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Something in the Way She Moves || Sam (Warfare) || 7

In progress!

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; 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 vibrator, oral sex, and other sexual encounters.

Word Count: 17,000+

Author's Note: Hi Loves. Sorry for the wait on this one. It's a bit longer so it took a bit more to finish. I hope all is well with you and those you hold dear. Peace and Love ~ Mae

Series Masterlist || Book 1 || Previous || Next || Ao3 LINK

Jolene

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

Jolene had only flown once since 9/11, and if she were being honest, the fear was as irrational as it was suffocating. She knew, intellectually, that the world had changed. That the heightened security and the collective alertness of the post-dreaded-day America made a repeat performance nearly impossible. Yet, the logic did little to steady the internal trembling that had become a hallmark for the majority of the country, even half a decade later.

She felt like a ghost drifting through the terminal, her face white as a sheet as she navigated the gauntlet of TSA. Her hands shook as she unlaced her sneakers, dumping them into a plastic bin that smelled of industrial cleaner and stale socks, before sliding her backpack onto the conveyor belt. She followed Sam like a shadow, her silence a stark contrast to the bustling noise of the airport. Her eyes kept snagging on the flickering display: DEPARTURE: 8:33 AM NORFOLK; ARRIVAL: 12:47 PM PORTLAND. The destination looked so peaceful in print. A far cry from the knots tightening in her stomach.

The plan had caught her off guard on Friday. With his time on US soil dwindling to a handful of precious days, Sam had loomed over the kitchen island with a pair of plane tickets in his calloused hand. She’d assumed he’d spend some time in Connecticut with his folks, but the destination on the slips was different. Acadia. He’d told her it was his sanctuary as a kid. It was just far enough away from home that as a boy and visiting with scouts felt like an epic adventure. Then when he came back from basic or deployments, it was a familiar untainted comfort that offered solitude to heal his mind. A place where the pines met the Atlantic and the world felt quiet. He’d missed his ritual visit last year when their trip to Baltimore had eaten up his leave, and with five days of leave burning a hole in his pocket, he’d decided they weren't going to spend his last week staring at the walls of the house.

The logistics had been the easy part. A few calls to her lead mechanic and Ruth to keep the shop spinning, pre-signed paychecks tucked into the office safe, and a bittersweet goodbye to Chewie at Randy and Loretta’s. They’d packed light, knowing they could rent whatever gear the Maine wilderness demanded.

But now, sitting in the terminal, the "pre-departure" adrenaline had faded, leaving only the raw nerves. She turned her face away from the direction Sam had gone to hunt down some water, taking a ragged breath. She hated this. Hated the way her heart hammered against her ribs over a pressurized cabin and a bit of altitude. Normally, she possessed a strength that mirrored his own, but here, she felt fragile. She knew most likely it was the kind of thing her Navy SEAL boyfriend would tease her for, though the thought of his smirk brought a faint, pained smile to her lips.

A heavy shadow fell over her, and she didn't need to look up to know it was him. Sam sank into the bolted-down plastic chair beside her, the scent of him instantly grounding her. He didn't say a word, just pressed a cold bottle of water into her hand and draped a heavy arm over her shoulders, pulling her into the solid warmth of his side.

"Easy, Jo," he murmured, his voice a low-frequency that seemed to bypass her ears and hook directly into her nervous system. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he caught her staring at the gate. "You know, statistically, you're in more danger of being taken out by a rogue luggage cart in this terminal than you are of that plane falling out of the sky. If we go down, I promise to grab the oxygen mask for you first. Mostly so you can keep yelling at me for making you do this."

It was a classic Sam deflection of dark humor but the delivery lacked its usual sharp edge. Instead of the smirk she expected, he pressed a lingering, soft kiss to her temple, his hand sliding down to interlock his fingers with hers. He squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing the line of her knuckles in a slow, soothing arc. Jolene leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes and trying to reconcile this version of him with the man she’d known. The last few days had seen a seismic shift in their internal geography. Something had broken open in the bedroom that day, a dam bursting that neither of them seemed interested in repairing.

She thought back to the way he’d been doting on her since they’d scrubbed the sex and sweat off in the shower. It was a complete departure from his usual stoicism. Previously, Sam’s public persona was defined by a relaxed, casual distance. If he touched her in front of people, it was usually well-mannered and brief. A hand on the small of her back to guide her through a door, or perhaps a lazy arm draped over her chair at the bar if he’d had a few beers in him. He was never cold, but he was certainly private, keeping the visceral intensity of their relationship behind closed doors. With the exception of hazing Tommy of course.

But now? Now, his need for contact bordered on excessive.

At the grocery store the other day, he hadn’t walked beside her. He’d kept his hand anchored to the back of her neck, his thumb idly stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear while she compared brands of dog food. When they’d stopped for gas on the way to the airport, he’d pulled her against his chest right there by the pump, burying his face in her hair and inhaling deeply, completely indifferent to the man at the next pump staring at them. Even in the security line, amidst the chaos of barking agents and clattering bins, he’d stood flush against her back, his arms wrapped around her waist and his chin resting on her shoulder, ignoring the "stay behind the yellow line" rules just to keep her tucked into his heat. He was visible, raw, and utterly unapologetic about it. The shift was as confusing as it was agonizing. It was as if, by acknowledging the looming void of the next six months, he had decided to strip away every inch of distance. He was being so tender, so present, that it made the coming separation feel like an impending amputation.

"You’re overthinking again," Sam whispered, his fingers tightening slightly around hers. "I can hear the gears turning from here, and they sound like they need a hit of WD-40."

"I'm just..." She trailed off, opening her eyes to look at the wedding bands of a couple sitting across from them. "I’m not used to you being this... nice."

Sam let out a soft, huffing laugh, though there was no humor in his eyes when she finally looked up at him. "Don't get used to it. Once we hit the woods, I'm back to making you carry the heavy pack and telling you to stop the whining." He paused, his expression softening into something so vulnerable it made her lungs feel tight. "I just don't want to waste a single second, Jo. Not even the ones where you're terrified of a Boeing 737."

He reached up, his hand cupping her cheek, his calloused thumb wiping away a smudge of fatigue from under her eye. "We're going to hike until our legs hurt, and we're going to sleep in a tent that smells like old gym socks, and I'm going to hold you until I have to let go. But right now? Right now, you just need to drink water and remember that I’ve got you."

Jolene took a sip of the water, the coldness hitting the back of her parched throat. She looked at him and realized that the toughness she’d always admired wasn't gone. It had just melted into something much more precious. She squeezed his hand back, the terror of the flight beginning to recede under the weight of his presence.

The momentary bravado only lasted about five minutes. When the gate agent’s voice crackled over the intercom, calling for active military and those flying with them to board, Jolene felt her heart give a sickening thud. She stood, taking Sam’s hand and forced a tight, practiced smile despite the gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach. She watched as he flashed that plastic card with his picture that dictated so much of their lives and received a routine "thank you for your service" before they were ushered onto the jet bridge first.

She managed to hold it together in the narrow, echoing walkway, her sneakers tapping against the carpeted ramp. They moved down the aisle of the empty plane toward the back of economy in silence. Sam moved with his usual efficient grace, easily tossing her backpack into the overhead bin as if it weighed nothing at all, before standing aside to give her the window. She sat without complaint, clutching her paperback book like a shield. But as the rows around them began to fill the cabin grew louder with the rustle of jackets, the snapping of overhead bins, and the low hum of nervous pre-flight chatter.

Sam’s hand settled on her jean-covered thigh, his palm warm and heavy, and it was the sudden intrusion of it that made her realize she’d been staring at the exact same paragraph of her book for ten minutes. The words were just black ink on a white page, a jumble of letters that refused to form a coherent thought.

"Jo?"

She didn’t look up immediately, her gaze still fixed on the book, but she could feel him leaning into her space. When she finally turned her head, she found concern knitting his brow, his dark brown eyes searching hers with an intensity that saw right through the facade she was trying so hard to maintain. "You’re vibrating," he noted softly, his thumb tracing a slow line over the denim of her leg. "And you haven't turned a page since we sat down. Talk to me."

"I'm fine," she lied, the words coming out breathless and thin. Sam seemingly didn't buy it for a second. He shifted, unbuckling his seatbelt just enough to lean further toward her, his shoulder blocking out the rest of the plane. He reached over, gently taking the book from her white-knuckled grip and folding the corner of the page before tucking it into the seatback pocket.

"Look at me," he commanded, though the edge was gone, replaced by that new, terrifyingly soft levity. He took her hand, threading his fingers through hers and pressing their joined palms firmly against the center of his chest, right over the steady, heavy thud of his heart. "I don't judge you for this you know," he said in an intimate register that made the cabin's chaos fade into a dull, unimportant hum.

Jolene let out a short, self-deprecating scoff, her eyes darting to the overhead bins. "Right. The guy who jumps out of helicopters for a living doesn't judge the girl who's vibrating because of a domestic flight. I know it’s irrational, Sam. You don’t need to lie to make me feel better about it all. I’m a big girl." She tried really hard not to be so self depreciating, but couldn’t help rolling her eyes at her own behavior.

"I’ve seen the other side of the aftermath, Baby," he interrupted, his dark eyes darkening further with a flicker of somber memory. "I’ve spent the last five years in the dust that day left behind. I understand why the world feels fragile to you. It is fragile. And you are allowed to let it make you nervous no matter how irrational and unlikely it may seem." He squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing the valley between her knuckles. "But is it just the security stuff? Or is it something else?"

She leaned her head back against the headrest, closing her eyes as the plane began its slow, heavy pushback from the gate. "I’ve never liked it, honestly. Too many moving parts that I can’t personally inspect. It’s a control thing, I guess."

