You need to get hold of yourself, Henry told himself as he plowed his SUV through the Carolina snow-covered mountain. This isn’t you. It isn’t. It’s the damn PTSD. Shit. You have to get control.

He’d been driving already for nearly four hours. It wasn’t his first impulsive move. Ever since finishing his last tour with the Navy, he felt like he’d been floating. A part of him felt like he’d lucked out with a military contracting position. It paid the bills and then some, all while still leaving enough time to buckle down with what might be the first right career fit of his life.

Henry loved what he did at the veteran rehabilitation clinic. It helped him stay connected to fellow vets, and being on the ground floor helping them find jobs provided instant gratification. He could really see how his efforts were paying off in a way his military career had never allowed for. Plus, it was the first time he’d met veterans like him. They knew what it was like to carry the worst of scars deep inside, cradling them like children.

For a long time, he thought he could handle it. Hell, he thought he had handled it. The VA officer had cleared him to work with veterans, what more of a go-ahead could a person get?

And he had to hand it to Bill. His boss could have easily fired his ass the moment Henry had him pinned against the wall.

He still couldn’t believe he'd done that. Henry couldn’t even remember what kind of PTSD waking nightmare he’d been caught up in the day of the freak-out—but he could remember the aftermath with embarrassing accuracy.

Watching the security footage really tied it all together. It was hard to see any subtle expressions he might have exhibited going into the “trance,” as he liked to call it. The video was grainy and the camera, like all of them in the rehab clinic, provided just one angle. But one angle was enough.

It looked like he was just tucked into his work, bowed over some papers at his desk. Thank God there weren’t any clients scheduled with him that afternoon. As he’d watched the footage, Bill at his side, he'd noticed tiny shifts in his demeanor. Then the pen had dropped out of his hands, and he placed both palms flat on the table. He watched his own head lift, and a dead, stiff gaze locked on the bulletproof glass that made up his office window. There was a lot of bulletproof glass in veteran services operations.

He sat like that for eleven minutes before Bill walked in. According to Bill, Henry had been sweating and shaking, but that wasn’t evident on the video. Instead, Henry looked calm and cool on the screen but moved in swift and jerky motions. As Bill walked in, he was already talking to Henry and poring over some documents—he didn’t immediately notice the strange atmosphere in the room.

In less than two seconds, Henry was out of his chair and slammed Bill into the glass. Henry could see staff members running into his office, their terrified faces filling the screen. It took three men Henry’s size to peel him away from Bill.

“I think you thought I was an enemy combatant or something,” Bill had told him as he turned off the footage. Henry couldn't recall exactly, but it certainly seemed like it. The first thing he could remember after the incident was sitting in the exam room on another floor, wondering why his fist was bruised and paining him. “You certainly retained your strength from your combat days,” the nurse told him, cocking her head.

“Listen Henry,” Bill had said after showing him the footage, “I like you, and you’re a great worker. But you need to get some help. I’m fine, really, but what if it was someone else you attacked? What if there hadn’t been a whole team of people to calm you down? I can’t have you being here with those kind of PTSD side effects, especially when you’re working with veterans.”

“I get it,” Henry told him. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Bill said. “Maybe… tell me what you think about this. How about you take some paid time off. Call it mental health leave. I promise your job will be here when you get back.”

“I don’t know.” Henry had balked at the offer. How ungrateful are you? he thought to himself now.

“Look. Henry,” Bill had said, standing up and placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not a negotiation. You’re gonna have to take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Henry told him.

Bill had moved fast. By the end of the week, a nice, vague email had been sent out to the entire team with a brief overview of Henry’s upcoming absence. If the recipients hadn’t seen or heard about the attack themselves, which everyone had, they may have really believed Henry was just due for a nice little sabbatical.

One week after the attack, Henry had packed up his rig and was headed toward Eli’s cabin.

It had been years since he’d partied it up with Eli at the little cabin in the woods. The last time, Eli was just talking about running for Senate and Henry was still active duty. Back then, they’d made good on their promise to spend at least one weekend per year at the cabin with their friends. It was the ultimate boys’ outing, but Henry had been the only one Eli trusted with a spare key. “These other jokers,” Eli had laughed as he finished another beer, “you can’t trust ’em if they passed a polygraph test. No way I’m giving them a key!”

