He didn’t answer right away, just took a slow sip of his beer, eyes fixed on her. There was something about Jolene, something that pulled at the edges of his thoughts. Beneath that playful, teasing spirit lay a quiet stoicism. It wasn’t obvious, but it was there. “So,” she said, a sly grin tugging at her lips, “gonna fulfill your half of the bargain now that I’ve properly supplied your beer?”
He leaned back, considering. “What do you wanna know?” Sam braced himself for the usual. The generic questions he was tired of hearing: Where’re you from? Why’d you join the Navy? What’s your family like? But Jolene’s next words threw him off balance.
“What scares you the most?” she asked, her voice dropping low, eyes fixed on his like she was searching for something buried beneath the surface.
Sam blinked. This wasn’t the usual small talk. No easy, surface-level banter here. It was a quiet challenge, wrapped in casual conversation. A test he hadn’t been prepared for. He held her gaze. “I’m starting to see why they slap a ‘stanch warning’ label on you,” he said with a shaky laugh, nodding toward her.
Jolene smirked, the ghost of a sigh escaping her lips. “I just love watching you boys squirm.”
Sam’s eyes flicked down for a moment, then met hers again, steady and searching. The words didn’t come easy, but maybe here, now, they could be spoken. “Losing control,” he admitted quietly.
She nodded slowly, eyes sweeping around the bar as if taking in all the chaos in the room. “Which is understandable,” she said. “But honestly, you could’ve just said snakes, and I’d have accepted it.”
He let out a dry chuckle. “That would’ve been a lie.”
She smiled, sharp and knowing. “Sure, but if Indiana Jones can be manly and afraid of snakes, it would’ve been the perfect cop-out.”
“I’m not really one to cop out,” Sam said flatly, “You asked. I answered. Nothing to hide here.”
“Interesting,” she murmured, almost to herself, then turned away to glance at the jukebox.
Something stirred inside him. A quiet swell of pride. That simple exchange, the raw honesty beneath the banter, had done something unexpected. And in that moment, he realized he’d found a sliver of ground, to get under her skin, just enough to make her see him differently.
“Alright, I got one,” Jolene said, a wicked glint in her eye as she leaned in close. Sam felt her breath before he heard her words. Soft and sultry right against his ear. “What kind of porn you watchin’ back on base, Sailor?”
His spine straightened like he’d just taken enemy fire. Eyes wide. Beer nearly slipped from his hand. She burst out laughing, clearly delighted by the reaction. “Oh my god,” she wheezed, brushing a hand down his arm as if to apologize, though the grin on her face said she wasn’t sorry at all. “You should’ve seen your face.”
Sam shook his head, laughing despite himself. “You just ask every guy that, or am I special?”
She shrugged, still chuckling. “Depends. Do you always react like you just got caught in church with a Playboy under your hymnal?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the flush in his cheeks rising. “Wasn’t expecting that one.”
Her hand lingered on his arm a moment longer than it needed to. Warm through the soft cotton of his t-shirt, before she pulled away and reached for her beer again. “You don’t have to answer,” she said, eyes flicking sideways with a smirk. “Although, now I’m dying to know if you’re a romantic type or more of a no-plot, guy.”
Sam leaned on the bar, recovering his composure with a slow sip. “That’s classified,” he deadpanned.
“Uh-huh,” she teased, crossing one leg over the other, boot tapping lightly against the footrest. “Guess I’ll just have to use my imagination.”
The jukebox shifted songs again, something grittier and low. A Tom Petty tune this time. Sam let out a breath. “You always this chaotic?”
Jolene lifted her bottle in a lazy mock-toast, green eyes gleaming. “I like to keep people on their toes.”
“You’re doing a hell of a job,” Sam said, his voice edged with a grin.
“I try,” she hummed, then let her gaze drift back to him. “You were the good boy in school, weren’t you? Top of the class, neat handwriting, real smart kind.” It was more of a statement than a question.
He smirked and ran his thumb over the label of his beer bottle. “Salutatorian.”
Her brows lifted like she’d just hit the jackpot. “Knew it.”
She glanced around the room, as if searching for examples. “Most guys I’ve met in uniform? Athletes. Brawlers. Or the kind who wouldn’t have made it elsewhere. Not a knock, just how it usually goes.”
Sam nodded. “I was at Yale. Accounting. Really broke my Ma’s heart when I called to say I dropped out and enlisted.”
Jolene turned fully toward him then, her posture relaxed but her expression suddenly became serious. “Why’d you do it?”
There was no teasing behind her tone. No smirk hiding in the corner of her mouth. She asked it like someone who genuinely wanted to know. He took a breath and answered. “I couldn’t stand it,” he said quietly. “The idea of dress shoes and staring at spreadsheets for the rest of my life under fluorescent lights. Felt like dying in slow motion. I wasn’t made to live like that.”
Something softened in her expression. She gave a small nod, almost to herself. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I get that.”
He chuckled. “So, what do you do?”
She tilted her head, studying him with playful suspicion. “You mean Randy and Loretta haven’t told you my full life story, including my home address and occupation?”
“They mentioned you existed, not what you did for a living,” he said, watching her closely. “Should I be nervous?”
Jolene grinned and leaned an elbow on the bar. “I run my dad’s old auto shop. Took it over when I turned eighteen and the deed got passed to me. Been mine for the last nine years.”
Sam blinked. That wasn’t the answer he expected. “You’re a mechanic?”