Sam offered a small, knowing smirk. "Spoken like a true grease monkey. You don't trust the machine unless you've bled on it." His acceptance didn't feel patronizing. He wasn't trying to 'fix' her fear with logic; he was just holding space for it. Suddenly, a toddler three rows up let out a piercing, glass-shattering wail that echoed off the plastic interior. Sam winced, cutting a glance toward the noise before leaning back into her. "Tell you what. If that kid keeps hitting those high notes for the next few hours, you’re going to be the one praying for a mechanical failure just for the sweet, sweet silence of the Atlantic."

The mental image was so dark that a genuine, startled laugh bubbled up in her chest, breaking the tension in her shoulders. She shook her head, looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and affection. "You're terrible."

"Maybe. But you're laughing," he countered, his expression melting back into that disarming tenderness. He reached up, his hand cupping the side of her neck, his thumb grazing her jawline. "Once we’re at cruising altitude and the sign goes off, we’re flipping this armrest up. I'm going to pull you in, and you’re going to snuggle up against me until we hit Portland. Deal?"

Jolene looked at his wrist from where his hand was on her neck, then back to his eyes. The doting wasn't stopping; it was intensifying. "You’ve been incredibly soft lately, Sam," she noted, her voice hushed but pointed. "Ever since that morning... you’ve been different."

Sam shifted in the cramped seat, his broad shoulders brushing against the plastic cabin wall. He offered a noncommittal shrug, his gaze drifting toward the seatback pocket in front of him as he reached down and quickly relatched his seatbelt before a flight attendant could remind him to do so. "Not really, Jo. I’m just…” he paused for a moment, trying to restart as he said, “We’re on vacation."

"You are," she countered softly, her fingers tracing the callused ridges of his knuckles. "You’ve touched me more in the last week than you usually do in a month. You’re hovering. You’re being... gentle."

He let out a short, dry huff, finally meeting her eyes. "You’re reading into it too much. It’s just leave brain. I’m off the clock, that's all."

"I’m not interrogating you, Sam. I’m not upset about it," she whispered, leaning closer until the scent of his soap filled her senses. "I’m just curious. What changed? Because that morning in the bedroom... it was… different. And now, out here? You’re acting like a completely different man with the small stuff."

She watched him closely, searching the dark, espresso depths of his eyes. There was something there. A flicker of something raw and haunted that she couldn’t quite place. It wasn't just the pre-deployment stoicism that she’d expected. Last time it slowly built up until he was mentally checked out a few days before he left. Only a huff of laughter occasionally breaking that wall. This time that distance was absent. And in its place, was a profound, quiet desperation. His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath the skin, and he opened his mouth to speak, his chest expanding as he took a breath to finally answer.

“Ladies and gentlemen, from the flight deck, this is your Captain speaking. We’ve been cleared for departure. Flight attendants, please take your seats for takeoff.”

Sam closed his mouth, a flash of something that looked suspiciously like relief crossing his features. He didn't pull away, though. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of gum, sliding a piece toward her. "Here," he muttered, his voice regaining its steady, soldier’s clip. "For your ears. Helps with the pressure."

Jolene took it, her eyes still lingering on his face, knowing he’d been saved by the bell. As the engines began their deafening, high-pitched whine and the plane started its violent, rattling sprint down the runway, she felt the familiar spike of panic. Her hand clamped down on his, her fingernails digging into his palm, but Sam didn't flinch. He threaded his fingers through hers, squeezing back with a crushing, grounding strength. He didn't look out the window at the receding tarmac. He kept his eyes on her, watching her breathe, his thumb tracing the frantic pulse in her wrist until the stomach-flipping sensation of liftoff finally smoothed out into the steady hum of ascent.

True to his word, the second the "Fasten Seatbelt" sign gave its muted ding and they leveled out at cruising altitude, Sam reached down. With a flick of his wrist, he retracted the armrest between them, letting it click back into the seat. Without saying a word, he reached over and hooked his arm around her, hauling her across the gap until she was tucked firmly against his side.

Jolene didn't resist. She let out a long, shaky exhale, resting her head against the sturdy thrum of his chest. She could feel the vibration of the engines through the floor, but she could also feel the steady, reassuring rise and fall of his lungs. He rested his chin on the top of her head, his hand settling on her hip and pulling her even closer. They sat in silence for a long time, the white noise of the cabin swallowing the world. Jolene closed her eyes, listening to his heart, realizing that while he hadn't answered her question with words, the way he was holding her was answer enough.

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

The next few hours passed in a surreal haze. With the armrest tucked away and Sam’s solid chest, Jolene had actually managed to make headway in her book. Every time the cabin shuddered with a pocket of turbulence or the engines changed their pitch Sam was already there. He didn’t wait for her to gasp. He simply tightened his hold, pressing his lips to her temple and whispering low, steady reassurances into her hairline until the rattling stopped. Now, as the odometer on their rental sedan passed the first sixty miles of the three-hour trek north, the coastal humidity of Virginia felt like a lifetime ago.

Maine was a revelation. Jolene leaned her forehead against the passenger window, her eyes wide as she took in the rugged beauty of the landscape. She’d never been this far north, and the sheer scale of the pines made the forests back home seem like saplings. Sam sat beside her, one hand draped casually over the steering wheel, the other resting firmly on her thigh. He seemed to breathe easier here. His posture lost that rigid, alertness that usually defined his movements. He looked younger in the flat, northern light, as the sharp lines of his face softened by the passing of the trees.

He glanced over at her, something she caught from the corner of her eye. "You know," he rumbled, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, "it’s nice to see you’ve finally gotten some color back in your face. For a while there in the terminal, I thought I was traveling with a Victorian ghost."

Jolene scoffed, reaching over to swat at his arm, though she didn't pull away when he caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "Ha, ha. Very funny. Most people are afraid of something, Sam. Mine just happens to be plummeting from thirty thousand feet because a bird flew into a turbine."

"And mine is you ever finding out how much I spent on the extra insurance for this rental car just so I wouldn’t have to worry about a stray moose taking out the bumper," he countered, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He squeezed her fingers, his thumb tracing the back of her hand as he looked at her. "But look at you now. I think the New England air suits you, Jo. You’ve got that mountain-girl glow. It’s a good look."

Jolene leaned back, her smile lingering as she watched the silhouettes of the pines blur past. "Is that right? You trying to butter me up? Is this the start of a long-term campaign to convince me to pack up the shop and relocate to the land of flannel and maple syrup?"

Sam didn’t even hesitate. He shook his head with an insistence that was almost startling. "No. Absolutely not. I’d never dream of taking you away from that shop. Or from Randy and Loretta. That house, or the creek. That’s your home, Jolene."

The finality in his voice caught her off guard. She shifted in her seat, turning her head to study the sharp, determined profile of the man beside her. "I just assumed," she started, her voice softening, "that when the time finally came to truly settle down, you’d want to head back up here. Closer to your family."

Sam shrugged, his gaze fixed on the road as it wound deeper into the Maine landscape. "New England doesn’t have much for me, Jo. Honestly, even as a teenager, I never really meant to stay in Connecticut. It’s a beautiful place to visit, sure. It’s good for a few days of hiking and a reset, but it’s not where I see the 'after' happening."

"Really?" she asked, her brows knitting together in genuine surprise. She’d always pictured him as a man temporarily displaced. A Northerner just biding his time in the Tidewater area until his service was done.

"Really," he confirmed, his voice dropping to that low, resonant hum that always made her feel like the center of his universe. "Virginia’s grown on me. It’s got a different kind of pull. I figure with enough time, I’ll eventually acclimate to the heat. Or at least I’ll have enough of a reason to stay that I won't mind the sweat so much."

He glanced over at her, and she saw the silent vow in his eyes again. The same one he’d made in the bedroom. Like he was choosing the life they were building with the grease-stained floors and all, over the comfort of his own origins. "Besides," he added, his smirk returning to deflect the heaviness of the moment, "if we moved up here, I’d have to listen to you complain about the snow for six months out of the year. I’m a SEAL, Jolene, but even I have limits to how much frozen misery I can endure."

She laughed, the sound bright and clear against the hum of the tires. "Fair point. I’d be a nightmare in a blizzard."

"Exactly," he said, bringing her hand up to his lips and kissing her knuckles again. "So we’ll stick to the creek. I’ll learn to love the humidity, and you’ll learn to love the fact that I’ll be sweating half the time."

Jolene leaned her head back against the headrest, her gaze drifting from the gold light on the dash to the man beside her. He hadn’t answered her. On the plane, she’d practically laid it out on the tray table. The sudden shift in his gravity, the way he was hovering, and the near-excessive doting. She realized then that whatever was driving this was something deeper than just pre-deployment jitters. It was something in proxy to the goodbye that she couldn't quite put her finger on. But as the afternoon sun, still high and bright at 1500, slanted through the windshield, she found she didn't want to solve the puzzle. She just wanted to look at him.

Jolene became hyper-aware of the details she usually took for granted. She watched his side profile. The slightly bent bridge of his nose, courtesy of a nasty break. The way his jaw seemed carved from the very granite they were driving past. He was doing that thing he always did when he was thinking. Mindlessly chewing on a small bit of dead skin on his bottom lip. His teeth white against the pull of his plush lips. The sort of patchy scruff of his facial hair, slightly thicker than normal. She always teased him about how fast it came back. Because even if he shaved every morning at 0500, it was right back showing across his top lip and chin by 1700.

