At some point, I must have fallen asleep on the cold tile floor of the bathroom and I wake with a jolt. Fear lances through me as I remember what I did.

What I've done.

Hannah.

My hand aches and I look at my fist, covered in dried blood and broken skin, and shame washes over me.

I did the one thing I didn't want to do.

Pushed away from the woman I love.

I pull myself to stand, my body aching from the awkward position I slept in, and I don't even take the time to wash my face. I need to find her.

"Hannah?" I shout, my voice filling my house, but it's nothing but an echo. She isn't here.

I pull open the closet doors, even the laundry room door as if she's folding clothes instead of mending a broken heart.

I hurt her. Yelled and screamed. I fucking lost it and, in the process, I lost her.

The one thing that mattered.

How could I be so fucking stupid?

She is gone. One of her suitcases isn't here either. There's a tiny shred of hope in the fact some of her stuff is left behind, but then again, she probably shoved what she could into a bag and high tailed it out of here.

Frowning, I think about what she could have driven. I pull open the front door and see the truck is gone. Now I'm stuck here, all alone.

Exactly what I deserve.

My cell phone is ringing, and for a moment, my pulse quickens--maybe it's her--but when I reach for it in the bedroom, it's Sullivan.

"Hey," I say gruffly, not even knowing where to begin.

"Hey, man," he says, his voice a little askew. Looking at the time, I realize it's just after seven a.m. This playboy usually sleeps until after nine.

"You're up early."

"Yeah," he says. "Had some shit to take care of. A few things came up in the middle of the night."

I run a hand over my beard, thinking about what came up last night for me. A fucking thunderstorm that left me unhinged.

"You okay?" Sullivan asks.

"Uh, yeah," I say, not knowing where to start.

"Did Hannah give you my message?"

I frown. "You spoke to Hannah?"

"Yeah, I called yesterday. You never answered your cell, so I called the landline. She was there. Seems like a sweetheart."

"Yeah, I love her. She's the best fucking thing to ever happen to me."

"Wow. Love? Big words coming from a guy like you."

"Yeah, well, if you met her you'd understand."

"That's good to hear. Hey, what do you think of me coming up for a few days?"

I sigh, thinking I have no idea where Hannah is and wondering how I'm gonna explain that to my brother.

"Look," he says. "I know about last night. About Hannah leaving."

My jaw tenses. "You know?"

"Yeah, she called me last night, upset. You locked yourself in a bathroom and told her to go?"

" I was a mess. The storm and--"

"I know. I get you. But Hannah... she didn't sign up for this."

"So, she's gone?"

"I don't know," he tells me. "I just know you shouldn't be alone."

"I'm not going to fucking hurt myself."

"Good, doesn't mean you can't have a brother around to drink beer with and fucking shoot the shit."

"No offense, Sully. I don't want you, I want her."

He chuckles. "I get that, but if she comes back, it's gonna be on her own terms. And it's not gonna be today."

"You sure?"

"I got her on a plane this morning, Harrison. So, yeah, I'm pretty fucking sure."

"She left Alaska?"

"Yeah," Sully says, his voice lower. "I made sure she had plenty of money, a phone, everything she might need. She's safe, she just needs some time."

"Dammit." My head falls into my hands. "I fucked it all up."

He doesn't disagree. "Hey," he says. "I'll be there in an hour. I'm already on my way."

I hang up, hating what's happened. PTSD is a real fucking thing and it's messed with me so many times.

He's right. Hannah didn't sign up for this. For a man like me.

I walk to the kitchen and see that she's set some jars on the counter.

On the lid, one is labeled Apply liberally on inflamed or irritated skin 2x per day. Another is labeled After washing cuts, apply to skin daily, then cover with a bandage.

I think about the skin above my prosthetic, how it's constantly irritated, how I told Hannah that. Then I look at my swollen knuckles, the broken skin. She made these for me. On the side of the jar, there is a sticker: Healing Heart Salves and Ointments by Hannah.

I remember her telling me she wanted to start an online business. It must have been these creams and such. I twist off the lid and breathe in the salve. It is lemon and grapefruit and my leg is already itching for it. Then I open the cream for my knuckles, and I smell tea tree oil and lavender and I set to washing my hands with warm water and soap, then I apply the cream.

In the bathroom, I wrap my hand in gauze, feeling ashamed at my behavior the night before. But I also know that sometimes, with PTSD, something can trigger an emotional reaction you weren't expecting, and your response can be beyond normal behavior.

I've never punched a wall in my life. Sure, for months after I came home, I'd wake in a sweat, dripping with memories and pain seizing me, but those things haven't happened for a year. But Hannah coming here was a huge deal on its own and combining that with the worst storm I've seen since I came home. Well, for lack of a better phrase, it truly was the perfect storm.

The idea that Hannah is gone devastates me, and as much as I want to force Sully to tell me where she went, she deserves more than that. I can trust that my brother helped her get somewhere safe, with enough money to be taken care of until she is ready to talk to me again.

If she ever is.

Knowing that it will take Sully over an hour to get here, I pick up my cell phone again and look at my contacts.

I can't solve all my problems, but I can work toward a solution.

I may be a mountain man, and I may be a wounded warrior, but before that, I was in Special Ops. And you don't become a Green Beret unless you know how to use your fucking brain.

I pull up the contact number for my therapist and place a much-needed phone call.

I want Hannah in my life, but if I want to take care of her, I need to be sure I won't fail her again.