Page 111 of Returned Mail

Her gaze flicks from the paper to my face. “What’s that?”

“A letter,” I say.

“I can see that.”

“I wrote it months ago,” I say, ignoring the way my voice roughens. “When I was still deployed. I never sent it.” The air shifts between us. She sets her mug down slowly, both hands now free, as if she knows she’s about to hold something heavy.

She takes it like it might shatter if she handles it wrong. Her thumb traces the fold before she opens it. Her eyes scan the first line, and I watch everything in her face change.

I could recite the letter from memory. I wrote it when I realized this wasn’t just temporary, that I wasn’t just grateful for her kindness, that I was in real danger of falling for someone I’d never touched. I wrote about the way her letters made the base feel less like a holding cell and more like a hallway leading somewhere.

I wrote about how I checked the mail like a rookie, how I read every page twice, fast and slow. I wrote about how I pictured her at the window, and somehow it was the only place that made sense to stand in my head.

I think I’m falling for you, and I have no idea what to do about it from here.

Her eyes travel those same words now, mouth slightly parted, throat working around each line. She doesn’t say anything. She just reads. All of it. When she reaches the end, she slowly folds the page, hands trembling. Then she looks at me. Her eyes are wet. Bright. Wide open.

“Oh, George.” She whispers.

Standing under that gaze feels like standing in front of a blast again, only this time I walked here willingly.

“I didn’t send it,” I say, voice low. “Because it felt insane. Because I told myself I was just grateful. That you were just a… lifeline. A friend.”

Her lips part in a shaky exhale.

“And then you got that notice,” I say. “And you came anyway. You sat in that hospital room and held my hand and talked like you weren’t sure I could hear you, and all I could think was I am already gone for you.” She flinches like the words hit her body. I step closer, heart pounding. “I haven’t stopped feeling like that,” I say. “Not once. Not since.”

The silence between us thickens. My palms are damp. Every scar on my body feels like it’s humming.

She sets the letter carefully on the coffee table without looking away from me. Then she stands. Bare feet on hardwood. My shirt hangs loose around her thighs. “Come here.” She says, her voice shaking.

I do.

She meets me halfway.

For one long, suspended heartbeat, we just stand there. Close enough that I can feel her warmth, see the flecks of color in her eyes, count the freckles on her nose.

Then she reaches up, curls her fingers into the collar of my t-shirt, pulls herself onto her toes, and kisses me. Soft at first. Just the press of her mouth to mine, testing and questioning if we are really doing this.

Then I answer, yes, to all of it.

Chapter Thirty-Six

George

I tilt my head and catch her bottom lip between mine, deepening the kiss. But then she makes this tiny sound. Half-sigh, half-whimper, and something inside me snaps.

My hands find her waist, and my fingers tighten as I pull her fully against me. The contact is… fuck. It’s everything. She fits like I’ve been walking around missing pieces and just found where they were supposed to go. She sighs into my mouth, hands sliding up my chest, around my neck, clutching at the back of my head like I might vanish if she lets go.

I angle us backward, guiding her until her calves hit the edge of the couch and we fold down together, her on her back, me braced above her. I tilt my head, deepening the kiss.

Her bare legs shift against mine. Heat floods low and sharp through my body. I break the kiss for a second, breathing hard, forehead resting against hers.

“Tell me to stop,” I say roughly. “If you want me to stop, you have to say it right now.”

She looks up at me like I’ve lost my mind. “I flew across the world for you,” she whispers. “I’m not going to tell you to stop.”

Every last ounce of restraint I’ve been clinging to burns out. I kiss her again, deeper, hands roaming around her body. I finally get to touch all of her… hips, waist, ribs, the sides of her breasts. I’m careful, more careful than I want to be, terrified of spooking her, of going too fast, of making this anything but exactly what it is.