She let her eyes trail upwards, away from the familiar shape of his mouth and jaw. Above the light brown stubble, his cheeks were dusted with light, barely-there freckles, tiny reminders of summers spent outdoors under a scorching sun. Jolene felt a phantom sensation, wanting to reach out and trace them with her fingertips, knowing exactly how his sun-warmed skin would feel beneath her touch. He blinked, and she caught the briefest glimpse of his amber colored eye, as it scanned the road ahead. But it was the skin around his eye that drew her gaze, delicate spidery lines etched deep into the outer corners. They were the physical evidence of countless hours spent squinting into the bright sun on open water, or narrowing his eyes to see through the grainy darkness during night ops.

Even more defining was his hair, or rather, the deliberate lack thereof. He’d pretty much always kept his hair shorn so close to his scalp it was barely a fine, dark shadow. Only once had she been blessed to see it in its wavy, soft wonder. And Jolene knew the feel of it well by now from the late nights of holding him close. And in that quiet observation, just watching the familiar topography of his face, Jolene felt that steady, fierce pull she always felt when she was near him, a comfort that settled deep in her bones.

His left hand was draped over the top of the steering wheel, with his thick, scarred fingers tapping a silent beat to the low hum of a Springsteen song on the radio. Every few seconds, he’d adjust his grip, and she’d see the play of tendons in his forearm, and the way the hair there caught the golden light. He was so beautiful it was a physical ache, a masterpiece of grit and gentleness that she was about to lose to a desert half a world away.

"You're doing it again," Sam murmured, his voice breaking through her trance. He didn't turn his head, his eyes still fixed on the winding two-lane blacktop, but a small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Jolene blinked, pulling herself back from the edge of her own thoughts. "Doing what?" she asked, playing dumb with a practiced, innocent tilt of her head.

"The 'Staring at Sam' show," he countered, his thumb giving her thigh a playful, grounding squeeze. "I can feel your eyes on my face, Jo. You’re analyzing me like I’m a malfunctioning transmission. What’s the verdict? Am I throwing a code?"

It was a total role reversal from the plane. Only a few hours ago, he’d been the one tracking her every breath, pulling her out of her own head. Now, he was the one catching her in the act of being too introspective. She let out a soft breath, shifting in the seat so she was facing him more directly, her shoulder pressed against the door. "I’m not analyzing anything. I’m just taking in the view."

Sam glanced over at her then, his dark brown eyes flashing with a mix of amusement and that deep, soul-searing tenderness that had defined the last few days. "Is that right?" he asked, his voice a low growl of affection. "And what’s the verdict on the view, then?"

"Beautiful," she whispered, the word carrying more weight than she intended. "Absolutely breathtaking."

Sam shook his head, a soft laugh huffing through his nose as he turned his attention back to the road, though he didn't let go of her hand. He kept his fingers threaded through hers, his thumb tracing the line of her palm.

"I didn't realize you were looking in the side mirrors, Jolene," he teased, his smirk widening. "Because the last time I checked, the scenery was out the front windshield, and you’ve spent the last ten miles looking strictly to your left."

Jolene felt the heat creep up her neck, a genuine flush of embarrassment. She swatted at his shoulder with her free hand, but she didn't deny it. She couldn't. Not when the sun was hitting him like that, and not when the countdown in her head was screaming that every second of looking at him was a second she’d need to remember later. "Focus on the road, Walsh," she grumbled, though she leaned her head back and didn't look away. "Before you hit a moose and prove your expensive insurance was worth it."

"Yes, ma'am," he chuckled, his grip on her hand tightening as they passed the first sign for Acadia National Park. Inside the car, it was quiet, and filled with the terrifying, beautiful scope of everything they weren't saying.

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

The Maine air had dropped into a sharp chill the second the sun dipped behind the rough spine of the mountains. They’d found a secluded spot near the water’s edge, setting up a modest rented tent that smelled of canvas and old adventures. Now, the only sounds were the gentle lap of the lake against the stones and the hungry crackle of the campfire Sam had built with the effortless precision of a man who had spent half his life outdoors. The heavy, suffocating deployment talk was tucked away for the night. Replaced by the simple comfort of woodsmoke and whiskey shared from a single tin cup.

"I’m telling you, it was a legitimate crisis," Sam said, poking at a glowing log with a sturdy stick. He was leaning back against a flat rock, his long legs stretched out toward the heat. "Third year of Boy Scouts. Troop 42. We were supposed to be orienteering, but Billy Miller dropped the compass in a ravine, and I had to lead six panicked twelve-year-olds back to base camp using nothing but moss growth and the position of the sun. I felt like Lewis and Clark. I thought I deserved a medal."

Jolene let out a snort, hugging her knees to her chest. She was wrapped in one of his heavy flannel shirts over her own hoodie. "A medal? For finding a parking lot? God, you really were a model citizen, weren't you?"

Sam scoffed,"Hey, those badges were hard-earned. I was a pro at knot-tying and fire-starting long before the Navy got their hands on me."

"It just kills me," she teased, a playful glint in her eyes reflecting the orange embers. "I always find it funny that I wound up with the goody-two-shoes, book-smart, Eagle Scout, middle-class Catholic boy. You’re like a recruitment poster for 'Traditional American Values,' Walsh."

Sam turned his head, his brow arching in a challenge. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

Jolene shrugged, noncommittal, taking a slow sip of the whiskey before passing the cup back to him. "You know, on paper, you were supposed to marry the girl who went to the same Sunday school. A nice girl who’s got some normal middle class profession like real estate or teaching. The kind of girl who always has her nails done every few weeks. Not someone who’s permanent grease under her fingernails and hears the word brunch and can’t help but roll her eyes."

Sam went quiet for a second, his dark eyes tracking the way the smoke curled toward the stars. "You think I had a set type I was aiming for?"

"I think you had a mold," she admitted, her voice dropping a fraction. "I can’t imagine I’m the type of girl you planned to end up with, Sam. I’m loud, I’m stubborn, and I spend my days covered in 10W-30."

He let out a short, dry laugh and shook his head. "If I wanted the mold, Jo, I would’ve stayed in Connecticut. I broke up with Rachel in high school because it didn’t make sense on paper and when I’m honest with myself, it was just a thing of proximity. I broke up with Elizabeth in college because she kept trying to shove me into something that felt suffocating. They fit the 'mold' perfectly, and they bored me to tears."

"Still," Jolene pushed, poking at the dirt with the toe of her boot. "I'm not exactly the thriving feminine kind. I don't do the sundresses or the soft-spoken thing. I'm a mechanic with a temper and a dog that sheds on everything who barely made it out of high school."

Sam shifted, closing the small gap between them on the log. He reached out, his large, warm hand cupping the back of her neck, pulling her in until her temple rested against his jaw. "Good," he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden sincerity that cut through her teasing. “Because I don’t need a girl who thrives on being feminine purely for the sake of the optics," he murmured, the vibration of his voice buzzing against her temple. "I want a partner. I want someone who can hold her own when the world gets loud."

Jolene shifted, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye, her expression flickering between a smile and a lingering, stubborn doubt. "That’s easy to say out here in the woods. But eventually, you’re going to get out. You’re going to store the kevlar and you’re going to have to step back into a version of that middle-class, model-citizen life you were bred for. Even if it’s just a desk job at Little Creek, or if you actually go back and finish that accounting degree." She traced the callused edge of his palm. "There are going to be times where you have to do the professional adult thing. Charity events, retirement ceremonies, corporate dinners. I can’t exactly fathom that version of you showing up with his tomboy girlfriend. I’ll be the one with the stained cuticles trying to figure out which fork is for the salad while you’re shaking hands with people who expect a certain... polish."

"Jo, stop," he said, but she shook her head, the momentum of her thoughts pushing her forward.

This wasn't a new train of thought. It was a path they had worn smooth with repetition. A conversation they’d poked and prodded at on more than one occasion over a pizza or a late-night drink. Usually, it was wrapped in a layer of defensive humor. Jokes about him returning to the Captain America style raising he had, while she stayed the way she was. But beneath the banter, the anxiety was real.

She worried that once he finally shed the uniform, the version of him that she knew would begin to evaporate. She’d found glimpses of that simpler, softer version of himself and she couldn't help but fear the clash of that man with the one sitting next to her. In the absence of the chain of command, without the rigid necessity of the rules that currently dictated his world, it would be so easy for him to slip into a life that felt alien to her. If he modeled his after image on a past she hadn't been a part of, she wasn't sure how she was supposed to fit into the frame without fundamentally changing herself to match a life she didn’t know how to lead.

"It’s not just the formal events, Sam. It’s the small stuff. It’s parent-teacher conferences. Can you imagine us walking into a primary school together? You’ll be there in a button-down, looking like the hero of the PTA, and I’ll have just crawled out from under a chassis with grease in my hair. We’re going to look completely mismatched. People are going to wonder how the hell we ended up in the same room, let alone sleep in the same house."

"Let them wonder," Sam countered, his voice steady.

"But people fall back on the life they know, Sam. It’s muscle memory," she argued, the firelight casting long, dancing shadows across her face. "What happens when we have kids? Do we suddenly suck up the non-belief for your mother’s sake and go to Mass every Sunday? I’m not Catholic. I’ve barely stepped foot in a Baptist church since I was ten. There is a severe difference in how we were raised, in the expectations that were put on us. You come from the world of shoulds, and I come from a world of just getting by."

Sam went quiet, his gaze dropping to the flames for a long beat. The orange glow highlighted the deep grooves of his face. In the dim light she saw the intensity of a man who was no longer just humoring a playful jab at his childhood, but dissecting the stark reality of both of theirs. He took a slow breath.

"The life you had, the life you grew up with, is probably more consistent with where I see my life going after this," he said without a hint of humor. "You grew up in the wake of a SEAL career. You saw what it did to your dad and those around him. I know you haven’t told me all the specifics but I know the broad strokes. You know more about navigating what comes after than I do. You’re the expert on the reality of this life, Jo. Not me."