“Yes sir,” she said with a smirk.
He laughed, shaking his head. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“Most don’t.” She took a sip of her beer. Sam’s smile lingered as he glanced at her. Boots scuffed, jeans hugging her curves, hands strong but nimble. The curls spilling from her head being the only wildly feminine thing about her. And yet she was still effortlessly beautiful. “Let me guess,” she said, tipping her bottle slightly in his direction, her green eyes narrowing with mock-serious focus. “You’re a…” She let the moment hang, scanning his face like it held all the answers. “…Mustang man,” she declared, sitting back with a smirk, satisfied with herself.
Sam blinked, and for a second he was sixteen again. His childhood bedroom, now half-overtaken by his mother’s holiday decorations and storage bins. But on the one untouched wall, still hanging by old thumbtacks and curling at the corners, was that damn poster. A ‘69 Mustang. Canary yellow. Black racing stripes. The kind of car that felt like freedom when he was a boy dreaming of escape.
He let out a soft laugh and shook his head. “Damn.”
Jolene grinned like she’d just sunk an impossible pool shot. “I know cars,” she said simply, as if that explained everything. And honestly, it kind of did.
“That obvious?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Little bit,” she teased, taking a slow sip. “You’ve got Mustang energy. Classic. American made. Requires a lot of maintenance so they aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. Which, is great for keeping my lights on.”
Sam raised an eyebrow, amused. “So is that how you pick your men? By what kind of classic car they’d like?”
“No,” she drawled, tapping a nail against her bottle. “But it does help to weed out the Corvette guys from the pool. Too high maintenance. I don’t like pretty boys.”
He laughed. It wasn’t just her confidence, or the way she talked like she didn’t owe the world an explanation. It was that strange, electric comfort between them, the sense of being understood without having to explain too much. “So,” he said, glancing at her over the rim of his bottle. “What kind of car are you?”
She tilted her head and thought for a moment. “‘72 Bronco. Matte blue paint job. Dog hair in the back seat. Radio’s a bit wonky, but the engine runs like hell.”
He smiled. “Sounds about right.”
“Damn straight it does,” she said, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. The jukebox clicked again, this time rolling into Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man.” Neither of them spoke for a moment, letting the lyrics drift over them, the melody threading into the space between. “You know,” she said quietly, “I’ve always loved this song.”
He nodded. “Hard not to.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “I prefer people who tell it to me straight. No bullshit.”
Her voice had softened, losing its playful edge for a beat, but then she looked back at him with a spark in her eye. Before Sam could come back with some dry remark, Randy’s voice cut in from the other side of the bar like a grenade tossed into their calm little bubble. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said, setting down a bar towel and squinting like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re still sittin’ here. And he’s still breathing.”
Jolene didn’t even blink. “Brown Eyes hasn’t given me a reason to send him packing. Yet.”
Randy let out a wheezing laugh, clearly delighted. “Brown Eyes, huh?”
“Shove off, Randy,” she said, shooting him a look, but the edge in her voice was dulled by the faint curl of a smile tugging at her lips.
“Terms of endearment,” Randy grinned, eyes dancing with mischief as he turned to Sam. “I think little Jo might actually like you son.”
Jolene arched her brow. “Keep talkin’ and I’ll sic Loretta on your ass. You know she’s still mad about you forgetting her birthday last year.”
Randy raised both hands in mock surrender. “Now that’s just playing dirty.”
Sam watched them with a faint smile. The back-and-forth carried that undeniable thread of history. Years of bickering and belonging, the kind of bond you didn’t earn overnight. There was nothing forced about it. Just love, worn in like an old leather jacket. And Jolene, for all her fire and sharp tongue, fit into it like she'd always been part of the frame. Like she was carved out of that same solid stuff. Randy gave Sam a knowing look before wandering off down the bar, shaking his head and chuckling under his breath. Jolene turned back to Sam, raising her bottle in a mock toast. “Sorry about him. He’s been impossible since 2002”
“I like him,” Sam said, resting his forearm on the bar. “He reminds me of my Grandpa.”
Jolene turned to him, a sly brow raised. “Is your grandpa also nosy as hell?”
“Not exactly,” Sam said with a short laugh, lifting his beer. “But he’s got that fake sternness. Gruff voice, arms crossed like he’s gonna lecture you, then turns around and slips you a twenty.”
Jolene nodded toward Randy, who was now fussing over a glass rack like it had personally offended him. “Yep. That’s Randy. Barks like a dog, but he’s made of marshmallow.” She paused, taking a long sip of her beer, then glanced at Sam from the corner of her eye. “And, I assume your Grandma keeps asking where the kids are?”
“Every time I go home,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter how short the trip is. That woman finds time to pull me aside, ask if there’s ‘a nice girl’ back at the base. That would imply I’ve got time and interest, and everyone knows that’s not happening.”
Jolene let out a low chuckle. “God, thank you. Finally, someone who gets it.”
Sam turned, amused. “Let me guess. You’re dodging the same questions?”
“Like it’s a national sport,” she replied. “Retta still thinks I’m going through a ‘rough patch’ that’s lasted, oh… five years and counting.” He laughed, and she grinned as she continued. “They all think you’re broken if you don’t want the white-picket fence. Husband, kids, minivan. That whole suffocating checklist.”
Sam swirled the last inch of beer in his bottle, watching the amber swirl in the glass. “Yeah. Like wanting something different means something’s wrong with you.”
