Page 3 of Always You (Guardian Hall #1)

Chapter Three

JAZZ

I don’t understand why I’m crying.

I need to leave. I have to leave.

Only I couldn’t. I stared at the freaking door, and I couldn’t move.

“Jazz, I’m sorry,” Alex murmured.

I didn’t want him saying that to me. I didn’t want sympathy or pity. I needed something else, something that would ground me, stop me from dying inside…

“Please,” I whispered.

Silence, then, “Soldier,” Alex ordered. “With me.”

I stood there momentarily, caught off guard by Alex’s firm, commanding tone, something I hadn’t expected from him. A note in his voice resonated with the part of me still anchored in the discipline and structure of military life. It cut through the fog in my head, a clear, direct order I responded to on instinct.

I followed him down the wide corridor, my footsteps echoing on the polished floor. We passed the warm, inviting glow of the kitchen, but I didn’t let myself get distracted by the scent of coffee or the lure of food. My focus was on Alex’s back, his confident stride contrasting with the turmoil churning inside me.

Alex didn’t turn back to check if I was still there. He kept walking as if he were sure I would follow. And despite everything, I found myself drawn in by the simple act of following someone who seemed to know where they were going. It was a relief, in a way, not having to decide to move one foot in front of the other.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let someone lead. Not since I’d served. But now, in this unfamiliar place, with the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future pressing down on me, it felt okay to follow.

As I approached the door that Alex opened, a sudden wave of fear washed over me, cold and paralyzing. It wasn’t only the unknown of what lay beyond that threshold, but a deeper, more primal fear of confinement, of being trapped in a space I couldn’t escape, both physically and mentally. The open door, plain and unassuming, seemed to loom larger with each step I took.

I stopped a few feet away from him and that barrier. My heart pounded, and the sense of dread was all-consuming, a thick presence that filled my throat and made it hard to breathe. Somehow, the corridor, with its muted light, felt as if it was the last safe place before stepping into something entirely foreign. I’d done this before. I’d walked into towns destroyed by bombs, where danger lurked around every corner, where terrified kids held weapons, and where every step might end on an IED. I should have been able to handle one fucking room.

“What…” My voice barely rose above a whisper, strained with the effort to keep my composure. “What’s… what’s in there?”

I could feel the weight of his gaze as he turned to look at me, his eyes searching mine. I wasn’t only asking about the physical space behind the door; I was asking a hundred questions all wrapped up in anxiety and fear.

Alex’s voice was calm and reassuring as he explained. “It’s a welcome room. A place for you to rest and feel safe.” He gestured toward the door, his movements slow and deliberate. “This door locks, but only from the inside. You’re in control of the space. And there’s another door at the back of the room that leads to an open space. It’s like a small courtyard, with a table and chairs under an awning. You can get fresh air whenever you need it but be safe. Do you want to look?”

I shook my head, but I didn’t step back. I stayed still. “I don’t know. I… don’t know.”

He paused, giving me a moment, then continued. “Inside, there’s a bed, with clean bedding, some pajamas, blankets, and a heating control, if you like it cold, or hot. It’s safe. There’s a closet with some clothes, and a cabinet with snacks and drinks—coffee, teas, herbal things. It’s all set up for you. It’s safe. This space is yours until you feel like you’re done with it.” Alex’s eyes met mine, repeating that safe word repeatedly, as if that was what he wanted me to focus on.

“When I leave.”

He paused. “Or when you move to your own room.”

I still hesitated. The way he described it, the room didn’t sound like a trap, but more like a haven, a place where I could have some semblance of control. The mention of another door leading to an open space eased some tension in my chest. The idea that I wasn’t completely enclosed, that there was an escape route to the outside, made the prospect of stepping through the first door less daunting.

I looked at the door again, trying to envision the space beyond it as Alex had described. A bed, clothes, snacks—simple things, but what I needed. The fact that the door locked from the inside was significant. It meant I could have a space where I wasn’t vulnerable, where I could let my guard down, if only a little.

I took a deep breath. The fear was still present, but it mingled with a faint glimmer of hope. This room, this welcome room, might be what I needed to start putting myself back together, to find a moment of peace in a world that had become unrecognizable.

“I need you to trust me on this,” he said, his voice firm yet devoid of any harshness. “Go inside where it’s safe.” His words were direct, clear, carrying that same authority—an order that cut through my fear and hesitation.

I could trust orders.

Predictable.

I responded instinctively, and my feet moved of their own accord, carrying me toward the door. The fear was still there, but it was now overshadowed by the need to follow that directive, to step into the unknown because I’d been asked to. I peered into the small room. A single bed was tucked into one corner, and a small table with a couple of chairs was in another. There were skylights the same as in the kitchen, with blinds that could keep out the light, and I noticed a small stack of books on the bedside table.

The walls were painted blue, and a few framed pictures of landscapes hung on them—fields of flowers… peaceful. It felt as though someone had taken the time to make this space not only functional but comforting, a place where I could let my guard down.

I turned to Alex, who’d stayed at the door—to one side, not blocking me—watching quietly, giving me space to take it all in. “One night?” My voice sounded foreign, rough with unspoken emotions.

“The first night, maybe more if you want,” Alex replied gently. “Everything here is for you. Take your time, and settle in. The door locks from the inside, and this is a key.” He handed me a small key on a chain. “You’re safe here.”

I nodded, my eyes lingering on the details of the room. Safe . That word hadn’t truly applied to me in a long time. I walked over to the bed, running my hand over the smooth fabric of the sheets. It felt real, soft.

I could be warm here.

Turning back to Alex, I found my voice again, albeit shaky. “I… I… don’t…” I started, the words barely above a whisper, but what was I even trying to say?

