The hallway is disgusting.

It’s dirty, and the smellscape is more like decrepit mall food court than apartment building, but in Dayton’s arms, all I can smell is the fresh, spicy scent of his skin. My gut rocks in a mortifying hiccup, and there’s a sound like the slow leak of a faucet.

It’s my own tears, hitting the front of my puffy jacket.

One side of Dayton seems heavier than the other, his weight resting more heavily on my right shoulder than my left. There’s the tiniest quake at the core of him, underneath my arms. God, he works for his balance. It’s not like that day in front of the Applebee’s. He’s not standing up tall.

That doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s out here with me.

I wrap my arms tighter around the solid wall of his abs and breathe him in. I don’t know if I’m crying from panic or relief. I’ve always wanted this. Maybe not this way. Maybe not in this hallway. But every heartbeat that goes by is a dream come true in miniature.

“You’re a stupid bitch.”

The voice comes from an apartment directly above us and scares the hell out of me. Dayton’s arms relax. He pulls back an inch. I don’t want him to. Honestly, I’d stand here forever if it meant staying in his arms.

“I’m the stupid bitch? You fucker. You’re the one ruining everyone’s life, and all you can think about is your own prick.”

The man’s voice fires back. It’s too quiet to hear what he’s saying, but the tone of it is pure threat.

Okay. Maybe not forever.

The sound of the fight gets louder, then it softens. I focus my attention where it matters: on Dayton. On the feeling of his body pressed against mine.

He uncurls one arm from my shoulders and brushes his palm over my belly, the slightest inhale, and my heart breaks. I didn’t expect him to touch me like that—like I’m something worthy of awe beneath this hideous puffy coat and a scarf that probably has snot on it now.

Day stares down at my belly, his face running through emotion after emotion. I hold my breath.

He meets my eyes, his dark eyes filled with a hard determination. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I bet Wes saw it a lot, when they were in Afghanistan.

“How—” He rests his hand on my belly and clears his throat. “How soon can I find out more about that job you were talking about?”

I laugh out loud, sucking in a big breath of the glorious, Day-scented air. “As soon as you come in to fill out the paperwork. Like I said in my emails, if you’d bothered to read them.”

“Is now good?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He lets go of me, braces one hand against the wall, and swings himself into motion. He is hopping toward the stairs of his walk-up on one leg.

“Day. Stop.”

He stops and raises his eyebrows.

“Get your leg first. And your coat. It’s freezing out there.”

His jaw works. “Fine.”

We make our way together back to the doorway of his apartment. This time, he holds it open for me.

It’s not as bad as he made it out to be.

There’s a smell hovering over everything, and the paint is as beat-up as it was in the hall. It’s not a place where I’d take my shoes off, and yes…when I hear his roommate whistling in another room, a shiver runs down my spine. I have the sense I’ve caught this place in one of its better moments.

Day hops for the couch and tosses himself down. I’m not going to stand by the doorway, alone, so I follow him inside.

He looks at me, his expression unreadable, and my heart beats faster.

This is a thousand times more intimate than fucking.

A million.

He takes the hem of his jeans in his hands and rolls them up.

We both look.

His knee is normal.

The three inches of leg below his knee are normal.

Then the leg narrows into a knobby stub and stops.

The roommate whistles in the next room. It’s an oddly similar pitch to the ringing in my ears. The noise fades into the background.

It could have been worse than this.

Whatever happened to him—whatever really happened to him over there—could have ended him. The line between a leg that ends too early and a casket in the cargo hold of a plane is so thin it makes me breathless.

I could have lost him.

Dayton’s prosthetic leans up against the front of the couch. He pulls it close and takes a threadbare liner from inside, rolling it over what’s left of his leg. Then he eases the leg into the prosthetic, pulling it this way and that, not looking at me.

“Will you tell me about it?”

His dark gaze flickers up to mine. He knows what I’m asking. I want to touch his skin, to reassure myself that this was all the damage that was done, but it’s already covered by the prosthetic.

He tugs at it again, then braces his knuckles against the fabric of the couch and stands. He meets my eyes.

“I fucked up.” Dayton takes a breath. “But I’m not going to fuck up again.”