Jolene leaned her chin into her palm, expression softening. “It’s not that I’m against love or anything. I just don’t want to compromise who I am to have it.”
“That’s it,” Sam said, more earnest than he meant to. “I’ve seen what happens when people build a life around someone else. Then that person leaves, or dies, or just… disappoints. And suddenly, they don’t know who they are anymore.”
Jolene nodded slowly, and for the first time, her playful mask slipped. “Yeah,” she said, voice quiet. “Been there.”
They didn’t speak for a moment. “You know,” Sam said after a moment, glancing sideways at her, “this isn’t how I expected my night to go.”
Jolene arched a brow, playful as ever. “That a good thing?”
He gave a slow, honest smile. “No complaints here.”
She held his gaze for a beat, eyes steady and expression unreadable, before turning her attention back to her beer. Her fingers trailed lazily along the condensation on the bottle. “You’re an honest man,” she said softly. “Maybe that’s why I haven’t sent you packing yet.”
Sam tilted his head, smirking. “But we should give it time, right? At least that’s what you keep telling me.”
“You catch on fast, Brown Eyes,” she hummed, lips curling in amusement.
They settled into something easy then. A rhythm that didn’t require effort or posturing. Just good beer, low music, and conversation that flowed as naturally as the tide. Stories from childhood. Quick jabs and playful teasing. Shared complaints about the current state of politics and civil discourse that left little room for nuance. A mutual reverence for the moment the Red Sox had clinched the World Series last October.
When she told him her dad was a born-and-raised Masshole, Sam laughed out loud. It made perfect sense, despite her Southern drawl and dusty boots, because it was still there. That same dry bluntness. That defiant charm. The kind of woman who could fix your carburetor, out-drink you in whiskey, and still steal your heart with a crooked smile. She had that New England backbone, and being a Connecticut coastal kid, Sam recognized it. He knew people like her. Only, he’d never met someone quite like her.
And it was nice. There was a stillness in him tonight that he hadn’t felt in a long time. The kind of quiet that usually came only in the wilderness. Like after a long hike, at the edge of a cliff, watching the sun disappear over pine trees and silence settle over the earth. That voice in his head, the one that always warned him to stay clear of pretty smiles and kind words, that reminded him women like this had no business waiting around for someone with boots always halfway out the door, was quiet. Maybe for the first time in years. There was no tension clawing at the back of his mind. No guilt for enjoying her company. Just the comfortable weight of now. Of this.
He found himself watching the slope of her collarbone as she tilted her head and laughed at something he’d said. Nothing lewd. Just… appreciation. A man admiring a woman who happened to be sitting far too close, whose smile came far too easily. She didn’t even seem to notice the way her boot had casually settled on the bottom rung of his barstool. Tucked right between his knees. It just moved there. And he didn’t mind.
Somewhere between stories and another round of drinks, they’d both turned their stools fully to face each other. The noise of the bar faded to the edges. His knee brushed hers every now and then, neither of them acknowledging it. Neither of them moving away, either. That subtle pressure of her boot resting between his knees should’ve meant something. Should’ve stirred that reflex he’d honed so carefully. The instinct to retreat before things got too personal, too close. But it didn’t. Instead, he felt still. Not weighed down, but settled. And God, when was the last time he’d felt anything like that?
He watched her laugh again. Head tossed back just slightly, a curl falling from behind her ear, and it hit him harder than it should’ve. Women like her weren’t supposed to exist. Not in real life, anyway. The world was full of too many illusions. Too many paint-by-numbers girls, looking for men to fill a space in their life instead of walking side-by-side with them. Too many forced conversations over cocktails he couldn’t pronounce in bars that smelled like burnt citrus and bad decisions.
But Jolene? She was as real as the engine grease stains on her jeans and sea air outside. She was all bare skin and calloused palms. Boot-cut jeans that hugged her hips just right. A tank top that wasn’t trying to be sexy, but was. Short nails, a laugh that was quick and unfiltered. Hair like wildfire and a voice that could gut a man if she wanted to with one lewd comment. He hadn’t built her in his head. She wasn’t some soft-focus fantasy that existed only on lonely nights in bunkrooms or base showers.
She was flesh and blood. Sharp wit and strong shoulders. The kind of woman who probably preferred fishing on a quiet lake to getting dressed up for dinner downtown. Who listened to Skynyrd and Zeppelin and didn’t just name-drop it to sound cool. Who changed her own damn oil and wouldn’t care if his hands were rough when he touched her. And somehow, against all odds, she was sitting here with him. Not batting lashes. Not trying to impress. Just being herself. Just existing, like it didn’t even occur to her how rare she was.
She didn’t need rescuing. She didn’t need fixing. And she sure as hell wasn’t looking for a hero. She was just a woman who knew who the hell she was. And Sam, who had spent his entire adult life learning to stay a step removed, to never get too close to something he couldn’t keep, felt something stir in his chest that he hadn’t let himself feel in a long, long time. Not infatuation. Not lust. Just a kind of… quiet recognition. A sense of, Ah. There you are. Suddenly, the jukebox clicked again, gears shifting audibly before a familiar swell of melody rolled through the bar. Jolene let out a groan, her head falling back with theatrical exasperation.
“Oh, come on,” she sighed. “I swear Randy is behind that one.”
Sam recognized the tune the moment the first notes lilted through the speakers. Dolly Parton’s unmistakable voice floating over the hum of conversation and clinking glass. He smiled, slow and knowing, as the lyrics took shape around them.
