Page 23 of Beckett (Warrior Security #2)

Audra

The afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window as I stirred the pot of marinara sauce one more time.

Todd’s favorite meal—chicken Parmesan with garlic bread and Caesar salad.

Simple, nothing fancy, but he’d always requested it for his birthday, for celebrations, for any given weekend night when I was visiting.

My hands moved through the familiar motions of breading the chicken, muscle memory taking over while my mind churned. Beckett had avoided me all day. Not overtly—he’d been polite when our paths crossed, professional when discussing the animals.

But the careful distance he maintained felt like a wall between us. Every time I tried to catch his eye, he found something urgent that needed attention elsewhere.

I understood PTSD. Todd had carried his own shadows after his military service, though his had been quieter, more controlled.

Late-night pacing. The occasional nightmare that left him sitting on the couch at three a.m., staring at nothing.

The way certain sounds—backfiring cars, sudden loud noises—made him go rigid for just a second before forcing himself to relax.

But Todd had talked about it. Not often, not easily, but he’d let me in enough to help when I could. Made sure I knew it wasn’t about me when he needed space. Beckett, though—Beckett had locked himself away completely since yesterday’s episode, and I was done pretending it didn’t matter.

And at this point, hell, I definitely had PTSD of my own. A year of being chased by a stalker would do that to you. It wasn’t the same as what Beckett and Todd had seen or gone through, but my own trauma was definitely there.

The chicken breast flattened under my mallet with satisfying thuds. Each strike released the scent of raw meat and the memory of Todd teaching me to tenderize properly. “It’s therapy,” he’d said, grinning. “Cheaper than a shrink and you get dinner after.”

Oil crackled in the pan, hot enough to sear. Through the window, Beckett’s training session ended. He’d be in soon and wasn’t expecting me here in the guest house, but I wasn’t going to let that cause me to chicken out. Literally or figuratively.

Jet pressed against my leg, a warm, solid weight that anchored me to the present. His tail beat a steady rhythm against the cabinet, while drool pooled on the linoleum.

“Not for you, buddy.” But my hand found his ears anyway, needing the comfort of his fur between my fingers. “Though you’d probably appreciate it more than Beckett will.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later, heavy boots sounded on hardwood, that measured stride I’d memorized despite myself. Jet’s tail went into overdrive, but he stayed pressed against me—torn between his trainer and his person.

“Audra?” Surprise colored Beckett’s voice, chased by a warmth he immediately suppressed. “What are you doing here?”

I kept my back to him, sliding the last piece of breaded chicken into the oil. The sizzle and pop filled the silence. “Making dinner. Hope you’re hungry.”

The floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. I could feel him calculating escape routes, searching for polite excuses. “You didn’t have to?—”

“I wanted to.” I turned, meeting his gaze directly.

He’d showered off outside. His hair was still a little damp.

Those gray eyes—not storm-colored today but more like river stones, worn smooth by too much pain.

“This was Todd’s favorite meal. His reset button, he called it.

Figured you could use a reset after yesterday. ”

His expression cracked, just a hairline fracture in all that control. Grief, recognition, and that devastating tenderness he rationed out like water in a drought.

He stepped fully into the kitchen, and I caught his scent. “Todd never mentioned he could cook.”

A laugh bubbled up, unexpected. “He couldn’t. Man once burned water. Literally. Let the pot boil dry and scorched the bottom so bad we had to throw it out. The apartment smelled like melted metal for a week.”

Beckett moved closer, drawn by the normalcy of shared memory. “He never mentioned that in Afghanistan.”

“Of course not. He had a reputation to maintain.” I flipped the chicken, golden crust sizzling. “But he mentioned you. Said you made the best coffee in the unit. Said it was so strong it could wake the dead and strip paint in equal measure.”

“Still do.” His voice had gentled, lost that careful distance. “Though now I mostly use it to wake myself up, not the dead.”

The joke fell flat between us, too close to yesterday’s demons. I focused on layering marinara and mozzarella over the chicken, letting the domestic ritual fill the awkward silence.

“Can I help?”

The question surprised me. I’d expected retreat, not participation.

“Maybe get out plates and set the table?”

