Page 6

Lark

I hadn’t meant to spy.

I really hadn’t.

I was just out for a quiet morning walk, sipping my coffee and soaking in the peace before sunrise when I heard the grunts. Not angry ones—these were focused, controlled. Rhythmic.

Naturally, I followed the sound.

Curiosity’s kind of my thing.

I tiptoed barefoot through the pine trees, careful not to spill my coffee, until I reached a clearing just west of the SEAL training area.

And froze.

Axel was shirtless—tight muscles flexing, moving like coiled steel as he tore through a brutal hand-to-hand routine with another guy. It wasn’t just impressive. It was terrifyingly beautiful. Precision. Power. But under all that control, there was something else—something darker.

Anger.

Not rage. Something deeper. Leashed but dangerous.

Axel always looked like he could talk a wildfire into behaving. But right now, he wasn’t calm. He was storming.

He pivoted and slammed his sparring partner to the mat with a snap, shouting, “Again.”

No jokes. No sarcasm. No grin.

Something was definitely eating at him.

I stayed hidden, heart thudding. But when he ended the set and grabbed a towel, I stepped on a branch. Loudly. Because, of course, I did.

His head whipped up. His eyes locked on mine.

For a second, I braced myself for a scolding.

But he didn’t yell. Didn’t curse. Just started walking toward me, slow and silent.

I lifted my mug like an offering. “Just scouting my morning run. Totally not spying on a Navy SEAL throwing another man across a field like a rag doll.”

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said flatly.

“You shouldn’t hold that much tension in your shoulders.”

His jaw ticked. “This isn’t your business.”

“Too late. You parked me in the middle of it.”

He exhaled, long and tight. “I train hard. That’s all.”

“No,” I said softly, stepping closer. “That wasn’t just training. That was something else.”

He didn’t say anything. But something flickered behind his eyes. Not fury. Not irritation. Something wounded.

I lowered my voice. “Look, you don’t have to tell me. But you don’t have to keep it all locked up, either.”

His shoulders stayed rigid for a long beat. Then, finally, he spoke.

“I lost a friend six months ago. He was still in the service. Rookie. Shouldn’t have been on the op. I told him the SEALs would be good for him.”

The air around us shifted.

I swallowed. “You blame yourself.”

He looked away. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“I do,” I said, my voice steady. “You think I chase storms for the thrill. But I don’t.

I do it because I couldn’t save my dad. I was ten.

I watched the tornado tear through our house, and he was on his boat; he had nowhere to hide.

Now… now I chase every storm as if I can somehow stop the next one. ”

He stared at me, still as stone. Then said quietly:

“You can’t.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I’m not the only one running.”

A heavy silence stretched between us. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It didn’t need to be filled.

Then he said, “You’re barefoot. Again.”

I looked down at my feet. “So I am.”

He turned toward the compound, his voice gruff. “Come on. You can walk with me. But if you break a toe, I’m not carrying you.”

I smirked. “You already did once. We’re kind of past that point.”