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene…
It was impossible not to look at her. This woman with that unmistakable head of long, wild auburn curls, skin kissed by sun and freckles, and those green eyes that narrowed as she gave the bar a half-hearted glare. A living, breathing embodiment of the song’s muse. Except she wasn’t the one stealing anyone’s man. Sam sure as hell wasn’t anyone’s to steal. Still… the words felt suddenly personal. The imagery, too fitting. Like the universe was in on a joke it hadn’t told him yet.
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her tank top, clearly aware of his gaze. “If you make a single joke about my ‘flaming locks of auburn hair,’ I’m dumping this beer in your lap.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, lips twitching. But his heart was a different story. Kicking harder in his chest than it had in months. He set the beer down, leaning forward just a little. “You hate the song that much?”
“I don’t hate it,” she said, voice dry with the weight of long-suffered teasing. “I just hate hearing it every time I walk into a bar with a jukebox. You’d think being named after a song would be romantic or something. It’s not. It’s just… predictable.”
“Nothing about you strikes me as predictable.”
That earned him a brief pause. A flicker in her eyes. Not quite surprise. Not quite disbelief. But something softer. “You’d be surprised,” she said quietly.
“Try me.”
For a second, neither of them spoke. The song played on, background noise to a growing current neither one of them had planned for. And maybe that’s why it worked. Why it didn’t feel heavy or loaded or like some moment either one of them had to pretend to want or resist. It just existed without need for explanation.
Usually when a woman looked like that there was something underneath it. An edge. An expectation. Demands of him that he wasn’t willing to make, nor did he feel was morally right to lie about. But something that curled around her smile said don’t get too close. More than that, she just let him be, and that… that was something new.
“You know,” she said suddenly, chin tipping toward him. “You’re staring.”
He didn’t even try to deny it. “I know.”
Jolene didn’t laugh or deflect this time. She just looked at him. Her green eyes tracked over his features slowly. Starting at the eyes, lingering on his jaw painted with two day old stubble, the faint scar at his temple, the way his T-shirt clung across his chest and shoulders. Her gaze wasn’t lewd, but it wasn’t shy either. It was the kind that could pull a man apart, piece by piece, and catalog him with the same ease she might use when identifying the engine block on a ‘73 Camaro.
Sam felt himself shift slightly back in his seat. Not out of discomfort, exactly. Just… unfamiliarity. It wasn’t often a woman looked at him like that and made him feel like the one being seen. Because the truth was, he didn’t think of himself as particularly noteworthy. Sure, he kept in shape. It came with the territory. But he wasn’t the biggest guy on base, not by a long shot. There were plenty of men in his unit who were broader, taller, and had a muscular structure women went nuts over. The kind of guys women threw themselves at in bars. Sam had never been that guy.
His strength lived quiet in his frame. Coiled muscle that didn’t advertise itself. Shoulders that carried weight without complaint. Hands calloused from years of weapon drills. His face was… fine. Average. Probably looked a tad bit older than he was in reality, due to that unfortunate way a soldier’s fine lines set in young. The only thing he’d ever heard women consistently compliment were his eyes. Dark, almost black in low light, but much lighter when the sun was out. Something about them made people think he was serious, even when he wasn’t trying to be.
And now, here was Jolene, taking her sweet time like he was a painting she was deciding whether or not to hang in her room. “You done?” he asked softly, a half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Not yet,” she murmured, just as soft.
He blinked, caught off guard. A beat passed. Then she leaned forward, elbows on the bar, and her voice shifted into something a little warmer, a little more sincere. “You’ve got those eyes,” she said, tapping the side of her beer bottle. “Still. Quiet. But not empty. Just like you’ve got a lot to say but are choosing not to.”
Sam didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever said anything quite like it before. It felt like a compliment, but it didn’t land like flattery. He tilted his head, watching her with new appreciation. “That’s quite a compliment.”
Jolene smirked. “I’ve been told I’m a little intense.”
He nodded. “I’ve been told I’m a little boring.”
“You’re not boring,” she said simply. “You’re calm. That’s different. Calm’s rare. I like rare.”
“Does that mean you like me?” he asked. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the need to prove anything. Not his job, and the reasons he chose it much to his family’s disdain. Not his perpetual singlessness which suffered teasing with his squadmates. Not his physical strength, as he fought to prove himself worthy of his title. Not even his interest in her. It all just simply was.
And somehow, she made that feel like enough. From somewhere near the end of the bar, Randy let out another loud chuckle, clearly still eavesdropping. “You better be careful,” Jolene said without looking up, eyes still locked on Sam’s, “He’s gonna start planning a wedding.”
“I can handle Randy,” Sam replied with a grin and a raise of his right eyebrow.
She leaned back, taking a long pull from her beer, the corners of her mouth curving as she studied him once more. “Yeah,” she said quietly, “I bet you can.”
Sam sat back, the conversation and the warmth of Jolene’s gaze settling deep in his bones. He caught himself wondering if maybe, just maybe, he should ask her out. Not the typical “date” loaded with all the usual pressures and expectations, but something simpler. A chance to see her again, share some more quiet nights talking about cars, music, and the small things that made life feel bearable.
