Page 57

I smile at that, but it quickly fades when my eyes drop to his chest. They’re hard to make out in the darkness, but I see enough.

I roll onto my side to face him, sticking out my hand. I rest it on his taut abs, then slowly work my way up until my palm is flat against his chest. Some of his scars are flat, but others are raised and rough. I’m barely breathing as I trace my fingers over them, not sure how he’ll react.

“Is this what happens when you’re compromised?” I say softly.

His abs cave in as he exhales. “Why do you care?”

“Because. You’re a mystery to me. You know everything about me and my life, but you’re a stranger to me.”

“Your fault for fucking a stranger, I guess.”

“Julian…”

He stares up at the ceiling while I stare at his face, trying my hardest to read him. He’s completely still until he brings his hand up and settles it on top of mine, pressing my palm against his scars.

“Shrapnel wound,” he says quietly. “Afghanistan.”

I shift, moving closer, putting more of me on him to soothe the sting of the memory.

“We got some intel about a compound just outside Herat. A weapons cache. We sat on it for a month or so. The day we raided it, it was supposed to be empty.” He takes a deep breath. “They didn’t give a fuck if it was empty. We were going in either way.”

“There were people in there?”

He nods. “Civilians. Women. Kids.”

His eyes close. I feel his heart pounding beneath my palm like it’s trying to break free from his chest.

“There was a woman,” he says, and the words sound like they hurt coming out. “She always wore a red scarf.”

“Always?”

He pauses like he realizes he said too much.

“I did recon on that place for weeks. I’d seen her before,” he admits. “That red scarf is burned into my memory. It was bright. Like a target, almost.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “When we breached, she started screaming, mostly in Pashto. She ran toward one of the back rooms. I thought…I don’t know. I thought maybe she was running to save her kids. I wanted to help, so I followed her.”

His voice goes slightly hoarse.

“I didn’t see the tripwire until it was too late.”

He clears his throat. Swallows hard.

“It blew half the fucking wall apart,” he says, his tone hollow and flat now. “She died instantly. I got thrown twenty feet into a metal cabinet. Caught most of the shrapnel in my chest. I was in the hospital for almost six weeks.”

He looks at me now. Really looks. I can see the war behind his eyes, a battle he’s been living in since that day. I don’t think he remembers what peace feels like.

“I still see her sometimes,” he murmurs. “When I close my eyes. I hear the sound of the blast. The blood. It—“ He stops himself, cutting off his words.

I reach up and cradle his face. “Julian…”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he says. “I don’t talk about it. I hate talking about it.”

“But you did. You told me. You must haveneededto talk about it.”

He turns his head away, staring up at the ceiling again. “Just had a moment of weakness. That’s all.”

“There’s nothing weak about opening up to someone.”

He lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “It is when it gets people killed.”