Luckily, that key had been one of the few remnants from Henry’s previous life he’d managed to hold on to. He’d kept it in a safety deposit box along with his civilian passport, a handful of family photos, and a sprinkling of keepsakes he just couldn’t let go of. When Bill helped him pack up his office and he found the key in the box, it was like finding salvation. It was a sign.

He’d debated telling Eli about staying at the cabin, but ultimately passed. He wasn’t even sure he could get hold of him now, and he wasn’t going to call the public White House number and sound like a jackass. Eli would never find out—and even if he did, he wouldn’t mind.

Already he could tell the drive to the cabin was soothing him. Ever since his last tour, the PTSD had caused regular stress tremors. People had told him they didn’t even notice, but he always did. He lifted his hands off the heated steering wheel, and the tremor quieted for the moment. Fresh air. That’s all I need. Well, and to not act like a total zombie maniac attacking my boss would be awesome, too.

It was nearly dark when he finally pulled up to the cabin, and it was bigger than he remembered. Grander. Fully lit with wrought iron lantern lights and a matching wraparound porch railing, the soaring two-story cabin was more like a lumber mansion nestled into the forest. Like something out of a kid’s fairy tale, he thought. Eli had sure done a good job of keeping it up. But that must be easy with cleaning crews and the whole shebang a president could afford.

Nosing the SUV into the driveway, he could see fresh tire marks in the snow. Had the cleaners been there that afternoon? How often did they come? Shit, they might even be government employees now and would report right back to Eli. That’s just what he needed, getting arrested for taking advantage of his friend’s vacant cabin. However, he’d driven all day to get here, and he was exhausted. At the very least, he could risk it for a night.

“Jesus, it’s cold,” he said aloud, stepping into the snow with a crunch. With his arms full of groceries, he left the bags on the porch until he could make sure the fridge was cleaned out and working. The caretakers had left the lights on and as expected, the cabin was spotless. Sky-high cathedral ceilings with impressive beams hoisted up the focal point of the great room. Even from the entryway, he caught a glimpse of the almost purely glass posterior wall that framed an otherworldly snow-covered winter scene.

The cabin was unnaturally cozy and warmer than it should have been for a deserted retreat. Glancing at the thermostat, he saw it was turned up to seventy, and the gas fireplace was off but still emitting heat. Someone had been here very recently. Must have just missed them.

Upstairs, Henry claimed the first bedroom on the left—the same room he'd used the last time he stayed with Eli. It was the second master, and wholly masculine. A prized buck head was mounted over the minibar, and the custom king-size bedframe showcased living edge wood rendered by a local carpenter who either used local resources or imported from abroad. Nothing in between.

Tossing his bag on the bed, he started to unpack. It had always been a habit of his, even well before his Navy days. No matter how tired he was or how far he’d traveled, Henry always had to make the place he was staying for the night feel like home. Tucked beneath his worn flannels and extra thick boot socks were two of his latest recommended books for PTSD. Embarrassment washed over him as he took them in, the only hint of vulnerability in the otherwise hypermasculine room.

Digging into the side pockets, he pulled out his .45, phone, and charger. No service, as always. Still, he had to check. You’d think the President of the United States could manage cell service in his own cabin.

“What the hell was that?” Outside, there was a rumbling. Wasn’t there? Or was it the PTSD? No, there was something there. He was sure of it.

Drawing the gun, he walked downstairs stealthily. A bear? Shit, the groceries on the porch. Halfway down the stairs, he heard the door creak open and snap shut.

It was way too late for a cleaning crew. Was there someone squatting here? A burglary? This was the last thing he needed to deal with.

With remarkable silence, he descended the last of the steps and slid around the corner. “Hands up! Don’t move!” The ease in which the Navy slipped back into him was incredible.

This was no burglar. A breathtaking redhead was facing away from him, wrapped only in a towel and slowly raising her hands. “Please don’t hurt me,” she said, gripping the towel until the last second before letting it fall to the floor. Her auburn hair fell in waves to her waist, crowning the crest of her perfect ass and heart-shaped hips. They curved in toward shapely calves, each inch of her flesh more perfect than the last. Henry felt his cock stirring—an instinct he hadn’t entertained for a long time. Slowly, she turned her head as he lowered the gun. “Henry?”

“Ellie?” he asked. Their eyes locked for what seemed like minutes. Henry could see the profile of her breast and the stiffness of a pink nipple. It was like she was letting him drink her in, drop by drop.

Damn. When did Ellie get so beautiful?