He knew both of them wore their independence like armor. A shared understanding that relationships could be messy, complicated, and sometimes more trouble than they were worth. But maybe that was exactly why this could work. Someone who understood the value of space, who wasn’t going to demand more than he was willing to give. Someone who could be a friend, a companion through the next six months in Virginia. A steady presence he could trust, not a whirlwind to disrupt his carefully guarded calm. He swallowed the sudden nervousness rising in his chest. What’s the harm in asking?
Just as he was about to muster the courage, the side door banged open and a familiar voice cut through the mellow hum of the room. “Sam! Frank’s getting rowdy again. Probably best to pack it up before someone loses a tooth.” Erik stumbled in, eyes bright with the kind of rough energy that didn’t fit in with the quiet atmosphere Sam was enjoying.
Sam sighed, the moment slipping away. Jolene caught his expression and gave a half-smile that seemed to say, next time. He stood, trying to flag down Randy to close out as she looked at him. She rose as well, tucking her hands into her belt loops and for the first time during the evening she looked unsure how to proceed. She nodded her head towards the door.
“I better get back home. Loretta dropped by round 4 but I’m sure Chewie’s gotta go out.” she said. He recalled her mentioning her German Sheppard, earnestly named Chewbacca, that was waiting at her home. Same one from the photo behind the bar.
“Right,” he nodded behind him. “And I got some SEALs to wrangle back to base before someone breaks something or gets us banned from the bar,”
“Of course,” she replied, with a forced smile.
The bar buzzed around them. Raucous laughter, the scrape of chairs, the clatter of glasses, yet everything blurring into a noisy background hum. Sam’s throat felt tight. His mind raced with the usual self-doubt, the quiet voice that told him to keep his distance, to not get involved, to protect her from himself. But something about Jolene, her easy confidence and sharp humor, was pulling at him. Softening that guard. He swallowed hard and finally blurted out, voice rougher than he expected, “Maybe… maybe I could see you again?”
She glanced toward the door like she was weighing how much to give, then back at him with a small smile. “There’s a car show tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see you there?”
Her words hung in the air, inviting, but vague enough to keep him guessing. Sam felt the familiar itch of uncertainty creeping in. Should he just let it go, chalk it up to a fleeting moment? But something inside him urged him to try just a little harder.
He cleared his throat, nerves tightening his chest. “I should probably have your number just to make sure.”
Her eyes flickered with surprise, and for a second he thought she might say no. Instead, she pulled out a worn flip phone. Holding it out, she said softly, “If you are certain about it Sailor,”
His hands trembled slightly as he took the phone, fingers fumbling over the buttons. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this exposed. Asking for something, wanting something, without his usual protection of sarcasm or distance. Jolene watched him, her gaze steady and patient, and it made his heart beat a little faster.
When he finished, he handed the phone back, trying to keep his voice even. “There. I’m sure.”
She slipped the phone away, a shy smile playing at her lips. “Alright, Brown Eyes. We’ll see how tomorrow goes.”
She turned on her heels, ready to leave. The moment felt fragile, like a breath held too long, ready to shatter or soar. Without quite knowing why, he found himself blurting out, “Mind if I walk you out to your car?”
Her head turned around, eyes flicked up, wide and surprised. Almost like she wasn’t used to being offered such a simple kindness. She hesitated, shifting in place, and he could see the brief flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. Was it the chivalry? The attention? Or maybe just the unexpected notion of someone wanting to stick around a little longer. Then, almost shyly, she gave a small nod.
Sam’s heart skipped. He’d never been the smooth type, and moments like this usually ended with him retreating quietly. But something about Jolene made him want to push past that familiar hesitation. He turned to his squad, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the low hum of the bar’s closing crowd. “Alright guys, settle your tabs and meet me outside in five.”
The rowdy laughter and clinking glasses from inside faded as they stepped through the door, replaced by the crisp night air wrapping around them. His eyes scanned the lot and landed on an old red pickup truck, dust settled on the hood. Jolene caught his gaze and pointed with a grin. “That one’s mine.”
They started walking toward it, the silence between them comfortable, charged with something unspoken. Sam’s mind wandered. He was usually so used to keeping people at arm’s length. Jolene glanced at him, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Thanks for the company tonight,” she said quietly, her voice almost hesitant, like she wasn’t used to moments like this either.
“No, thank you,” Sam replied, voice low but steady. “It’s been... more than I thought it would be.”
Their eyes met. No games, or smirks, just an honest connection that felt rare. The kind of thing you didn’t often get to share with someone new. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the worn leather strap of her keys, jingling softly. “I guess this is goodbye, for now.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, feeling a subtle but genuine hope rising inside him. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said confidently.
She nodded, that same faint smile lingering as she turned toward her truck. Sam watched her settle in behind the wheel, the warm glow of the streetlight catching the fire in her hair. As he stepped back into the night, watching as she offered a small wave out the open window and took off down the road.
a/n; im terrible at warnings if i missed something let me know. i fear this is terrible so if it is please be nice
dividers by @dividers-are-us
Through all of Sam’s surgeries, physical therapy, and general leg problems since he’d gotten half blown up in Iraq, the amount of day-to-day aches he had was honestly less than you’d expect. Sure, if he did too much and pushed it too far, he’d get sore, but he handled the town’s September Fest with ease. That was two days of walking around, standing in lines, and watching local bands play their first performance ever outside of a bar.
But then the weather turned, and it finally started to get colder after what felt like a never-ending summer. With the cold came more aches for Sam. With the amount of rods and screws and probable early-onset arthritis the man had from the knees down, it wasn’t much of a surprise when, on a cold and stormy October day, Sam’s legs ached so much that he was burrowed into the couch with an electric blanket on high, trying to keep the chill out.