We moved around each other like dancers who’d forgotten the steps but still remembered the rhythm. He reached above me for glasses; I ducked under his arm to grab the salad. Our bodies never touched, but the air between us sparked with awareness. Every near miss sent heat skittering across my skin.

“Beer?” He held up two bottles from the refrigerator.

“Please.”

Our fingers grazed during the handoff. That single point of contact shot straight through me, electric and undeniable. His pupils dilated, just for a second, before he turned away.

We settled at the small dining table, the domesticity of it making my chest ache. When was the last time I’d shared a meal without looking over my shoulder? Without checking exits and looking for escape routes?

“This is incredible.” His surprise after the first bite made me smile.

“You sound shocked.”

“No, I just—” He paused, choosing words carefully. “You’ve been surviving on a pretty significant budget. Didn’t expect gourmet.”

“You learn to make magic with dollar store ingredients and hot plates.” The confession slipped out before I could stop it. “Motel cooking becomes an art form when it’s that or starve.”

His fork stilled. “How long have you been running?”

The question landed between us like a grenade, pin already pulled. He knew. Of course he knew. I could deflect, maintain the fiction that I was just down on my luck. But he’d shown me his demons yesterday—involuntary, maybe, but still raw and real.

“Ten months.” My voice came out steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Started a few months after Todd died.”

“Why?”

Such a simple question. Such an impossible answer. I took a long pull of beer, buying time while my mind sorted through half-truths and careful omissions.

“Life got complicated.” Each word was chosen for its vagueness. “The kind of complicated that makes disappearing the safest option.”

“Someone hurt you.” Not a question. His knuckles had gone white around his fork. “The bruises I gave you yesterday weren’t the first time.”

Self-disgust colored every bit of his tone.

My hand moved unconsciously to my arm, where his fingers had gripped during his episode. The purple bruises hurt, but knowing he hadn’t meant the pain on purpose somehow made a difference. “Did you see them?”

I realized too late I’d confirmed his suspicions. “I didn’t have to.”

“How did you know about them?”

He shook his head. “I know what I can be like during my episodes. Hell, Coop has taken a fist to the jaw more than once.”

“Well, you didn’t hit me, and my arm will be fine.”

“But they weren’t your first bruises.”

“No,” I admitted. “They weren’t the first.”

The temperature in the room plummeted. When I looked up, his expression had gone lethal—not the hot anger of impulse but the cold fury of someone who knew exactly how much damage he could inflict.

“Who?”

“It’s complicated.” I took a long pull of beer, avoiding his eyes. “More complicated than I can explain.”

“Complicated how?”

“Just…complicated.” The words came out small, insufficient. But it was all I could give him without opening doors I needed to keep locked. I was thankful when he let it go.

We ate in silence while the weight of unspoken truths pressed down. But it wasn’t uncomfortable—more like we were both adjusting to this new gravity between us.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “About yesterday. I haven’t had an episode that bad in months. Usually, there’s a trigger—a sound, smell, memory. But yesterday, it sort of came out of nowhere.”

“Todd had them too.” I offered the words like breadcrumbs, leading us away from dangerous territory. “Not as severe, but there were nights when I was visiting he’d wake up sweating and yelling. Times he’d disappear into himself completely.”

“How did you help?”

“I didn’t. I just…existed in the same space. Made sure he knew where he was when he came back.” My throat tightened. “My presence was all I had to offer. It never felt like enough.”

“No, that was exactly enough. Just being there. Not trying to fix. Just accepting him for who he was.”

I hoped so. I’d always thought Todd and I would have years to talk about what he went through. We hadn’t.

“Todd would have added hot sauce to this.” I forced lightness into my voice. “Man had no respect for carefully balanced flavors.”

“He put hot sauce on MREs. Said it was the only way to make them edible.”

“He put it on ice cream once.” The memory ambushed me with its sweetness. “Lost a bet. Had to eat the whole bowl. His face turned purple, but he powered through, then immediately threw up in my kitchen sink.”

“What was the bet?”

“If he finished it, I had to go skydiving with him.” My smile felt real for the first time in months. “He claimed vomiting didn’t negate the victory.”