He reached out, taking both of her hands in his, his grip firm and warm. "I’m not worried about where either of us were before. That’s just history. What matters to me is where we both choose to be moving forward as a unit. If I wanted that polished, perfectly aligned life, I’d be in Connecticut right now marrying a girl who matches the carpet to the drapes. But I want a life that feels real. So who cares if externally we look misaligned to some stranger at a parent-teacher conference?" He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, closing the gap until they were breathing the same air. "I spent my whole life being the 'goody-two-shoes' as you called it, because it was expected of me. I spent my whole career being a weapon because I was told to be. You’re the only thing in my life that I actually chose for myself, Jolene. If we look like a mess to the rest of the world, then let us be a mess. As long as we’re a mess together."

Jolene felt the last of her defenses crumble as she let out a ragged breath, her fingers tightening around his. "You're a very convincing orator, there Scout," she whispered, a watery smile finally touching her lips.

"Always be prepared. That’s the motto. Even when it’s you and the whiskey brained nonsense talking," he teased back, though his eyes remained fierce. "Wait a second. Orator? Big word there from the woman who’s favorite word is fuck."

Jolene felt a hot flush creep up her neck that had nothing to do with the fire. She looked down at her lap, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on her hoodie. "Yeah, well," she muttered, her voice dropping into a sheepish, reluctant confession. "I might have bought one of those desk flip calendars. You know, the ones that give you an Oxford English word of the day."

Sam went dead quiet, his head tilting as he tried to process that image. "A flip..? Babe, why on earth would you buy a vocabulary calendar?"

"Shut up," she snapped, though there was no heat in it. "I just... I felt like I had to catch up a tad. I started thinking about that guy you were before you signed your life away to the government. The guy who read the classics and probably didn't have to Google what existential dread meant. I didn't want you to get out, look at me across the table, and realize you were bored because I can’t hold an intelligent conversation with you."

Sam let out a sharp, incredulous scoff, his hands sliding up to cup her face, forcing her to look him in the eye. "Jo, listen to me," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. "That Yale guy? He was a kid who knew how to pass a test. He was smart, sure, but he was hollow. He wouldn't have known how to appreciate a woman who buys a flip calendar just to meet him in the middle. He wouldn't have had the sense to realize that the smartest thing he ever did wasn't getting into an Ivy League school. It was eavesdropping at the pretty redhead next to him at the bar." He leaned in, his forehead thumping gently against hers. "I don't need you to catch up to a version of me that doesn't exist anymore. I'm not that guy. The only person I want to talk to at the end of the day, whether it's about the universe or a busted alternator, is you. I don't care if the words are fuck or facetious, as long as you're the one saying them to me."

He grinned then, that wolfish, arrogant flash of teeth. "Besides," he added, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip with a slow, distracting pressure, "I think I prefer fuck. It’s more efficient in the heat of the moment."

Jolene let out a breathy, reluctant laugh, the tension finally bleeding out of her shoulders as she leaned into his frame. The fire was beginning to settle into a deep, pulsing bed of crimson coals, the heat radiating in waves that barely held the biting Maine night at bay. Jolene stared into the center of the glow, her heart performing a nervous, staccato against her ribs. "Sam?" she asked, her voice coming out small, almost fragile, barely rising above the soft lap of the lake water. "What do you think it’ll be like?"

She felt a sudden, sharp prickle of apprehension the moment the words left her mouth. She waited for the shift in his posture, the tightening of his jaw, the subtle withdrawal that she’d been expecting. The last time they’d been this close to a deployment and she’d tried to map out a future, it had ended in a bitter fight. Him snapping about not being able to see past the next six months, and her crying in the driveway while he sped off. Sam didn't pull away this time. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she muttered, suddenly desperate to reel the question back in. She reached for the whiskey cup, trying to pivot. "Just... more of that whiskey brain I suppose. Forget it."

Sam didn't let it go. He reached out, his hand catching her wrist and gently guiding the cup away so she had to look at him. In the flickering orange light, he didn't look like the hardened soldier she half expected. He looked almost boyish, with a genuine and curious softness in his eyes.

"No, ma’am," he said, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "What were you talking about, Jolene? You were on an existential roll about us being mismatched."

She sighed, her shoulders slumping as she conceded to the gravity of his gaze. "Parent-teacher conferences," she admitted, the words feeling ridiculous and heavy all at once.

Sam let out a soft chuckle, leaning his head back against the rock. "I assume you’re familiar with the concept. We sit in tiny chairs, a teacher tells us our kid is a genius but has too much rambunctious energy. It’s a standard operation."

"That's not what I meant," she whispered, her fingers tracing the hem of his flannel shirt where it hung off her shoulders. She took a breath, the cold air stinging her lungs. "I was asking... What do you think a kid of ours would actually be like? Between your Boy Scout tendencies and my... well, everything else."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy; it was contemplative. Sam didn't scoff. He didn't look at his watch. He just kept his hand wrapped around her wrist, his thumb tracing the pulse there as he looked out over the dark water of the lake, actually letting himself go to the place she’d been too afraid to lead him.

"Well," Sam started, as he poked at the embers of the fire once more, sending a small galaxy of sparks swirling up into the dark sky. "If the universe has any sense of humor, we’re in trouble. I imagine we’d get a kid with your specific brand of stubbornness and my inability to ever admit I’m wrong. We’d be living in a house of constant negotiations. A standoff over broccoli."

Jolene felt a small, genuine flutter in her chest. A mix of terror and something achingly sweet. She shifted, her shoulder pressing firmer against his. "Do you have... preferences? In that arena? Or are you just picturing a general agent of chaos?"

Sam shrugged, his gaze fixed on the way the moonlight fractured across the lake's surface. "I don't know. I always figured they'd be stoic. I just see a kid who doesn't take anyone’s crap. Someone who’d look at a broken toy and try to fix it before they cried about it. I just want to make sure she has enough of your fire to–"

"She?" Jolene interrupted, her voice sharp with surprise.

Sam blinked, the flow of his speech breaking. He went quiet. The realization of his own slip-of-the-tongue settling over him. He looked down at the dirt. A rare, sheepish shadow crossing his face. "Did I say she?"

"You did," Jolene noted. "You didn't say 'they' or 'him.' You went straight for a girl. I would’ve pegged you for a 'carry on the Walsh name with a son' kind of guy, Sam. The Boy Scout leader with his mini-me. That’s easier for me to imagine. But a girl dad..?"

Sam let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly? If you’d asked me two years ago, I probably would’ve said a boy. It’s what you’re taught to expect, I guess. Handling the same equipment with a diaper change, the ball games, and that inevitable conversation about being smart where you stick it when he’s a teenager. But lately..." He trailed off, his dark eyes drifting back to her, searching her face in the firelight. "I don't know. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent too much time around men who think they’re invincible. I think I’d like someone who has your copper hair and your absolute refusal to be told 'no.' A daughter would keep me on my toes in a way a son never could."

Jolene looked away, a sudden lump forming in her throat. "I’m not sure I’d know what to do with a girl. I mean. Look at me. I’m not exactly sugar and spice. I don't know the first thing about dolls or dresses or... whatever it is girls do. Unless I’m being strong-armed by Loretta or Victoria."

Sam let out a rich, genuine laugh that echoed off the trees. "Jo, I grew up with Stephanie, remember? My younger sister was the terror of the neighborhood. She could keep up with me by the time she was ten and she once gave me a black eye over a Lego set. I managed her just fine. And besides," he added, his voice softening, "In this scenario, she’d have you. She’d see a woman who runs her own business, who takes no shit from anyone, and she wouldn't need 'sugar and spice.' She’d need grit and someone who cares. And you’ve got plenty of that to share."

Jolene went quiet, the image finally taking root in her mind. For the first time, let herself see it. Sam, with his massive, scarred hands, carefully lifting a tiny, fragile girl. She saw him sitting on the porch of their house, his curls grown out, with a little girl tucked under his arm, both of them staring out at the creek with the same stubborn, dark-brown eyes. She saw him being the soft, doting man he’d been all week, but directed at a child who looked like some blend of the two of them. It was a devastatingly beautiful image. One that made the upcoming six months feel like a mountain she wasn't sure she could climb, yet gave her the only reason she needed to start the ascent.

"A girl," she whispered, leaning her weight fully into his side. "She’d be a handful, Sam. She’d have you wrapped around her finger in about five seconds."

"I'm already wrapped around yours," he murmured, his arm tightening around her waist, pulling her flush against him. "I'm used to the position." Sam shifted and he cleared his throat. "Alright, if we’re already talking about hypothetical daughters with your temper and my stubbornness, we might as well do the legwork. No sense in flying blind into a life together without hitting the basics people are supposed to work out before they take the plunge."

Jolene let out a startled, breathless laugh, her head tilting back against his shoulder to look at him. "I’m sorry, but are you trying to conduct a pre-marital interview by a campfire? What exactly does that entail?"

"Standard operating procedure," he countered, though the smirk playing on his lips was visible in the dying light. "I’m a planner. You know this. I don't like surprises when the stakes are this high. So, let’s lay it out. Public or private school?"

Jolene snorted, the image of a tiny, grease-stained girl in a plaid skirt flashing through her mind. "Public. Definitely public. I don't want a kid who thinks the world is a gated community. What about you? Are you going to be the drill sergeant father, or are we going for a bit more of a relaxed dynamic?"

Sam poked at a stray ember, his expression thoughtful. "I think I’ve had enough strictness to last three lifetimes. I want them to have discipline but I want them to have room to breathe. I want a house where they aren't afraid to break something as long as they help me fix it." He paused, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her arm. "How many are we talking? Are we a one-and-done team, or are we aiming for a full roster?"