“This fuckin’ sucks,” he grumbled for the millionth time into your lap. “Nothing I ever did to al-Qaeda warrants them giving me the ability to predict the weather with my shins for the rest of my life.”
You smoothed his ruffled hair out before bending over to kiss him on the forehead. “I know, baby, I know. If it helps, it’ll likely still get better with time. It hasn’t even been two years. I stopped feeling the weather with screws in my knee after, like, three.”
The only response you got was soft, disgruntled grumbles. You smiled softly at him and mindlessly watched reruns of whatever old show Sam had put on. You honestly thought he had fallen asleep in his warm cocoon of you and his electric blanket, but suddenly he started to pepper your thighs with kisses.
“I have an idea that could help out my achy old man legs,” he started.
“You can’t ask the VA to retroactively cut your legs off, honey. We’ve been over this.”
His only reaction was to roll his eyes. “Or hear me out… we leave my legs attached, keep the VA out of this, and bust out that fancy massage oil. We give each other a very sensual rub-down.” He ended the sentence with the most ridiculous eyebrow waggle you’d ever seen.
“You’re just trying to get my clothes off,” you accused jokingly.
“Maybe I am. Maybe I just want my beautiful woman’s soft, magical hands to help rub my aches and pains away.” His hand slid under your shirt and started to gently glide up the side of your torso. “I went to war to protect you and your freedoms. Think of it as supporting your local veteran.”
You couldn’t give the snappy comeback you normally would as his wandering hand started to tweak your nipple. His other hand pushed your shirt up and, once there was enough slack, he ducked his head under it, seeking out your other breast with his mouth.
“Is this how a mutual couples massage normally starts? With a head up my shirt?” you asked, trying not to sound as affected as you were—and you were pretty sure you failed.
Sam didn’t bother with an answer. Instead, he sucked and nibbled harder. You let your head fall back on the couch, your legs opening wider, which Sam automatically took advantage of. Your back arched slightly as you moaned. You tried to card your fingers through his hair, but since he was under your shirt, all you could do was run your nails over his head.
“Sam, baby, please,” you begged, grasping at the bottom of your shirt, trying to pull it up so you could see his face again. By the time you freed his head and he made eye contact, his pupils were blown wide. With a final squeeze of your breast, he crawled up your body and gave you an all-consuming kiss.
“Sam,” you managed between his heated kisses, “your legs… they’ve been bothering you all day.”
He laced a hand into your hair and kissed you harder. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m totally fine.” His hands moved to remove your shirt entirely. “God, I love your tits, baby. They’re a work of art. Magnificent.”
“Mmm, what about the rest of me?”
“All of you is magnificent.” He started to slide your leggings down.
“You’re far too overdressed for my liking, Petty Officer.” You tugged at his shirt. “Time you show some skin.” You trailed kisses across his collarbone, leaving marks that made him moan and grind his bulge against you.
From there it was a flurry of removing sweatpants and heated kisses—until you saw Sam wince. You immediately pulled back, giving him a knowing look.
“All right, so maybe I do know what you were talking about, and the ache in my legs wasn’t nullified by your amazing boobs,” he admitted, though the only reason he wasn’t grumpier was because his hands were still fondling your chest.
“How about this, big guy?” You kissed him quickly. “Chinese fire drill. I’ll be on top—you’ll be more comfortable.”
He thought about it for a second, then tapped the leaking head of his cock against your clit, making you gasp and squirm. That made him smile. “Deal, baby girl. Get a move on—you’re in my spot.”
“Pillow princess,” you teased.
He gasped in fake offense and leaned back dramatically. “I served my country, got wounded doing so, and this is how you treat me?” He started to monologue theatrically, but you shut him up by crawling between his legs and licking up the bottom of his throbbing cock.
“You were saying, Petty Officer? How poorly do I treat you?”
“You treat me better than any woman I’ve ever known,” he groaned, holding your hair back. “And I love you so much.”
You kissed his tip. “That’s what I thought.”
Before he could respond, you swirled your tongue around his head and took his length deep into your mouth. Sam squirmed, his eyes rolling back as he gripped your hair. “Baby, I need to be inside you. Come on.”
You groaned as you swallowed him one last time before he pulled you up, kissing you hard, tasting salt on your lips as he lined himself up. You sank down onto him, gasping as he stretched and filled you—just on the right side of too much.
Both of you panted, staring into each other’s eyes before you started to move. Your mind went fuzzy, all thoughts slipping away as you chased pleasure together. When you finally gasped into each other’s mouths, reaching your orgasms at the same time, Sam looked at you with such intense devotion it was almost startling.
“I love you,” he breathed, voice rough and desperate. “I love you so fucking much.”
When you both finally collapsed against each other, catching your breath, Sam looked at you with such intense devotion it was almost startling.
“I love you. I love you so fucking much,” he whispered, reaching up to meet your mouth with his. You leaned into him and cuddled together for what could have been five minutes or five hours—you weren’t sure—before Sam started to wiggle around like he was trying to get comfortable.
You sighed before extracting yourself from the couch. “Come on.” You grabbed his hand and started to pull him up. “How about I give you that leg massage and then you soak in a hot bath?”
“Does this bath come with an alcoholic beverage?”
“If we have the drink you desire, premade, and in the house, then yes.”