Alex offered a small smile. “We have an on-call doctor. I’m going to get him to come check on you if that’s okay. Maybe an hour or so?”

I blinked at him, fight or flight kicking in and having me ready to shove him away and run. “No hospital.”

“No hospital. If you need anything, I’m just down the hall in the kitchen, come find me when you’re ready, okay?”

The moment Alex left; my instincts took over. I locked the door behind him, the snick of the bolt reassuring. Then, I began to inspect the room. Years of being in unpredictable situations had ingrained in me the habit of always knowing my surroundings, of being prepared for anything.

I checked under the bed first, finding nothing but clear space. The closet came next. I opened it with caution, half-expecting something to jump out. There were some clothes hanging inside, and I reached out to touch a soft fleece, catching sight of the grimy gloves on my hands and pulling back. I wasn’t going to sully the treasures inside. There were boots in there, worn, different sizes, and some backpacks. The drawers of the small dresser were next, each slide and reveal confirming the safety and privacy of the room, and then, I checked the snacks, the small coffee machine, the pods, bags of teas, until there was nothing left to check.

My attention turned to the back door. I unlocked and opened it, peering out into a small area with grass and some empty planters covered in the snow that had found its way under the awning. I checked the lock on this door too, making sure it was secure before closing it again and twisting the lock.

Checking one last time.

Another door led to a shower room. I opened it, scanning the interior. Skylights revealed the grey, snow-laden sky above and, somehow, that barrier between me and the cold made the room feel safe.

I tried to unbutton my coat, but my fine motor skills were next to useless, so I took the small knife I had on me at all times, flicked it open, staring at the blade, then pulling myself out of the shitty headspace I was sinking into, slid it through the cotton until the buttons fell off and the whole thing was open. There was a coat in the closet, something better, so I took off my backpack, then my old coat, and shoved the coat, scarf, hat, and gloves, out into the small yard, with my boots, before closing the door and checking it was locked again. Only then did I drop my bag to a chair with a thud, the strap of the backpack fraying and worn, barely holding together.

“Now what,” I muttered to the empty room. Layer by layer, I removed my clothes, laying them out on the tiled floor, wondering what to keep and what to discard, checking in the closet to see what layers were in there. There was blood on some things, other bits stuck to my skin, and I gritted my teeth to pull them away. I could leave but still have new clothes from that closet—T-shirts, fleeces, a new scarf, leather gloves without holes or wear.

They’d let me take them.

That was the point of me giving in and accepting charity. Right?

There was underwear, so I stripped bare, opened that damn back door again, shoved out everything that was mine, and shut it.

Locked it.

Then, I checked it, just in case.

Next, I secured the main door to the corridor by pressing a chair against it, under the handle. This way, no one could come in while I was in the shower.

I need to be clean.

I stared at the huge shower room, with the shelf, a seat, and an array of soap and shampoo dispensers screwed to the wall. I hesitated momentarily, wondering if it was okay to leave my stuff outside, but then picked up my bag and took it into the bathroom with me, unwilling to let my personal possessions out of my sight. It was an old habit, one that had kept me safe. I even took my knife in, and all of the clothes from the closet that would fit me, including some boots, and underwear. Everything went in there with me, piled on the other chair that I’d dragged inside, but when the bathroom door shut behind me with a soft click, I panicked I’d forgotten something.

Had I thrown something out that was important?

I yanked open my backpack and rummaged through, but everything I owned was in there.

I checked again, just in case.

Nothing missing.

Then, I turned the shower on.

And I stared at my reflection in the mirror until the fog of heat had stolen it.

All I could see was bent and broken, scarred and twisted, hurt… so badly hurt.

I won’t cry.

I crept into the shower, inching closer to the warm water, the initial touch of it a shock. It had been days since I’d been anywhere near a shower, accumulating more dirt and grime. The hospital had tried to clean me and threatened to cut my beard and my hair, but I hadn’t let them, walking out before they could finish when their touch was impersonal and forceful. They weren’t really threatening me, and I didn’t blame them for thinking they knew what I needed, but I couldn’t let them touch me.

The water was hot—almost too hot—but I didn’t turn it down, lifting my face to the jets and yelping at the pain. The heat stung my neglected skin, turning it red, but it was also burning away the ingrained dirt and something deeper that had settled on me over the past weeks—despair.

I watched the murky water at my feet swirl down with filth from the streets, from sleeping rough, and from having things thrown at me. Some of the dirt didn’t lift, and I scratched at it, wondering at the flare-up of pain whether I’d uncovered bruises or sores. Then, I tipped handfuls of gel over me and stood away from the water, letting my skin soak.

When shampooing my hair, I had to scrub hard to get through the knots and grease. The water only ran clean after the sixth or seventh rinse. My cracked, rough hands felt clumsy and unfamiliar as they worked through the strands. It hurt a lot, but it was a good kind of hurt.

By the time I turned off the water, I was exhausted. My skin was sensitive to the touch, almost raw from the scrubbing. But stepping out of the shower, I felt a small sense of accomplishment. I was clean, probably for the first time since I left the Army, and at that moment, it felt like a small victory, a tiny step in some direction that wasn’t backward.

The bathroom was filled with the scent of lemon, but the stink of my backpack was obvious, so I emptied my precious life onto the bed, each part wrapped in plastic, then tossed the bag out to join my clothes, the pile of my life pathetically small in the snow. I pulled out new bags, which I’d seen by the boots—a sports bag of sorts, plus a new backpack—and I tidied each of my precious items into the new spaces. Then, I guessed I should get dressed and glanced at the sweats and T-shirt on the bed, but that was too much, too normal.

So, I got dressed in all my layers and sat on the bed, tied my boots, grabbed my bags, and hugged them tight to my chest.

Now what?