"Two," Jolene said instinctively, surprised by her own certainty. "They need someone to conspire with when we’re being too much for them. Someone to have their back when we aren't around."

Sam nodded slowly, as if mentally filing the data away. "Two. I can work with that. Even numbers are better for logistics anyway." He went quiet for a beat, his gaze drifting back to her, his dark eyes searching hers with a sudden, piercing intensity that made her breath hitch. "And the big one. How long do we wait? Do we want to hit the ground running when I’m back, or are we giving ourselves some time to just... be?"

The question hung in the air, weighted with the unspoken reality that was still months and miles away. It was a terrifyingly real piece of the puzzle. "I think," Jolene whispered, her fingers tangling in the heavy flannel of his shirt, "I want at least a few years of just us. No uniforms, no deployments. Just a long stretch where I can wake up and know you're actually in the house." She looked at him, her expression turning practical. "I want to give us time to figure out our rhythm as a normal couple. I want you to finish that degree, Sam. Get a job that doesn't involve getting shot at. I want us to build a safety net. Real savings, because kids aren’t cheap."

He leaned in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead, his eyes closing. "Marry me, we wait, we build," he murmured against her skin, his breath warm. "It’s a solid ops plan, Jo. Best one I’ve heard in years."

"I’m shocked," Jolene whispered, her eyes fixed on the final, pulsing glow of the wood. "A year ago, a conversation like this would have sent me running for the hills. It would have scared the hell out of me. But now? It just feels like... the next step."

Sam shifted, his chin brushing the top of her head. "Why would it scare you now? We’ve already done the hard part, Jo. We survived nine months of spotty sat-phone calls and a half-dozen time zones between us. We came out the other side of that stronger than we went in." He pulled her closer, his hand sliding under the oversized flannel to rest flat against the small of her back. "That’s why I’m not as anxious about leaving this time," he admitted, his voice dropping into a rare, vulnerable honesty. "Don't get me wrong, I’m not thrilled but I have absolutely zero doubts about us. I know exactly what I’m coming home to."

Jolene looked up at him, her heart skipping at the raw certainty in his features. "Zero doubts, huh? You’re that sure of me?"

"I'm sure of the way I felt the last time I touched down," he said, a faint, boyish light flickering in his dark eyes. "That Orioles game? When I finally walked out and saw you standing there?"

"What about it," she teased.

"It was the first time in my adult life that it felt like Christmas morning when I was six years old. You know that feeling? Waking up before the sun, heart hammering in your chest, rushing down the stairs because you know something incredible is waiting for you at the bottom?"

Jolene let out a startled, melodic laugh. "Did you really just compare me to a pile of wrapped presents and a pine tree?"

"I'm serious," he insisted, his smirk widening as he leaned his forehead against hers. "Seeing you in that crowd... it was that exact feeling. The adrenaline, the joy, the total lack of doubt that everything was exactly as it should be. That’s what I’m carrying with me this time. I’m not leaving you behind, Jo. I’m just starting the countdown until I get to run down those stairs again."

The comparison was so un-Sam, that it made Jolene’s eyes prickle with sudden, hot tears. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of Maine woods and the man who saw her as his greatest reward. "You're a sap, Chief," she choked out, her arms winding around his waist.

"Only for you," he murmured, his lips finding the crown of her head.

·· 〰 ⚓︎ 〰 ··

The days had been a perfect brushstroke of quiet intimacy. Sam had led her through the labyrinth of Acadia’s forests. His movements fluid and sure as he retraced the favorite trails of his youth. He’d shown her the hidden granite overlooks, where the Atlantic churned into white foam against the cliffs. They had hiked until their legs burned, sharing water from the same canteen and intermittent, breathless kisses that tasted of salt and exertion. It was exactly what she had wanted. Just the two of them, drifting through the wilderness in a perfect blend of silence and playful antics.

By the time they returned to their modest camp on the last day, the sky was beginning to bruise into deep shades of violet and gold. Sam had built a fire with his usual efficiency, and they’d eaten a simple meal of firewarmed Campbell's. On the surface, it was perfect.

But as the light began to fail, Jolene felt a familiar, cold prickle of apprehension. She’d been waiting for it subconsciously all weekend. In her experience and conversations with Loretta, the days leading up to deployment usually saw a man retracting into himself. A hardening of the heart to survive the coming distance. She’d seen Sam do it before, his gaze turning toward the horizon while he was still standing right in front of her.

Tonight, he seemed... distant. Not cold, exactly, but quiet in a way that felt heavy. He was staring out at the lake as she used the spigot to rinse off her boots from the hike. His profile sharp against the fading orange of the sunset, his hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. Every time she caught his eye, he offered a smile that didn't quite reach the depths of his gaze.

Here it comes, she thought, a dull ache starting in her chest. She’d spent the last forty-eight hours basking in his doting affection, and the idea of him shutting the door now, right before the end, felt unbearable. She was rubbing a bit of caked on mud around her boots heel when his voice broke the quiet.

"Jo. Can you come here for a sec?"

She froze, her heart thudding. She didn't turn around immediately, her hands still busy under the cold stream. "I just wanted to get the excess mud off. It’ll only take a second."

"Jolene," he repeated, softer this time. "Just watch the sunset with me. Please?" His voice softened at the end. She finally stood, wiping her damp hands on her jeans, and walked over to where he was standing at the edge of the rocky bank.

As she reached his side, he didn't put his arm around her. Instead, he reached into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with something small, his eyes never leaving the shimmering reflection of the fading light on the lake.

"I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day," he murmured, his voice thick before he trailed off.

She felt the familiar, cold ache of pre-deployment dread settling in her gut watching him sit there, eyes distant, not speaking for several prolonged minutes. "Sam?" she prompted, her voice barely a whisper against the wind.

He didn't move. He kept his hands shoved deep into the front pocket of his charcoal hoodie, his posture unyielding. "I spent the whole hike today trying to find the right words," he began, "And then I spent the whole time we were eating trying to convince myself to just shut up and enjoy the view. To just... let the weekend be what it was."

Jolene stepped closer, "You’re doing it, aren't you? You’re starting to pull back. I can feel the wall going up, Sam. If you need to go into SEAL mode, just tell me. Don't make me guess."

Sam finally turned his head, and the look in his eyes stopped her heart. It wasn't the cold, tactical distance she’d been bracing for. It was a raw, exposed vulnerability that looked almost like pain. "It’s not a wall, Jo," he said, his jaw working as he struggled with the words. "It’s the opposite. I’m trying to keep the floor from falling out from under me."

He blew out a long breath, the steam of it caught in the last of the twilight. He turned his body fully toward her now, though his hands stayed buried in his pockets, his knuckles likely white inside the fabric.

"Yesterday, when we were talking about the kids... the house... the year of just us..." He trailed off, looking back at the lake where the water had turned to hammered silver. "I realized something. I didn't plan for after because in my world, after isn't a guarantee. It’s just a concept."

He stopped, his throat working as he swallowed hard. The silence stretched again, agonizingly slow. Jolene didn't interrupt. She could see the internal war playing out across his features. The silence of the Maine woods seemed to amplify the roughness of his voice.

"You asked me on the plane why I was acting differently," he started. "Why I was... doting. I’m not sure if you think I’m trying to figure out how to put distance between us, but it was the opposite."

He took a step closer, his boots grinding into the gravel until he was looming over her, blocking out the last of the purple twilight. "That morning we went on the run, I did something I don't usually do. I'm not a man who asks for things, Jolene. In my line of work, you take what you're given and you make it work. You don't beg. But that morning, I made a plea to the universe"

Jolene stayed perfectly still, her breath hitching in her chest.

"I told the universe that I don't need the glory. I don't need the medals or the adrenaline or the 'thank you for your service' bullshit. I barely even know how to ask for comfort anymore, and I sure as hell don't know how to ask for less pain," he confessed, a self-deprecating shadow of a smile flickering on his lips. "But I begged for a life with you. A real, boring, mundane life."

He let out a short breath, his gaze dropping to her mouth before returning to her eyes. "I told the universe that if it brings me back, I don't care if I end up soft. I told it, I’d be happy being a chubby, middle-aged guy sitting on your porch with a beer, watching you work on some rusted-out car. I just want the simple stuff. I want to grow old and unremarkable with you."

The honesty of it was staggering. This was the man who jumped out of planes and moved through the dark like a predator, admitting that his ultimate ambition was to be "chubby and happy" on a porch in Virginia.

"That's why I've been hovering," he whispered, finally pulling one hand out of his pocket to cup the side of her face, his thumb trembling slightly as it grazed her cheekbone. "Because every time I touch you, I’m trying to remind the universe of the deal. I’m trying to keep myself the version that belongs to you, not the version that belongs to the Navy. I’m not pulling away, Jo. I’m just... I’m terrified that if I stop touching you, the dream might dissolve before I get the chance to earn it."

Jolene stayed quiet, her breath hitching in the back of her throat as she let him keep the floor. She knew better than to interrupt a man like Sam when the floodgates were finally opening. He was usually so measured. A man of few, potent words, but now he was almost rambling, his thoughts tumbling over one another in a way that made him seem younger.

As he spoke about the porch and the beer and the mundane beauty of a life without a mission clock, her mind flashed back to her last birthday in Baltimore. When he rambled and he’d handed her a watch. He’d been so restless. His eyes had darted to hers with a look that she recognized again in this moment. It was the look of a man terrified that he was offering either too much of himself or not nearly enough. He’d been nervous then, just as he was vibrating with a silent tension now.

