Page 52

"Not happening."

"Spoilsport." She took a sip, then set her cup down with satisfaction. "Now. Tell me something real. How'd a nice boy like you end up in the Army?"

The shift from playful to serious caught me off-guard. But her eyes were warm, genuinely curious, and somehow the ridiculous setting made it easier to talk. Like none of this was quite real anyway.

"Wasn't much else for a kid from my neighborhood," I admitted, setting the tiny cup down with excessive care. "Parents split when I was twelve. Mom worked three jobs to keep us fed. The recruiter showed up at our school with promises—structure, purpose, brotherhood. Everything I was looking for."

I set the cup down carefully. "So I joined and quickly found out I was good at it. Strategy, leadership, keeping my guys alive. Until it all went wrong, of course."

Her hand found mine across the tiny table, fingers threading through like they belonged there. No platitudes, no empty reassurances. Just touch, warm and grounding.

"After that, I . . ." My throat closed up. How to explain the months of drinking, the absolute certainty that I didn't deserve to breathe when better men couldn't? "Duke found me. In a shitty bar, working on drinking myself to death. Most people walked past the drunk vet talking to ghosts. Not him."

"He saved you." Not a question.

"Gave me another chance at brotherhood. At purpose." I turned her hand over, tracing the ink on her wrist with my thumb. "The MC became everything. Family, mission, reason to keep going. Without it . . ."

"You'd be lost." She squeezed my hand. "I get that. Finding something that saves you, that gives you meaning when everything else is ash."

"That why tattoos?" I needed to shift focus, to step back from the edge of that particular abyss. "Your saving grace?"

She grinned, but it held understanding. She knew I needed the redirect and gave it freely. "Started as pure rebellion. Eighteen years old, fresh out of my mother's house and her endless expectations. Got a tiny butterfly on my ankle just to piss her off."

"Bet that went over well."

"She cried for three days. Said I'd ruined my body, my future, my chances at a 'good marriage.'" Lena made air quotes with her free hand. "The tattoo artist was this badass woman, covered head to toe in the most beautiful work I'd ever seen. She looked so . . . free. Unapologetic. Everything I wanted to be."

"So you started hanging around the shop?"

"Like a lost puppy." She laughed at the memory. "Swept floors, cleaned equipment, begged to watch her work. Obviously I was drawing, drawing, drawing the whole time. Practicing. I kept showing her my work and at first she just kept telling me to keep going and then eventually told me this one thing—a skull with sunflowers behind it—was rad. That’s what she said. ‘That’srad as fuck, Lena.’ So she let me try on practice skin. Then real skin. It felt so good. And my best work was always about taking someone’s pain, and making it something beautiful."

My chest went tight. That was Lena—taking damage and making it into something more. "Like those memorial pieces you do."

Her eyes widened. "You looked into my work?"

Heat crept up my neck. "Course I did. Wanted to understand what you did. How you did it." I cleared my throat. "That sleeve you did for Morrison—his whole unit in silhouette against the sunset. It's . . ."

"You know Morrison?"

"Served with his younger brother. Heard about the piece through the vet network. How you spent hours getting every detail right. How you wouldn't take payment."

"He tried to pay." She ducked her head, uncomfortable with praise. "But how do you charge someone for carrying their brothers? For keeping their memory alive? It's not . . . it's sacred. You know?"

I knew. God, I knew. The weight of carrying the dead, of being the one who walked away when they didn't.

"You're giving them a way to grieve."

"Art therapy disguised as badassery." She smiled, self-deprecating. "Plus I volunteer at the vet center. Teaching actual art therapy, not just sneaking it into tattoos."

"You volunteer?" Something warm unfurled in my chest. Of course she did.

"Don't look so surprised. I have depths." But she was blushing, pleased by my obvious admiration. "What about you? What does the tactical genius do when he's not playing bodyguard?"

"Build models." The admission came easier than expected. Maybe because she'd already seen my vulnerabilities. "Military vehicles, mostly. Helps with the . . ." I tapped my temple.

"The noise?"

"Yeah. Focusing on tiny pieces, exact specifications. Quiets everything down." I picked up another micro sandwich, examining it like tactical equipment. "Thor mocks me mercilessly."