Page 67 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

Raylen

Seaborn Base

The wind is brutal this morning—dry, sharp, and harsh in the way that only coastal storms can be.

It howls through the empty stretches of land, kicking up dust along the cracked, sun-bleached road that winds toward Seaborn’s base.

The gusts whip loose sand into tiny cyclones that hit the car in bursts, coating the windshield with a thin film of grit.

I know I should stop and clean it off, but I don’t bother.

Moe will see it later and offer to help, as he always does, his brows drawn together in that quietly exasperated way that somehow makes me want to kiss him senseless.

He’ll mutter something about how it’s bad for visibility, then roll up his sleeves, grab a rag, and clean the whole car while I sit in the front seat, pretending to judge his playlist. In reality, I’ll just be committing the shape of him to memory—the curve of his mouth when he doesn’t realize he’s smiling, the way his hair falls into his eyes when the wind catches it, and the sound of that soft hum like a secret he only shares with the quiet.

The guard at the gate barely glances up as I drive in; he gives a lazy wave and motions for me to pass without even asking for ID.

There’s no salute, no challenge—just a quiet sort of respect.

I suppose that’s what happens when you’re officially, unofficially dating the guy they all refer to as Lieutenant now, almost as if it’s a sacred title.

It’s strange how simple the shift was. I told him I couldn’t handle everything yet—his job, his world, and the collateral damage that comes with it.

I braced myself for an argument, for feelings of guilt, but he simply nodded.

It seemed like he didn’t consider it a sacrifice at all.

Instead, it was as if granting me peace was the easiest decision he’d ever made.

The next day, he reported to Caspian, and it wasn’t the grand family blow-up I had imagined.

There was no shouting or slamming of doors.

Instead, Moe advanced his rank, transitioning into a role with fewer risks and more leadership responsibilities.

He didn’t step back out of fear; he stepped back because he understood where he belonged—and right now, that was here. With me.

He’s still the son of two powerful founders—people I used to think would hate me, but I believe him when he says they’d love me.

He’s also the son of a very charming captain, Jon, who has been through and is still going through his own personal hell.

Yet, he somehow shows up day after day for a son he didn’t raise but has always been willing to love.

I know Moe will eventually return to the front lines. He will always be Seaborn’s golden child, and that won’t change. But it’s no longer about proving anything. He no longer chases ghosts like he used to. He’s grounded now—whole, even in the places that still hurt.

Perhaps that’s what made it easier to breathe again. Loving someone who is that sure of himself and that steady helped me find myself again, too.

I’m not the storm anymore, even though I still have rainy days.

I haven’t become sunshine, but I think I’ve found the rainbow—the proof that beauty can exist between both.

I still prefer my makeup a little too dark and lean into sarcasm like armor.

However, I also wear the dresses my mom buys on girls’ trips and sometimes even like the way I look in them.

I still flinch, but not as much. Now, a flinch doesn’t mean a raised voice or a slammed door; it means a kiss on the forehead and a whisper of “I’ve got you. ”

I’m me—every bruised, beautiful inch that Moe somehow loved before he even knew I existed.

Haha fuck you Lance, look who I am now.

We don’t say his name. We don’t think it. He’s gone for good, without a trace. The silence he left behind made it easy for Moe—without asking—to move in .

It all began the night of Caspian’s wedding.

One bag of clothes, a toothbrush, and his boots by the front door, and somehow , he never left.

The place that used to smell like mildew and grief, and I couldn’t walk through it without feeling the weight of every bad memory pressing against my ribs.

Now, it carries the scent of bergamot from candles I keep forgetting to blow out, the smell of burnt toast from Moe’s heroic but tragic attempts at breakfast, and a trace of his cologne on everything he touches.

He fixed the floorboards as if he were healing the place's bones. I painted the windowsills in colors I never used to allow myself to want—soft, hopeful, and ours.

The tires crunch over loose gravel as I park near the main building.

The base is quieter than usual, with just a few soldiers milling about, clearly trying not to look like they’re watching me.

I step out, paper bag in hand. Moe never remembers to eat when he’s buried in reports, so I brought him lunch.

He’ll groan and accuse me of spoiling him, but he’ll eat every bite.