She took a slow, deliberate step into his space. She didn't touch him yet; she just stood there, forcing him to look down at her. The height difference felt more pronounced this close. His broad frame silhouetted against the obsidian lake, making her feel small but strangely powerful in the face of his vulnerability.

"I know I’m being... I’m all over the place," Sam muttered, his hand dropping from her face to rub at the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in the short hairs there. "I’ve had this plan in my head for weeks. I thought about doing it at the airport, or maybe on that trail today, but every time I went to reach for it, I felt like a damn kid playing at being an adult."

He reached back into the pocket of his hoodie, his jaw tight as he pulled out a small, unassuming velvet bag. He didn't open it immediately. He just stared at it in his palm, his brow furrowed in a deep, self-critical scowl.

"I’m pushing thirty," he said, his voice laced with a sudden, sharp edge of frustration. "I’m a Chief in the United States Navy. I’ve led men into places I don't even talk about. I should have just gone to the jeweler in Virginia and bought the real thing. I should be down on one knee right now, doing this the right way, instead of giving you some half-assed, temporary bullshit in the middle of the woods like a teenager who’s afraid to say the word forever out loud."

"Sam," she interrupted, her voice soft but firm, cutting through his spiral like a blade.

She reached out and laid her hand flat against his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thrum of his heart through the layers of cotton and flannel. She didn't inherently know what he was asking for right now. But what she did know, was she wanted the man who was currently falling apart because he loved her too much to be smooth.

"Stop," she whispered, her voice a sharp, tender blade that sliced through his spiraling self-deprecation. She stepped fully into his shadow, her hand flat against the heavy, frantic thudding of his heart. "Don’t you dare call whatever this is, ridiculous. Not after everything you just told me."

Sam looked down at her, his jaw tight, the pulse in his neck jumping. He looked like a man standing on a ledge, clutching that small velvet bag as if it were the only thing keeping him from the drop.

She looked at the bag, then back at his dark, tortured eyes, a small, watery smile tugging at her lips. "So, what is this, Walsh? Is this one of those... proposition-type situations? Are you supposed to give a proper speech? Do I need to stand in a certain spot? Because I'm blatantly unsure of the protocol here, and I don't want to mess up your plan.'"

The sheer normalcy of her teasing, the way she met his intensity with her own grounded humor, seemed to act like a pressure valve. Sam let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders dropping an inch. The harsh, self-critical edge in his eyes softened into something warmer, something that looked like profound gratitude.

"Can I try again?" he asked, his voice barely a rasp. "Without the rambling?"

"Please," she breathed, reaching out to take his hand.

She led him back toward the flat rock where they’d been sitting earlier. The fire was a ghost of itself now, just a bed of glowing orange eyes in the dark, but the moonlight was bright enough to illuminate the planes of his face. She sat first, then pulled him down, straddling his lap so they were chest-to-chest, her knees tucked against his hips. She wanted no space between them for doubts to crawl into.

Sam settled his large hand on her waist, before he reached into the bag. He pulled out a simple, delicate golden band. It wasn't encrusted with diamonds. It was modest, sturdy, and glowing softly in the moonlight.

"This isn't a proposal," he said, his voice regaining its steady depth, though his fingers trembled as he held the ring between them. "I want you to know that first. I thought about doing the real thing. I had the ring picked out in my head, I had the words ready. But the more I thought about it, the more it felt... wrong."

He looked at the gold band, his thumb grazing the inner curve. "A proposal should be the start of something joyful. It should be us sitting on that porch, planning a wedding, picking out a life together, side-by-side. If I gave you that ring tonight, Jolene, I’d be asking you to spend the next six months planning a life alone. I’d be giving you a promise that you’d have to carry by yourself in the dark. And I won't do that to you."

He looked up, eyes locking onto hers. "So, this is the placeholder. It’s to remind you, every time you look at your hand, that I am already yours. When I get back I’m going to do this the right way. I’m going to sit down with Randy, I’m going to buy the biggest rock I can find, and I’m going to ask you to be my wife when I can actually stay to see you say yes."

He paused, his breath hitching as he searched her face for any sign of hesitation. "Do you agree with that? Do you understand why I'm doing it this way? Do you... do you want this, Jo?"

Jolene couldn't speak for a moment, her vision blurring as the tears finally spilled over, hot and fast. She understood. She understood that he was protecting her even now. Protecting her from the weight of a lonely engagement, from the "what ifs" that would haunt a diamond ring. He was giving her a piece of himself that was quiet, private, and unbreakable in its own way.

"I want it," she choked out, reaching for his hand. He didn't wait. He took her left hand, his touch reverent, and slid the golden band onto her finger. He didn't let go afterward; he brought her hand to his mouth, pressing a long, hard kiss to her knuckles, his eyes closing as if he were finally allowing himself to believe in the future they’d laid out. She leaned forward, winding her arms around his neck and pulling him into a kiss. It was a deep, grounding connection. A silent sealing of the contract they’d just written under the Maine stars. When she finally pulled back, her forehead still resting against his, she let out a shaky, watery laugh, her fingers tracing the new weight of the gold band on her finger.

"So," she murmured, her voice regaining a bit of its playful edge. "You had a ring picked out in your head, huh? Bold move, Walsh. Very confident of you."

Sam offered a slow, defensive shrug, his hands sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her more firmly into his lap. "I’m a scout, Jo. I told you. Always prepared. I’ve spent enough time staring at your hands while you’re working on that truck to have a general idea of the dimensions."

"The dimensions, sure," Jolene teased, holding her hand up so the moonlight caught the simple band. "But the style? How do you even know what I’d want? You haven't exactly seen me browsing the Tiffany’s catalog between oil changes."

Sam let out a soft huff, his chest vibrating against hers. "I don't know. A ring’s a ring, right? Round, shiny, doesn't fall off? I figured as long as it didn’t get caught in a fan belt, we were in the clear."

Jolene pulled back, giving him a look of mock horror. "Absolutely it is not just a ring, Sam. I have to wear this thing every single day for the rest of my life."

Sam broke into a genuine, rich laugh, the sound echoing off the quiet surface of the lake. He shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a warmth that made her heart ache. "I have to admit, I never thought I’d see the day where Jolene, the ultimate tomboy, would be picky about jewelry."

"That’s exactly why I’m picky," she countered, poking him in the chest. "Because I don't wear jewelry. If I’m going to commit to one single piece of metal on my body, it better be the right piece of metal. It has to be low-profile, it has to be sturdy, and it definitely can’t be some gaudy rock that screams 'I’ve never touched a socket wrench in my life.'"

Sam’s expression softened, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw again, his gaze turning serious and infinitely tender. "Point taken." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Tell you what. Since I’m going to be... occupied for a while, I’m authorizing a reconnaissance mission. While I’m gone, I want you to go out with Victoria. Drag her to a few shops. Figure out exactly what fits the bill."

Jolene raised an eyebrow. "You want me to go ring shopping without you?"

"I want you to find what you love," he corrected, his eyes locking onto hers. "Then, have Vic pass the intel off to me. She can send me the 'specs,' and I’ll make sure the final acquisition is an informed decision. That way, when I walk through that door and I sit down with Randy, I know exactly what I’m holding in my pocket."

The lightness of the teasing faded, replaced by the heavy, beautiful reality of what he was asking. He was giving her a project. A way to look forward to the future while he was away. "Deal," she whispered, leaning in to press her lips to his jaw. "I'll get Vic on the case. But be warned, her taste is expensive. You might want to pick up some extra hazardous pay."

"For you?" he murmured, pulling her head down to his shoulder and looking out at the dark, infinite sky. "I'd stay in the sand forever if it meant giving you exactly what you wanted."

Jolene leaned back against his chest, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder as she held her hand up once more. "God," she breathed, her voice airy and thick with a sudden realization. "It feels like a really big thing just happened, Sam."

Sam’s arms tightened around her, his chin resting atop her head. He didn't offer a witty comeback or an observation. He just pressed a kiss to her temple, his heart beating a steady, heavy rhythm against her back. "It did," he agreed, his voice a low vibration she felt in her own lungs.

The gravity of the moment hung between them, beautiful and terrifying, but as Jolene looked at the ring, a new kind of heat began to stir in her blood. The emotional high of the promise was starting to bleed into something more primitive. A desperate, aching need to tie him to her in the most visceral way possible before the sun rose on their final day before travel, packing and goodbyes would claim them.

She shifted in his lap, her movements slow and deliberate as she turned to look at him. His dark eyes were still soft, still filled with that Christmas morning wonder he’d described earlier, and she decided right then that she wanted to see them turn dark with something else entirely.

Jolene stood up slowly, the oversized flannel shirt she’d borrowed from him sliding off one shoulder to reveal the pale curve of her collarbone. She let it slip away entirely. She looked down at him, her silhouette framed by the moonlight and the silver lake behind her. She twisted the gold band on her finger once, a slow, provocative motion. "I think I’d really love it if you’d have me tonight... while I’m only wearing this ring."

Jolene didn't wait for a verbal answer. She turned and began to walk toward the edge of the lake, her hips swaying with a confidence that was entirely for him. She reached for the hem of her tanktop, pulling it over her head and letting it drop onto the pine needles without looking back. Behind her, she heard the heavy, hurried thud of Sam’s boots hitting the ground as he stood, the sound of his own zipper trailing after her.

"Jolene," he growled.

She didn't stop until her bare toes hit the icy shock of the water’s edge. She turned back then, the moonlight washing over her skin. Sam was already there, shedding layers with a frantic, focused energy, his eyes locked on her with a heat that promised to burn right through the Maine chill.

The lake was an icy shock against her skin, a sharp, crystalline bite that stole the air from her lungs the moment the water reached her hips. But the cold was instantly countered by the wall of heat that was Sam Walsh. He moved through the water with the quiet, powerful grace of a predator, closing the distance in two long strides before his hands clamped onto her waist. His palms were rough and scorching hot, as he pulled her flush against his chest.

