She says nothing for a long time. The storm thrashes above us, its violence reminding me far too closely of the sounds of mortar and rocket attacks on our tiny base in northern Iraq. It’s showing no sign of letting up, even after almost an hour. I’m not used to storms hanging around like this. The storms in the hill country usually rolled through pretty quickly.

I don’t hate storms. I wasn’t lying when I told her they made me think of my mother. They do. But those memories are twisted up now, and tied into the explosions and bullshit from Iraq.

So it’s complicated. Just like everything in my life.

One thing that hasn’t gotten too terribly complicated at this moment is being with the woman next to me, even though I’m still curious about why she’s afraid of the dark. I know there’s more there.

Sitting there, listening to the crashing storm, it’s far too easy to confess the harsh reality of my own life that I haven’t really unpacked for anyone.

Ever.

Eli knows part of it. Hell, he knows most of it. That’s a big part of the reason he put up with me for so damn long.

Deacon got sick of pretending to care.

Noah and Josh walked away a long time ago.

I’m sorry. I’ve managed to run off everyone who was ever decent to me. I’ll run you off, too, I think. But I say none of those things.

“I thought you were friends with Eli.”

“I was. I am.” I love the feeling of her palm pressed to mine. The simple connection of skin to skin. “He’s…a good friend. The roommate I told about my mom? That was Eli. He was such a Boy Scout, even then.” I don’t mean that disparagingly. Eli is one of the best men I know.

It’s then that I notice the copper design tracing down the back of her index finger. “What’s this?”

She slips her hand from mine and holds both of hers out in front of her. “Henna. I came home from one of my cousins’ weddings in Mumbai last week.”

I reach for her before I realize it might be rude. She smiles and there’s a light in her eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. “It’s okay. It’s part of the mehndi ceremony. The bride’s arms, hands, and legs are decorated with powerful protective symbols using henna. Tradition says that the darker her henna is and the longer it lasts predicts how much her husband will love her.”

“That’s so neat.” I trace my finger over the looping flowers and swirls, then turn her hand over, noticing the designs that are more faded on her palms. “Does it hurt?”

I glance up and see her noticing the scrapes on my fingers, the black tattoos peeking out from the edges of my sleeves. She meets my gaze but doesn’t ask the question I see in her eyes.

“No,” she tells me. “It’s applied as a paste. It dries and flakes off and continues to darken for the next day or so. It actually cools as it dries.”

“It’s beautiful.” The silence draws out between us again. “So before Syria, did you always hate storms?” I ask, needing to fill the space with something other than the noise of the destruction above us.

“They’re calling this a hundred years’ storm,” she says. “At this point, I’m hoping the building doesn’t get destroyed so I don’t have to cancel classes.”

“That’s not answering the question.” I slide my thumb over the designs on her skin. The touch is gentle. I’m seeking rather than taking. Unsure of how long she will allow this contact to remain. I’ll enjoy the connection for however long it lasts. Because pure human contact has been in short supply in my life for so goddamned long.

And it will end. Of that, I’m certain. It always does.

“No, I didn’t always hate storms,” she says after a moment. “West Point started me on the path of astraphobia and getting blown up in Syria sealed the deal.”

“You know it’s treatable, right?”

“So is smoking, drinking, and sex addiction. Doesn’t mean I’m going to let someone pick through my head when it’s perfectly reasonable to be afraid of something that can kill you.” She removes her hand from mine, dragging her fingers through her hair. Her breathing is coming faster, harder.

As if she catches my thoughts, she slows it down. Deeply inhaling, then controlling the exhale. It’s impressive watching her reclaim control.

“We can talk about something else,” I say. “Childhood pets. Pet peeves. Favorite stupid new cadet story.”

She closes her eyes, resting her head against the concrete wall behind us. “On my summer detail as a yearling, one of my new cadets swallowed a live grasshopper during Beast because one of the cadre NCOs dared her to.”

God, but it feels so weird to talk about yearlings and plebes and cows and not have to explain that Beast is essentially basic training. Plebes are freshmen and basically pond scum. We’d talk about them like they were houseplants or pets. They didn’t even have names until they made it through freshman year. Yearlings or yuks are sophomores, cows are juniors and firsties—first class cadets are seniors. It’s so damn strange to fall right back into the language of West Point, even though it’s been years since I graduated.

It’s really hard to laugh when you’re both amused yet horrified, and I somehow manage to be both at the same time. “What the hell? Why would anyone do that?”