A couple of the younger soldiers nod as I pass. One of them, grinning far too widely for this early in the morning, leans toward the other and whispers, "Mrs. Lieutenant," as if it’s the world’s most obvious joke.

I shake my head but don’t bother to correct him as I swipe my clearance badge. The scanner chirps, and the door unlocks, revealing the vast space I still haven't fully learned but am starting to feel comfortable in.

I push the office door open without knocking, expecting something dull. Perhaps paperwork, or Moe pretending to read a report while secretly watching Game of Thrones with one earbud in and a fake scowl on his face. Normal things. Predictable things.

Instead, I walk into chaos.

Jasmine lunges across the room as if diving for a grenade, her arms flailing as she tries—unsuccessfully—to block the monitor from view.

In the process, Cordelia knocks over her coffee, the cup spinning in a half-circle before crashing to the floor.

Moe stands frozen in the middle of the chaos, hands half-raised as if he’s just been caught red-handed in a heist he wasn’t prepared for.

“What the hell?” I blink at the scene, trying to take it in piece by piece. “Is this some kind of faction ritual I wasn’t invited to?”

“Abort!” Jasmine hisses, as if calling a code red. “Shut it down, shut it down—”

“Too late,” Cordelia mutters grimly as she grabs napkins to dab futilely at the spill. Her eyes snap toward Moe, as if she’s mentally preparing his eulogy—and not the flattering kind.

Moe groans like a man at the end of his rope and drops his head into his hands. “Goddamn it.”

I shut the door behind me and walk in slowly and cautiously, as if I were entering a crime scene where the suspect is still holding the weapon.

“Okay,” I say, stretching out the word. “What did I just walk into? And please, for the love of all things good and holy, do not say 'porn.' Because I will absolutely have to murder you in front of your coworkers, and I’d hate to ruin your new promotion.”

Cordelia snorts without looking up. “He wishes it were that simple.”

“Don’t,” Moe mutters into his palms. “Just… don’t.”

I hold up the brown paper bag like a peace offering. “I brought lunch. But if you’re too busy committing felonies, I’ll just feed it to the men in the cellars.”

Cordelia doesn’t even attempt to stay; she’s already halfway to the door, backing away as if the room might implode. “I’m going to go check on the armory.”

“There’s a full-blown security team for that,” Moe replies flatly, not looking up.

“Cool. Then I’ll just go stare at the wall.”

And with that, she disappears, one hand on the door, one foot already halfway down the hall.

Jasmine lingers for only a moment longer, her expression a mix of admiration and regret. As she passes, she leans in, her voice low but unapologetic.

“I had nothing to do with this,” she whispers, wide-eyed innocence written all over her face. “But if a ring does show up in the next few weeks, pretend you’re surprised.”

I blink in confusion. “Wait, what ring—?”

The door clicks shut behind her before I can finish my question, and the silence that follows is deafening.

I turn toward Moe slowly, feeling suspicious. He’s sitting stiff at his desk now, pretending to type something, his cheeks tinged a telltale pink, and his jaw locked tight as if he’s expecting a missile strike.

I round the desk, moving slow and deliberate. “Do you want to explain why your entire team just scattered like they triggered an international incident by mistake?”

“Hey, sunshine, there’s nothing to see here. It’s your day off, isn’t it? Isn’t Jack off too?” he replies without looking up.

I lean over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow. “Moe.”

His fingers twitch over the keyboard.

My eyes fall to the screen, and I stop breathing.

Rows of rings.

Engagement rings.

High-resolution photos of deep green stones, custom settings, and detailed engravings fill the screen. There are sleek platinum bands and brushed metal finishes. A row of saved tabs runs along the top, some labeled by carat and others by name. One tab reads "Sunshine ."

My chest tightens, but it’s not in a panicked way—there’s no fear. It’s something deeper, more unruly, more consuming. My heart thuds against my ribs, as if it’s trying to ensure I feel every inch of this moment.

“You’re terrible at keeping secrets,” I murmur, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen .

Moe exhales and leans back, running a hand through his hair. “I was just looking.”

“Liar.”

He lets out a deep, exaggerated sigh—a familiar gesture—and gently tugs at my wrist, pulling me into his lap with a small gasp. His arms wrap around me before I can find my balance, an instinctive move that tells me he has been longing for this moment since I walked in.