Page 95 of Viking

I sit, drawing my cardigan tighter around my body, the early chill curling beneath the hem and into my thin sleeves. “I’m visiting Mom and Dad,” I say gently. “Mom’s still making your favorite, peach cobbler, and Dad’s still telling the same story about the time you snuck out to watch the Thunderbirds at Andrews when you were twelve. He says it like it’s brand new every time—but it always makes Mom laugh. We talk about you. All the time.”

A long breath escapes me. I look around—the crisp white stones, the fading chrysanthemums left by grieving families, the flags that flutter. The weight of this place never changes.

“I met Logan,” I whisper and look down at my hands, twisting my fingers together. “You knew him. You flew with him.” My throat tightens. “You died for him.”

The words fall like stones. I’ve said them before. But never like this. Never to him.

“For ten years, he’s carried that. The guilt. The grief. He didn’t tell me right away. I don’t think he knew how. I think he was scared. Or maybe he thought I’d hate him for surviving when you didn’t.” My voice cracks. “But I could never hate him.”

A leaf lands softly on the top of the headstone, trembling in the breeze.

“He lost his wingman a few months ago,” I say quietly. “His name was Ryan. Their base was under attack. Ryan died saving him, too.” I exhale, the ache in my chest sharp and deep. “It’s killing him, Linc. The weight of it. He’s still over there, still trying to get through it all. And I know you understand what that does to a man.”

I pause, swallowing hard.

“I think…I think you sent him to me,” I whisper. “It sounds crazy. But I keep coming back to it. That one night in Vegas, years ago. And now this. Us, somehow circling each other all this time.” I look at the stone like I might find Lincoln’s smile in the grooves. “It feels like more than coincidence. It feels like you knew I’d need him. And maybe that he’d need me.”

A breeze flutters through the branches, lifting my hair, sending more leaves tumbling like soft footsteps across the path.

“I love him, Linc,” I say, voice breaking. “I love him so much it hurts. And I don’t know if we’ll get our chance. Not really. He’s still broken. Still carrying so much. I’ve tried to give him space. Time. But some days, I wonder if I should’ve held on tighter.”

I close my eyes, resting my palm flat against the cool marble. “I wish you were here to tell me what to do. To tell me if he’s going to be okay. If I’m doing the right thing by giving him space. If he’ll ever let himself be happy.”

The wind moves gently through the trees, dancing shadows over the stone, the grass, my hands.

“I’ll come back soon,” I whisper, standing. “But if you’re listening…stay with him. Please. He still needs you.”

FOB near the Spratly Islands

September 19, 2024

2156

Logan

I threw a football today.

Not well, not far, but it happened. The first time I did it, my shoulder protested like hell, pain flaring sharp and hot across the joint—but I didn’t stop. I rolled it. Stretched it. Worked through the tightness like Keller told me to. It wasn’t pretty, but it was progress.

It’s healing. I’m healing.

The warm-down area is mostly empty now, just the low hum of overhead lights and the faint sound of someone racking weights in the corner. I’m toweling off the sweat at the back of my neck when Townsend shows up. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me for a second with that unreadable expression he gets when he’s sizing someone up.

“You look better,” he says finally, voice casual but carrying weight.

I nod, instinctively rolling my shoulder as I test its range again. It’s still tight, still sore, but it moves. And that means something. “I feel better.”

“Good.” He pauses, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like he’s trying to hold it back but can’t. “You ready?”

I don’t hesitate. “Hell yeah.” It’s not cocky. It’s not even loud. It’s just true.

His smile breaks through then, and for a beat, he doesn’t say anything. But that simple gesture, that small acknowledgment, it’s not enough this time.

Over the past three months, Townsend’s managed to wedge himself into my life like some older brother I never asked for—steady, relentless, always pushing just hard enough. He challenged me when I wanted to quit. Called me on my bullshit. Didn’t flinch when I shut down, and never took any of it personally.

So I pull him into a hug—solid, firm, no-nonsense. Just a grip and a couple of hard pats on the back before we step apart again like it never happened. “Thank you,” I say, meaning each syllable. Without him, I’d probably still be buried in my own head, clinging to guilt and anger like they were oxygen. But he didn’t let me spiral. Didn’t let me forget who I am.

The weight is still there. Reaper. Ryan. The pieces of me that shattered when they were ripped away. That doesn’t just go away.