Page 85 of Viking

“I hope you’re right,” I whisper.

Alinna squeezes my hand. “We are. You’ll see.”

FOB near the Spratly Islands

June 26, 2024

1231

Logan

I open my inbox out of habit, scanning through unread emails without really seeing them. Mission updates, a briefing reminder, some junk. Then—

Subject: Happy Birthday, Logan!

My stomach knots.

It’s from my mom. Short and simple. We love you. Proud of you always. A quiet acknowledgment that I’m still here. My jaw tightens as I exhale slowly through my nose. I should delete it. Shouldn’t let it get to me. Instead, I just sit there, staring at the screen, fingers motionless on the keyboard.

Thirty-two.

The thought comes and goes, fleeting and bitter, like a spark snuffed out before it can catch. I don’t even know why I acknowledge it. It’s just another day. Another year I probably don’t deserve. Another reminder that Reaper and Ryan don’t get any more birthdays.

I should’ve let it slip by unnoticed. Should’ve let it fade into nothing—because that’s exactly what it is. Nothing. Just a number. Just another mark on a life that feels more like a tally of failures than anything worth celebrating.

I close the email without replying and shut the laptop, pushing it to the corner of my desk. I’ve only been back a few days and already each morning feels the same, a monotonous routine. My mind is somewhere far away—still standing in Lila’s entryway, minutes before I forced her out of my life. My stomach churns every time I think of her, but I shut it down.

The work here is mind-numbing, yet it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart. But it’s not the same. Not without flying. The doctor says I’m grounded for at least eight weeks—twelve if any complications arise or if I don’t take my recovery seriously. No flying. No escape. Just rehab and waiting.

The wound in my shoulder burns as if to remind me of all I’ve lost. They cut deep to remove the shrapnel and took a piece of me with it. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the weight pressing down on my chest every second of the day. I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time, and when I do manage to close my eyes, my nightmare returns. Mostly it’s the same one, but sometimes it’s only Lila that I see. Begging me to come back, but I can’t reach her. Like an extension cord that isn’t quite long enough to bridge the distance between the outlet and what it’s meant to bring to life.

And when you’re ready—really ready—find someone who makes you feel alive again.

Easier said than done, Ry.

You deserve that.

Right.

I flip through mission reports I won’t be flying, needing something to occupy my mind. The silence of the office is stifling and I know I’m not fooling anyone.

Major Townsend, Dalton, they know something’s wrong. Hell, everyone does. They can see it in my eyes, the way I keep my head down, avoiding any conversations that matter.

I don’t want anyone to ask, because I don’t have the answers.

“Captain James.” Townsend’s voice breaks through the haze, and I look up. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in that way that makes me feel like I’m being dissected. “We need to talk.”

Great.

I push myself out of my chair. He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, just watches me, like he’s waiting for me to admit what we both know. I shift my weight, my shoulder aching at the movement.

The words cut through the space between us, sharp and certain. “Listen. You're grounded for at least two months, maybe longer, while your shoulder heals. But that’s not the only thing that needs fixing. You’re checked out. Reckless. And until I know you’re ready, I can’t put you back in the cockpit.”

I level him with a look but keep my mouth shut, afraid anything I say will just be used against me.

“You need help.” His voice is more gentle than usual.

My chest tightens. “You’re not my fucking therapist, Townsend,” I snap, risking reprimand. “I don’t need help. I just need to fly.”