“Beer it is,” he said, dramatically pointing a finger in the air as you shuffled him toward the bedroom.
Whatever you do don’t think about laying under him while he does pushups
cause I have been and now my mind is going insane
So, what you’re saying is, we definitely shouldn’t be thinking about how fresh he smells after his recent shower. Zingy and citrusy, but with just a little hint of man breaking through.
How he asks who we’ve been waiting for, gruffly questioning, “Is it me? Who is it?”
Or how he’s gently pushed us onto the floor, slotting his legs between ours, saying he has plans for us, but he just needs to get a quick workout in first.
How his nose bumps ours when he dips his body, or how we can feel his exhale against our skin, and hear him grunt a little each time he pushes up.
Or how he never breaks eye contact, his gaze boring into ours as our world dissolves to become only him and the hard floor.
How our breaths mingle each time he lowers and raises.
Or how we shift our head so he can drop a kiss against our jaw, and nip at our neck, rhythmically. How he’s more out of contact than in, which makes it all the more tantalising.
How his pecs and shoulders and arms flex with every movement, or how he catches us watching and murmurs, gritting out the words, “Gotta stay fit for my girl, right?”
Or how his subtle bulge is becoming increasingly less subtle and more solid, and is providing a little more pressure where we need it most with every rep.
And we definitely won’t be thinking about the sheen of perspiration on his forehead, or that single bead of sweat that’s traversing his perfect nose and threatening to drop at any moment.
And we definitely, certainly and absolutely wouldn’t be thinking about him doing all of this out of uniform, if you catch my drift..?
No, I’m definitely not thinking about any of this. And, I would hope, neither are you…
😏👀
Also, not me watching the trailer or this gifset on repeat, or staring at this and this, PURELY FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES
——————————————————————————
Adding my usual lovelies (with apologies to anyone who’s a staunch Eddie girl and definitely didn’t sign up for any stuff about this buzzcut, buff-ass dude 😜): @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @guiltyasquinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @sheneedsrocknroll92 @munson-blurbs @wonderlanddreamer @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi @kurdtbean @mediocredreams @in2tswft @micheledawn1975 @littlebebebunny @12thatsanumber @alastorssimp @the-baby-angel @eddie-is-a-god @wolfqueenxxx @losingmygrasponreality @richter-raccoon @1deverland @evileyeandthecattywhumps
Pairing: Sam* (Warfare) x OFC Jolene Johnson *Walsh is the last name I gave him for purposes of this story
Series Warnings: mentions of life in the military/active duty; mentions of death; mentions of cancer; parental loss; PTSD; mentions of childbirth (of another female character not the main OC); smut; dominate in bed kind of smut; oral sex, outdoor sex; family dynamics; loneliness
Rating: NSFW (18+) no minors allowed!
Word Count: 200,000
Author's Note: Hi folks, I won’t pretend this was something I set out to write. It started with a single request and a character we were only given a glimpse of. But some ideas don’t stay quiet. They take root, start growing in the background, and eventually ask to be taken seriously. That’s what happened here. This story became more personal than I expected. Not because I share these characters’ experiences, but because I’ve felt the echoes of them. Through grief, through distance, through the ache of loving someone who’s been reshaped by things they can’t always put into words. At its core, this is a story about what happens when connection shows up unexpectedly, and the courage it takes to hold onto it when the world isn’t built to make that easy. That said, I want to be transparent: I haven’t served. My understanding of military life, its systems, and its costs comes from research, from listening, and from the generous vulnerability of those who’ve lived it whom I hold much love and regard for. There are likely gaps in my knowledge, and this story leans more toward emotional truth and character dynamics than technical accuracy. I’ve tried to approach that balance with care. This is also, ultimately, just one interpretation. The version of Sam on screen came to us with very little context. So, I understand why someone would want more. There was something in that performance that lingered, that suggested weight. This is my attempt to explore what that weight might hold, through my own lens. Thank you for being here. I hope something in these pages stays with you. Peace and Love ~ Mae
Masterlist || ANON Request that inspired this... | Trailer | Ao3 LINK | Book 2
Some connections feel written long before you ever cross paths.
Jolene Johnson has built a life she can be proud of. A life running her late father’s autobody shop, taking her boat out at sunrise, and coming home to her loyal German Shepherd, Chewbacca. She’s strong, self-reliant, and perfectly content with the quiet rhythm of her days. Love, she’s decided, just isn’t something she needs. Then one winter night, after two weeks away, Jolene walks into the small-town bar owned by her godparents and catches the attention of a stranger laughing at one of her jokes.
Sam Walsh is a Navy SEAL, stationed in Little Creek for six months of training before heading back overseas in July. He’s steady, composed, and used to keeping his emotions in check. When he meets Jolene, the daughter of a man who once wore the same uniform, something in him stirs. She’s everything he never expected: grounded, wild-hearted, beautiful and impossible to forget. From the start, their connection burns fast and fierce. Too strong for hesitation, too real to ignore. But as their worlds begin to collide, distance, duty, and the ghosts of their pasts threaten to pull them apart. Because sometimes love doesn’t wait for the perfect moment. It finds you in the most unexpected one, and dares you to simply hold on.
Veterans Crisis Line – Dial 988, then press 1, or text 838255. Available 24/7, confidential, and for all service members, veterans, and their families — no matter discharge status.
VA.gov – https://www.va.gov/ Central hub for healthcare, disability claims, education benefits, housing assistance, and more.