The contrast was staggering. The freezing depths of the lake swirling around their legs and the furnace-like intensity of his body pressing into hers. He didn’t hesitate; he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath a hot brand against her wet skin, and began to grind his hips against hers in a possessive motion that made her toes curl into the silty bottom of the lake.

In the haze of sensation, Jolene’s hand came up to steady herself against his bicep, and the moonlight caught the flash of gold on her finger. A sudden, practical spike of panic cut through the lust.

"Sam,wait," she gasped, her voice trembling as much from the cold as the friction. She lifted her hand, the ring shimmering between them. "Can this get wet? I don't know the rules for this. Is the water going to ruin it?"

Sam didn't stop the steady, torturous roll of his hips, but he did lift his head. His eyes were dark, dilated pools of obsidian. He looked down at her hand, then back up at her, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating deep in his chest.

"Why wouldn’t it get wet, Jo?" he murmured.

"I don't know!" she hissed, her fingers splaying against his wet skin. "I’m not a jewelry person, remember?"

Sam caught her hand, threading his fingers through hers. "It’s not going to tarnish. It’s real gold, Jolene. Solid. It’s meant to last as long as we do."

The realization hit her. She’d assumed a placeholder meant something temporary. Something inexpensive he’d picked up on a whim. "Real gold?" she repeated, her eyes widening as she looked at him. "Sam, even a simple band like this... that’s not cheap."

Sam cut her off by tightening his grip on her waist, hoisting her up until her legs instinctively locked around his hips, bringing them eye-to-eye. The water sloshed around them, the ripples silvered by the moon, but his focus was absolute.

"Stop worrying about the ledger, Jolene," he growled, his voice dropping into that tone of command that brooked no argument, yet softened by a tenderness that was solely reserved for her. He leaned in until their noses brushed, his gaze searing into hers. "I bought it because I wanted you to have something that was as real and as permanent as I feel about you. You’re worth every cent in my account and every drop of sweat I’ve ever put into this job. If I could’ve plated the whole damn porch in gold for you, I would have."

He kissed her then. A hard, demanding claim that tasted of the wild Maine air and the promise of a lifetime. His hands slid down to cup her at the base of her spine, pulling her even tighter against the hard, aching line of his desire. "No more talking about the ring, okay?" He whispered against her lips, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. "Just feel it. Feel me. And get out of that pretty head of yours."

The icy water was no match for the heat rising between them. Jolene’s fingers dug into the corded muscles of Sam’s shoulders, her nails scraping against his wet skin as they collided in a messy, desperate kiss. It was uncoordinated and raw. Teeth clashing, tongues tangling, their breath hitching in sync as the lake surged around them. He groaned into her mouth. A low, guttural sound of pure hunger, as he hiked her higher against his chest, his thumbs bruising the soft skin of her thighs.

He broke the kiss, his forehead dropping against hers as they both gasped for air, the steam of their breath mingling in the moonlight. "Not here," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. Without giving her a chance to argue, he surged out of the shallows. He didn't set her down; he kept his arms locked beneath her, carrying her high against his chest as he strode back toward the glow of the dying fire. Jolene let out a startled, breathless laugh, her head falling back as she watched the stars dance above the pine canopy. She felt weightless, sheltered, and entirely claimed.

"You know," she panted, her arms winding tighter around his neck as the cool air hit her wet skin, "I really love it when you pick me up like this."

Sam glanced down at her, his eyes dark with a focused, heavy intent as he neared the tent. "Is that right? And why's that?"

"Because," she whispered, a playful, slightly dazed smile touching her lips, "you’re the only person on the planet who makes me feel dainty. It’s a nice change of pace from being the person who hauls transmissions around all day."

Sam reached the tent, ducking low to navigate the flap without letting her go. He eased her down onto the tangled nest of sleeping bags, the fabric cool against her back, but he didn't pull away. He hovered over her, his massive frame blocking out the rest of the world. "Dainty isn't exactly the word I’d use for you, Jo," he murmured, his hands sliding up her ribs to frame her face. "You're a force of nature. But I love having you in my arms."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as his weight settled between her thighs, grounding her into the floor of the tent. "I love holding you," he growled, his voice dropping to a carnal, possessive vibration that made her entire body thrum. "And I love the way you feel when I'm filling you up. When there’s no space left between us at all."

Jolene reached up, her fingers finding the back of his neck, pulling him down to seal the promise in the dark. His hands, usually so careful with her, moved with a sudden, rough urgency. One hand slid up, fingers splaying wide and firm against the column of her throat. He held her there, his thumb pressing just firmly enough against her pulse point to feel her heart drumming a frantic beat against his palm.

He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her neck. He bit down, his sharp canines ensuring it would leave marks that would stay long after he was gone. Jolene let out a sharp gasp, her back arching off the sleeping bag, her fingers digging into the hard, wet muscles of his back. "You’re mine, Jolene," he muttered against her skin, his breath hot and ragged. "Forever. Do you hear me? I don't care about the six months. I don't care about the miles. You belong right here."

He shifted, his lower body grinding into hers with a punishing, relentless pressure. He was dominant in a way that felt like he was trying to fuse their souls together before the Navy could pull them apart. Jolene watched as he looked down at her, his espresso-dark eyes blown out, black and hungry. "You better love me just like this when I get back," he commanded, his voice thick with a desperate kind of authority. "I’m coming home to you. And I’m not coming back as this. I’m coming back as the man who’s never leaving your bed again. You hear me?"

He let out a short, guttural laugh, his fingers tightening slightly on her throat as he stared into her eyes. "Even when I'm not this fit. Even when I’ve got a gut from your cooking and my hair is long and shaggy because I’m never touching a pair of clippers again, you better still look at me exactly like you’re looking at me right now."

"I will," she choked out, her voice a desperate, needy wreck. "Sam, please..."

"Say it," he demanded, his hips rolling over hers in a slow, agonizing promise of what was coming. "Say you’re mine."

"I'm yours," she whispered, her hands moving to his face, pulling him down to bridge the final gap. "Always."

He wasn't holding back, his body a heavy, sweat-slicked engine of intent that drove every bit of air from Jolene’s lungs. "You’re going to get more beautiful," he rasped, his voice hoarse as he looked down at her. "Every year. Every gray hair you try to hide from me. Every line that comes from laughing at my bullshit. I’m going to be there to see all of it. You hear me? I’m going to watch you age, and I’m going to want you even more than I do right now."

Jolene’s head thrashed back, a broken, high-pitched cry escaping her throat as he hit a depth that made her world turn into white noise. She reached for him, her fingers digging into his triceps, trying to pull him closer, but he wasn't done with her yet. With a sudden, powerful heave, he shifted her, flipping her over with a dominant ease that left her breathless. He settled behind her, his chest a wall of heat against her back, his hand returning to the nape of her neck to hold her steady. He didn't stop, the friction and the heat escalating until the air in the tent felt flammable. "You ruined me, Jo," he whispered harshly against her ear, his breath hitching as his pace turned even more frantic. "You took a man who was perfectly fine living out of a locker and didn't care if he had a home to come back to, and you turned him into this. Look at me. I’m a fucking mess because of you."

He tightened his grip, his hips snapping forward. "I’m out here desperately proclaiming my love like a kid because you earned it. You earned every part of me." The air in the tent was stifling, thick with the scent of pine needles, salt, and the heady, metallic tang of their shared heat. "Don't you dare," he growled against the shell of her ear, his voice dropping into a dark, demanding register. "Don't you hold it back from me, Jo. Give it to me. All of it."

Jolene knew he didn't like the way she fought the wave, the way she bit her lip to stifle the sounds he’d earned. Sam had always wanted the raw, ugly, beautiful truth of her surrender. His hands moved with a possessive hunger, reaching around her to find her breasts. His fingers rough as the sensation of his thumbs flicking and rolling her nipples, sending a bolt of electricity straight to the core of her.

Jolene’s resolve crumbled like dry earth. She leaned back, her spine curving into the solid, unyielding heat of his chest. Her nose found the rough, sandpaper curve of his stubble-covered cheek, the scent of him filling her head until she was lightheaded. As he leaned over her shoulder, his mouth seeking hers, she moaned directly into his mouth. It was a broken, needy sound that was swallowed by his possessive kiss.

She felt like she was being dismantled. His massive palms spanning her ribs and stomach, fingers digging into her skin as if he were trying to leave permanent impressions. She felt the strength in him. That absolute, terrifying power of his grip. He was the only thing keeping her from collapsing into a heap on the tent floor as the first tremors of release began to rack her body.

"That's it," he whispered harshly, his pace turning into a frantic, desperate blur. "That’s my girl."

When the release finally hit, it was a total system failure. Her vision went white, her fingers clawing at his thighs as her muscles bucked and seized against him. She felt the gold ring on her finger press into his skin. He held her upright, his arms wrapping around her middle like a vice, pinning her back against him so she had to feel every agonizing second of the peak.

And then, he followed her.

She felt the sudden, violent tension in his frame, the way his breath caught in a hitch. He surged into her one last time, deep and devastatingly thorough, and Jolene gasped as she felt the searing, heavy heat of him finishing inside of her. In that moment, with his heart hammering a frantic beating against her shoulder blades and his hands refusing to let her go, the six months of distance felt like a lie.

But before Jolene could even find her voice to whisper his name, he was moving. He didn't let her drift into the afterglow. Instead, he gripped her hips and flipped her over onto her back with a strength that made her feel like a ragdoll in the best possible way. He loomed over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the faint moonlight filtering through the nylon. His skin was slick with sweat and his eyes were dark with a lingering, primal satisfaction. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached down, shoving his fingers into the messy, warm evidence of their union. He pushed back into her with a low, possessive growl as he watched her face with a wolfish, unrepentant grin.