“Did you go?”

“Yeah. Screamed the entire way down while he laughed so hard the instructor threatened to leave him up there.”

We traded stories through dinner, careful to keep them light.

But underneath, awareness simmered. The way his throat moved when he swallowed.

The way his hands—capable of such violence—handled the glass with surprising delicacy.

The way he’d unconsciously leaned toward me as the meal progressed, closing that careful distance inch by inch.

When we cleared the table, the sun had fully set. We stood at the sink, him washing dishes while I dried, and the simple domesticity of it made me want to weep. This glimpse of normal life, of what could be if I weren’t forever looking over my shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, handing me the last plate. “For dinner. For not running yesterday when you saw me like that.”

“Thank you for not running me out of town when you found me in that shed. For not pushing for details I can’t share yet.” Or maybe ever.

He turned fully toward me then, dish towel forgotten. We stood close enough that I could see the flecks of blue hidden in all that gray, could smell the beer on his breath and the lingering scent of the soap he’d used at the outdoor shower.

“Audra—”

“I should go.” The words tumbled out in pure self-preservation. This pull between us had its own gravity, and I was already falling. “It’s getting late.”

“Stay.”

One word. Loaded with possibility and barely controlled want.

“Beckett—”

“Not for— I’m not expecting—” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated with his own ineloquence. “Just stay. Watch a movie. Sit on the porch. Exist in the same space without all this weight—yours or mine.”

My chest cracked open at the echo of my earlier words. He was offering what I’d given Todd—presence without pressure, company without complications.

“Okay.” The word escaped despite every screaming instinct.

Twenty minutes later, I’d curled into the corner of the couch with Jet sprawled across both our laps like a seventy-pound blanket.

His head rested on my thigh while his back paws dug into Beckett’s ribs.

Some action movie played—all car chases and dramatic music—but I couldn’t focus on anything except the man beside me.

The heat of him radiated through the dog between us.

Each breath he took shifted Jet slightly, creating a rhythm I found myself matching.

In the television’s flickering light, his profile looked carved from stone—except for the small muscle that jumped in his jaw whenever our hands accidentally touched on Jet’s fur.

“He’s never this calm,” Beckett murmured, fingers trailing along Jet’s spine. “Usually he’d be eating the remote or barking at every backfiring car.”

“Dogs know when we need them.” The words came out sharp, too honest. “They sense the broken places.”

His hand stilled. “Maybe he senses yours too.”

I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t admit how accurate that was. How Jet had become my anchor in a world that kept trying to sweep me away.

The movie ended eventually, credits rolling over dramatic music. Neither of us moved. We sat suspended in that flickering half-light, the weight of unspoken words thick as smoke between us.

“Stay here tonight.” His voice was rough, scraped raw by battles I couldn’t see. “It’s late. The cabin’s too far in the dark.”

He tried for casual, but I heard what he wasn’t saying. He didn’t want to be alone with his ghosts. Maybe he’d guessed I couldn’t be alone with mine either.

“Just sleeping.” His gaze held mine steady. “Nothing more.”

“Yes.” The word slipped out before my brain caught up. “Just to sleep. So neither of us has to?—”

“Be alone with the nightmares.”

An hour later, I was curled beneath blankets in a borrowed T-shirt that smelled faintly of lavender detergent.

Beckett lay on top of the covers, jeans still on, boots set neatly beside the bed like he was a soldier ready to deploy at any second.

Jet sprawled at our feet, sighing in his sleep like he carried fewer burdens than either of us.

“Thank you,” I whispered into the dark.

Beckett’s head shifted on the pillow. “For what?”

“For not demanding answers I can’t give. For giving me room when I need it and not vanishing when I don’t. For seeing more than…the damage.”

Silence stretched, heavy enough I thought maybe he’d drifted off. Then, quietly, he said, “Thank you for not seeing me as broken.”

The words landed soft but fragile, like spun glass suspended between us. I ached to reach for him, to anchor myself in the steady warmth I knew I’d find in his touch. But I kept still, afraid even the smallest move would shatter the tentative peace we’d built.

And that wasn’t something I was willing to risk.