Make the Connection – https://www.maketheconnection.net/ A VA-supported site sharing personal stories from veterans and offering mental health resources.
Wounded Warrior Project – https://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/ Provides physical and mental health support, peer groups, and transition assistance.
Team RWB (Red, White & Blue) – https://www.teamrwb.org/ Builds community and connection through fitness and social activities for veterans.
If you’re outside the U.S.: (Please feel free to send me more and I can update or correct!)
Combat Stress (UK) – https://combatstress.org.uk/ Free, confidential mental health services for veterans in the UK.
Veterans Affairs Canada – https://www.veterans.gc.ca/ Offers financial, health, and mental health support for Canadian veterans.
Lifeline (Australia) – https://www.lifeline.org.au/ or call 13 11 14 24-hour crisis support and suicide prevention services.
These are just a few of the many organizations out there doing incredible work, but this list is certainly not extensive. There are countless ways, big and small, to make a difference. I genuinely encourage you to reach out to your local VA office and ask what programs or volunteer opportunities they recommend. You might be surprised at how many ways there are to get involved.
Don’t be afraid to get creative: support can take many forms. Connect with local churches, community centers, or civic groups; sometimes they know of families quietly struggling who could use an extra hand. Even something as simple as dropping off a meal, writing a thank-you letter, or helping with errands can mean the world to someone.
And remember, it’s not just about veterans themselves. Their families often carry heavy loads too. If someone in your neighborhood has a loved one deployed or recently returned home, offering practical help or just a kind ear can make a huge difference. When I was in high school, for instance, the stable I worked at used to partner with the Wounded Warrior Project to host a rodeo at our local Agriculture Center. It wasn’t fancy, just a small-town event, but it brought people together, raised funds, and, most importantly, reminded everyone that support doesn’t have to be complicated to be meaningful.
Whether it’s time, kindness, or creativity, every gesture matters. You never know the burden someone may be facing alone. Compassion ripples outward, and you may be surprised whose life you might touch by simply showing up.
Something in the Way She Moves || Sam (Warfare) Pt.2
In Progress!
Pairing: Sam Walsh* (Warfare) x OFC Jolene Johnson *Walsh is the last name I gave him for purposes of this story
Series Warnings: mentions of life in the military/active duty; PTSD and vivid flashbacks; hyper-vigilance; Survivor’s guilt; mentions of death and KIA (Killed in Action); detailed grieving and funeral imagery; chronic physical pain and combat-related injuries; traumatic brain injury (TBI) symptoms; mentions of cancer and parental loss; mentions of childbirth; family dynamics and loneliness; Mature Content: Explicit smut including dominant/submissive dynamics, recording sex/sex tapes, mentions of breeding but not actually doing so (the fantasy of it is hot), remote control vibator, oral sex, and other sexual encounters.
Rating: NSFW (18+) no minors allowed!
Word Count: still writing so TBD
Author's Note: I am so incredibly grateful to be back in the world of Sam and Jolene. Being able to share this next chapter with you means the world to me. If you’ve just picked this up and haven't yet experienced how their story began, I highly recommend going back to read the first book before diving into this one. This sequel is a departure from the first. It is much heavier. While the first book was about the struggle of allowing one's self to fall in love despite hardship, this one is about the much more complex challenge of being together when the world you knew has shattered. I want to handle Sam’s transition from the Navy with the utmost respect and as much accuracy as I can possibly offer. The loss of identity that comes with leaving the military is a profound, often silent battle, and I don't take the responsibility of portraying it lightly. To that end, my door (and my inbox) is always open. If you have navigated the harsh transition from military to civilian life yourself, or if you have loved someone through that storm, I would be honored to hear your thoughts or personal anecdotes. Your lived experiences help ensure this story remains as honest and grounded as possible. Thank you for trusting me with this story, and for walking this harder path with Sam and Jolene. Peace and Love ~ Mae
Masterlist || Book 1: When You Say Nothing At All || Ao3 LINK
Love can survive distance. But can it survive change?
For Jolene Johnson, loving Sam Walsh was a masterclass in patient devotion. Their relationship was forged in the quiet space between deployments, and only strengthened during it. They survived the distance, trusting that their love was a fixed point on a map that would always lead them back to each other. But when Sam’s Navy career is violently cut short during their second deployment together, he doesn’t return to the life they planned. Nine years of Navy service meant nearly a decade of identity, purpose, and brotherhood, ultimately severed in a single, violent moment. Now, the uniform is gone, and Sam is back in a world that feels too loud and yet hauntingly empty. He isn't just recovering from an injury; he is mourning the only version of himself he ever respected. Without the mission to guide him, he feels less like a partner and more like dead weight.
Jolene doesn’t want to fix him. She knows she can’t mend a spirit that’s been stripped of its purpose. But loving Sam now means navigating a silence that is no longer peaceful, but loaded with everything he won’t say. It means watching him struggle to find his footing while he tries to push her away to save her from his own darkness. In the heavy reality of a home they never expected to share this way, the path forward feels invisible. Yet, even in Sam’s deepest isolation, he is not as alone as he believes. Through the haze of grief, whispers from a ghost begin to surface. It is through the quiet legacy of Jolene’s father that Sam begins to find the tools to navigate the shift. He must learn that the hardest mission isn't the one that takes you away, but the one that requires you to stay, to heal, and in his case, to become the man Jolene deserves.
#project hail mary
#lana del rey
#photography
#aesthetic
