Page 31

She dreamed in heat and honeyed shadow, her body floating in the strange haze of sleep, lulled by the soft crackle of a fire that wasn’t visible but pressed against her skin like memory.

The dream didn’t come on like the others, with urgency or sweat, but with revelation . She wasn’t watching him this time.

She was watching herself .

For the first time in years, the woman in the dream didn’t look haunted.

She stood barefoot in golden light, soft and unguarded, her hair loose and wild, falling in waves down her back.

Zorro’s shirt was draped over her shoulders like a benediction, cotton worn thin by use, the collar dipped just low enough to tease.

Her arms were bare. Her toes gripped lightly into the warm wooden floor.

She was smiling, no, laughing , the kind of laugh that broke something open in her chest.

Everly stared at the scene like an outsider peeking through a doorway. Distant. Dizzy. Dizzy because that wasn’t the woman she knew.

Then she heard his voice.

Low. Distant. Like it was curling in from the edge of the dream, smoke on a slow wind.

"God, you don’t even know, do you?"

She turned, but not toward him, toward his gaze . It hit her then. She wasn’t dreaming as herself. She was dreaming as him .

She was seeing herself through him .

The sight of her made his breath catch. She felt it.

Like the beat of wings under her skin. Felt how the sight of her moved him , the reverence in it, no hunger yet, no urgency.

Just awe. Her wrapped in domesticity and softness, barefoot and bare-faced, like she'd never belonged more to the world than in that moment.

"You look at me like I’m the one on fire," his voice murmured, low, destroyed, "but it’s you. You’re the one burning. You carry too much. But you’re so fucking good to love, Everly. So goddamn good."

The sound struck her like a chord strummed too hard. She felt every word wrap around her spine and settle low in her belly. Her dream-body, his dream, drifted closer, the air thick with slow heat and breathless ache.

"I’d stitch the world back together just to see you smile like that."

Her knees almost buckled. Her hands clutched at the edges of nothing.

"You think you're too much. That you’re too sharp. But I see the woman who makes me want to believe in heaven again."

Then she felt his mouth against her skin, just a whisper of it, the press of his lips to her shoulder in the dream, and it was so gentle, so good it hurt.

She woke gasping.

She didn’t bolt upright. She broke upright, her chest heaving like something had been pressing down on it for hours.

Sweat slicked the inside of her thighs, a fine sheen covered her skin, and the scent of arousal clung to her like sin.

Her core ached. Her breasts were tight, nipples stiff under the linen shirt still draped over her like borrowed heat.

She couldn’t breathe for want of him.

The dream wasn’t just sexual. It was transformational . She hadn’t seen a man ravish her with his hands, his tongue, or his body. She had seen one love her with his eyes.

She wanted him. Now.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she reached for the keycard still tucked in the shallow pocket of her cardigan, pressed tight to her side like a secret she'd kept too long. Her fingers wrapped around it.

She grabbed her own keycard and left her room. Went to his door and stood there for a moment, her heart in her throat.

A male voice broke the quiet, not him. God, it wasn’t him. “He’s not there.”

She froze. The hallway outside her door was dim, lit only by wall sconces that threw long, drowsy shadows across the carpet. D-Day stood there, leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes unreadable.

“He’s been wrestling with you all day,” he said, not unkind. “I know what that’s like.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her fingers still clutched the keycard like a lifeline.

D-Day took a slow step forward. Not intimidating, not like he had been yesterday morning, but with the urgency of a man speaking from the edge of his own pain.

“What you’re doing to him?” His voice was quiet. “It’s cruel.”

Everly flinched like the word was a whip crack. Her breath caught. But she didn’t interrupt him.

“I ghosted Helen,” he said. “Not for a night. Not for a week. Six months. I loved her, and I left. When I finally saw her again?” He swallowed. “She wasn’t furious. She wasn’t bitter. She was…goddamned understanding .”

Everly looked away, her hand tightening around the keycard until the plastic dug into her palm.

“Why did you ghost her?” she asked, voice small.

His breath left him like it hurt. “She’s Buck’s sister, and SEALs have a code. I’d already broken it a dozen times. I knew if I saw her again, I’d break it all over again.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets. His shoulders softened. “If you feel that way about Martinez, don’t wait.”