"Don’t move," he rasped, his voice dropping into a crass rumble. "I want you to keep every drop of that inside you for as long as you can."

Jolene let out a breathless laugh, her eyes rolling even as her heart hammered against her ribs. She reached up, pushing a damp lock of hair off her forehead, trying to find her footing in the wake of his intensity. "God, you’re being so needy, Walsh," she teased, though her voice was still thick with the aftermath of her climax. "What is it with you? We have one hypothetical conversation about kids and suddenly you’re being all territorial and primal. Are you trying to mark your territory before you head back over there?"

Sam didn't look even remotely sheepish. He shrugged, the movement of his massive shoulders casting long, shifting shadows against the nylon walls. "Let a man have his fantasy, Jo. I know it’s irrational. I know the mechanics don't work like that, but let me have the thought." He leaned down, his weight settling between her knees again, his hands sliding up to cup her face with a grip that was surprisingly tender despite the heat in his eyes. "Just let it stay there. Consider it a deposit on that future we talked about. Keep it right there until I’m ready for round two and then I’ll fuck it in deeper."

Jolene’s eyebrows shot up, a startled, playful smirk tugging at her mouth. "Round two? Sam, you just finished. Give a girl, and yourself for that matter, a minute to recover."

"Round two, round three, however many it takes," he countered, his grin turning darker, more determined. He lowered his head until his lips were brushing against the shell of her ear, his breath scorching with promise. "We’re going until the sun comes up, Jolene. I’m not closing my eyes until I’ve given you everything I’ve got. I want you to milk me completely dry before I have to put that uniform back on. By the time we leave this tent, I want you so worn out you can't even remember your own name. Just mine."

Jolene’s breath hitched, her fingers tangling in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. The exhaustion she’d felt moments ago vanished, replaced by a fresh, pulsing heat as she realized he was dead serious. "Well," she whispered, pulling his head down to hers, "if that's the mission objective, Sailor, I guess I'd better get to work."

Sam’s eyebrows quirked. "What exactly do you mean by that??"

Jolene didn't give him the satisfaction of an explanation. Instead, she shifted with a sudden burst of energy, bracing her hands against his shoulders and rolling on top of him. As she moved, she felt the warm, heavy slickness of his release. The deposit he’d been so territorial about, leaked out and smeared against the hard, ridged planes of his abdomen. She slid down his body just enough to feel the friction of it, deliberately grinding her hips against his, making a mess of both of them.

"I mean," she whispered, her voice a low, honeyed rasp, "it’s my turn to be on top. If you’re planning on going until sunrise, Walsh, you’d better be prepared to let me set the pace for a few rounds."

Sam let out a deep, appreciative hum, his hands instantly finding her waist to steady her. His fingers bit into her skin, his thumbs tracing the line of her hip bones with a possessive heat. "God, I love it when you give exactly what you take," he groaned, his head falling back against the rumpled sleeping bag. "You have no idea how hot you look like this."

Jolene didn't move immediately. She sat back on her heels, her knees framing his ribs, and just looked at him. In the dim shadows of the tent, she felt a wave of bittersweetness crash over her that was overwhelming.

He was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat that made his skin look like polished bronze in the moonlight. His face was still flushed from the exertion, his jaw shadowed by the dark stubble she could spend eternity feeling against her skin. She watched the way his chest heaved, his lungs pulling in the cool air, causing the intricate black ink of the tattoo on his ribs to shift and stretch with every breath. Everything about him was tuned to a lethal, agonizing precision by the US Navy. The corded muscle of his arms, the flat power of his stomach, the way his body seemed to occupy more space than should be possible. He was a weapon, yes, but here, in the mess of their shared fluids and the scent of pine and sex, he was just her man.

He was messy, he was arrogant, he was vulnerable, and he was hers.

"You're perfect," she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She reached down, her thumb tracing the line of his bottom lip, her heart aching with the knowledge of how much she was going to miss this view in just over forty-eight hours. "I don't think you realize it. You’re terrifyingly perfect, Sam Walsh."

He reached up, taking her hand and pressed a hard, lingering kiss to the center of her palm. "I'm only perfect when I'm under you, Jo," he murmured, his voice thick with a renewed hunger. "Now, stop looking at me like I’m a ghost and show me exactly how you plan to put me to work."

The hours that followed were a blurred, feverish defiance of the clock. They moved together with a desperation that bypassed conversation in a cycle of heat and breath that left them both hollowed out and aching. Every time Jolene thought she had reached her limit, Sam’s hands would find her, his voice would growl a new command, and they would dive back into the friction. Eventually, the frantic energy gave way to a heavy, weighted exhaustion. As the final act of their long night wound down, Jolene found herself collapsed against his chest, her head pillowed on his shoulder. The tent was silent now, save for the synchronized sound of their breathing and the distant, lonely call of a loon out on the lake.

She lay there, tracing the edge of the gold band on her finger, her mind drifting through a quiet haze of introspection. A year ago, she had been a woman who guarded her independence like a fortress, terrified of the vulnerability that came with letting someone in. Now, she was tangled in the limbs of a man who had completely dismantled her walls.

She looked at him in the early dawn. At the rise and fall of his chest, the salt-dried skin of his shoulder, and the unyielding perfection of the man who had promised her a lifetime of boring, beautiful days. She realized, with a sharp pinch of gratitude, just how lucky she was. To be loved by a man like Sam. A man who was as steady and fierce. He was perfect, not in the sense of being flawless, but in the way he fit into the rough cracks of her own soul. He was something she hadn't known she was looking for.

Sam told her hours ago that he’d made his bargain with the universe, but Jolene’s thoughts didn't drift toward a nameless architect or a distant divinity. Instead, she reached out into the quiet of her mind toward the only man who had ever loomed as large in her world as the one currently holding her.

Hey, Dad, she thought. It was a bittersweet ache, a sharp longing that sat right beneath her ribs. She wished more than anything that her father – a man who had worn the same trident and had known the same weight of the shadows – could have sat across a table from Sam. She could almost see it. The silent nod of respect between two men who didn't need words to explain the cost of the life they led. She wondered, with a sudden, stinging heat behind her eyes, if there truly was something beyond the veil. If her father, knowing the storms his daughter had weathered and the walls she had built to survive his absence, had reached through the ether to pull a few strings. If he had looked at Sam Walsh and decided that this was the man strong enough to carry his daughter's heart.

If you put him in my path, thank you, she whispered into the stillness. Thank you for giving me someone who isn't afraid of the grease under my nails or the temper in my blood.

She shifted slightly, her fingers tracing the line of a scar on Sam’s shoulder. Her prayer wasn't for a perfect life.

I don’t care how he comes back to me, Dad, she bargained, her grip on Sam’s arm tightening almost imperceptibly. I don’t care if he’s broken. I don’t care if he’s quiet. I just need him to come back. I can’t fathom a world where he isn’t in it. I just need him on that porch.

She thought of her father’s own struggles. The long nights of silence. The way he had raised her with a stoic, lonely kind of grace after the Navy had taken its toll. She realized now, with the clarity of a woman in love with a warrior, exactly what that had cost him. And she made a vow, right there in the damp Maine air, to be the sanctuary for Sam that her father had never fully found for himself after her mom died.

I will be whatever he needs, she promised. On the nights when his body aches, I’ll be the hands that work the knots out. On the nights when the things he’s seen or the things he’s had to do come back to haunt him in the dark, I’ll be there to sit with him. I’ll worship at his personal altar. I’ll carry the weight, I’ll be the calm in his storm. I just need him to come home.

She leaned down, pressing her lips to the center of his chest, right over his steady, thrumming heart. The bittersweetness of the goodbye was already settling in, but beneath it was a foundation of steel. She loved him with a ferocity that terrified her.

Without evening realizing it, her focus shifted to Mike. Sam’s brother-in-arms, the man whose absence still sat like a hollowed-out ache in the back of Sam’s throat when he spoke about the last deployment in Iraq. She hadn't known Mike as well as she’d have liked. She saw some of him in the way Sam’s face softened when he remembered a particular joke. She caught glimpses of him in her backyard in her mind. Occasionally she noticed his photo tucked in next to her father’s on the wall.

And Mike, she added to the silent conversation, her heart feeling heavy and full. I have to imagine you and my dad have found each other by now. Two SEALs probably don’t take long to find the nearest bar in whatever comes next. If you’re both listening, if there’s any power in this world... watch over him.

The thought of Mike and her father together brought a strange comfort. It made the vast, terrifying distance of the coming months feel a little less lonely. She pictured them keeping a ghostly watch over a man who still had too much life left to live.

I know he’s good at what he does, she thought, her cheek resting against the rough heat of Sam's skin. But even the best need someone looking out for their blind side. If you can keep the sand out of his eyes and the strength to keep going in heart just long enough for him to get back to Virginia, I can handle the rest. I’ll be the one to pick up the pieces. I’ll be the one to build the life he’s earned. Just get him to the door.

She looked at the ring again and she felt the weight of her father’s legacy and Mike’s sacrifice settling into her own bones.

Bring him back, she whispered one last time, a final command to the ghosts and the universe alike. Bring him back, and I’ll take it from there.

She let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension finally leaving her shoulders as she allowed herself to succumb to a few minutes of heavy, restorative sleep. She stayed wrapped in the scent of him, tucked under his chin, holding onto the peace of the woods for as long as the shadows would allow. The world was waiting to tear them apart, but for now, they were one man, one woman, and the silent protection of those who had gone before.

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