Then his jaw tightened, the line of it sharp in the low light. “But if you don’t…have mercy on him.”

Her chest twisted.

D-Day’s voice roughened, heavy with loyalty and truth.

“You’re not just walking away from a man.

You’re walking away from the heart of this team.

The guy who makes us laugh to break the tension.

Even wounded, he prioritizes us. He is our compass.

The one who never asks for anything and gives everything. ”

She couldn’t speak. Her throat felt raw. Helen appeared.

She moved in quietly behind him, her voice soft. “They love him.” She came to D-Day’s side, her hand slipping around his back, fingers tracing his spine like she’d known his pain by heart. “Head down to dinner, babe,” she said to him gently. “Let me finish this.”

D-Day’s eyes stayed on Everly. One last look. Sharp, kind, cutting.

Then he nodded and turned away.

Helen stood in the quiet that followed, hands at her sides, hair pulled back from a face that had weathered grief and still shone with something strong enough to anchor any man.

“Don’t let him force you into anything,” she said. “Zorro knows his own heart. He’s patient with pain. That’s what we do, us professionals. We get it. We heal. We wait.” Her eyes softened. “I waited for Drew. It hurt like hell. But it was worth every minute.”

“Where is he?” Everly whispered.

“I don’t know.” She touched Everly’s arm. He said he wasn’t hungry, although Joker kicked their asses today. He often swims when he can’t let go of something. That’s what a lot of them do.” She squeezed softly, then let go, walking away.

The hallway emptied like a tide pulling out to sea.

Everly stepped back inside and closed the door behind her. She leaned against it for a long moment, her breath caught somewhere between sob and sigh.

Then, finally, she picked up her phone to text him. To ease his agony. The thought of him working himself too hard, not eating, not being able to sleep.

The previous messages hit her like a current. In her progress through all her baggage, she’d forgotten he’d texted her.

Joker was brutal today. CQC over and over again until we all wanted to punch each other’s lights out. But damn, it was good. We were moving like lightning by the end.

She read the line twice. Her breath hitched. It was so damn real. His day. His truth. His life.

Then the next.

I also reconnected with Migs, the BOPE kid I treated back in the Philippines. The one who was bleeding out while introducing himself bold as brass. Same breath, begged us to help his team. It’s how we ended up here.

She hadn’t known. None of this. The story. The link. The bridge he had already built with his kindness and his care. Her chest ached. Another message.

He’s doing okay. Not great. Got some PTSD. We talked. Told him most of us do. I’ve had nightmares. I’m sure you have too.

That one cracked her. Rob never would have said that, not to her. He didn’t trust her with his emotions because she wasn’t his confidant, his love, or his wife. She was his enemy.

Zorro’s natural tendency was to offer up to her how he was feeling. He did it in Niamey. He did it in the Philippines, and she craved it like air.

Then came the one that broke her breath into shivers.

I’d really like to have dinner with you.

Her stomach growled. As if answering before her brain could.

A low, aching noise that rolled through her like surrender.

She looked down at herself. Still in the shorts and tee she’d put on after the Welcome, carefully hanging up the gorgeous outfit that Pippa had been so kind to offer her.

She looked in the mirror. Her hair was a mess.

Her makeup smudged, her eyes gritty and sooty from mascara.

Yet, for the first time in what felt like forever, she was so… hungry .

Not just for food.

For him .

For laughter. For lightness. For someone who saw the woman in her and didn’t flinch.

There was more as she scrolled, her heart heavy, but light at the same time.

I’ll be back soon. I hope you’re figuring things out. Just…know I’m still here. Thinking about you. Nothing you say to me will change how I feel about you.

She rose slowly, like her legs had turned to water. Her thumb hovered. Then the last one lit the screen. Especially the things that happened when I wasn’t exactly aware.

Her hand trembled. She set the phone down as if it were going to reveal all her secrets.

Outside, the lights of Rio glimmered like scattered constellations, their reflections threading across the sea. The keycard was still in her pocket. She pulled it free. Turned it over once. Twice. It no longer felt like guilt. It felt like permission . Desire. Choice.

She rose and walked to the bathroom, her limbs unsteady, her pulse rising. The clothes on her skin suddenly felt foreign. Like a second life she hadn’t consented to keep wearing.