“Which part? The swallowing of the live bug or the daring someone to swallow said live bug?”

“Both? Either. Hell, I thought I’d seen everything.” I shudder at the idea of a living thing’s feet prickling down my throat on its way to an acid bath. Ugh.

“Clearly you’ve never wanted to belong so badly to something that you’d do anything for acceptance.”

Her words strike a nerve. One she doesn’t realize is exposed. I rest my elbow on one knee, pushing my hair back. It’s too long now. Kind of like the scruff on my face that’s rapidly passed the stage of five o’clock shadow and is moving into full beard mode. I need to shave before I start blending in with all the hippies around here. “You have no idea.”

She presses her lips into a flat line. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“It seems like I keep circling back and saying things that aren’t really…they’re pretty insensitive.”

“I’ve had a long time to get over losing my mom.” The words are forced bravado, pushing back against the knot that rises up against my throat. A lie, convenient and dark, blending into the shadows.

“No one gets over that. No matter how old they are.” She shifts, moving her body into contact with mine once more. A living, breathing being pressed against another living being, unsure of how to offer comfort except through contact.

“How do you know to do that?” I ask suddenly.

“Do what?”

“You just…you keep pressing against me.”

She moves away. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to…”

I slip my hand around her knee, holding her fast. “I didn’t mean it like it sounded.” I release her quickly. “It’s just…not something people do all the time. I noticed, that’s all.”

The candlelight flickers over her, casting her honey gold skin in even deeper copper hues. Her full lips are parted, dark and dusky and fucking erotic as hell. If I close my eyes, my brain will definitely go someplace not appropriate for polite company.

“Our bodies and minds are connected. Seventy percent of human communication is nonverbal.” Her voice is quiet beneath the storm. “Sometimes, it’s easier to express something without saying a word.”

“That’s…fascinating.” I’m practicing not being an asshole. Or rather, practicing directness without being an asshole. Once upon a time, I would have called what she’s said hippy New Age bullshit.

Amazing how sobriety can change your point of view on oh…everything.

“I’m glad.” Her words are a comfort. A balm I hadn’t realized I needed.

“I’m glad I’m not alone right now.”

---

My breath catches in my throat. His words are a caress. A teasing promise of something deeper than a brush of skin against skin in the dark.

But also a connection, something deeply human that binds us together. It’s not just our shared fear of the dark. It’s something…different. Deeper.

More human.

“The universe has a strange way of making things happen that need to happen,” I say after a drawn-out silence.

His arm flexes as he drags his hand through his hair once more. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

Too late, I realize my words have sliced at him without meaning to. I reach for him then because I can do nothing else but apply pressure to the wound I’ve opened, no matter how unintentionally. I didn’t mean to, but I guess knowing about his mother’s death has turned into something I can’t avoid, even if I’m trying to. “I’m sorry. I know how callous it must sound for someone to say everything happens for a reason.”

He doesn’t pull away. “But that’s not what you were saying. Was it?”

“It wasn’t. But I can see how it might have sounded like that.” I glance over at him—the shadow of scruff on his jaw, his deep eyes. The lure of him that much stronger. I’ve never felt this before. This connection to someone I’ve known for an hour at best. This strong compulsion for more. “I think the hardest thing for humans to do is to explain suffering and pain. Why does it exist? Why can’t we make it go away? It’s not possible to imagine a world without suffering and pain.”

“Is that how you choose to deal with it? By believing everything has a purpose?” His words are measured. Controlled. Constricted in a way they hadn’t been a few moments earlier.

I lean away from him a bit, resting my elbows on my knees and pushing my hair out of my face, twisting it into a thick bun on the top of my head.

“I don’t know. For me, it’s less about whether or not there’s some God up there controlling the world and more about…just trying to believe that I’m where I need to be.”

“Even when shit sucks in an unforgettable way?”

“Especially then,” I whisper. I can’t tell him about the fire. About the burning, clawing panic that tore away my sense of self that I’d worked so hard to build. Or the struggle to put my life back together after I finally realized I wasn’t going to die if I suddenly had a hard time breathing.

He shifts next to me, straightening one leg out in front of him. “I wish I could look at life like that.”

“It took me a really long time. In a lot of ways, I’m still struggling with it.” I’ve got a handle on things now. I can sit near fire and not freak out. But the work to get here…yeah, it’s been one hell of a journey.

His throat moves as he swallows. “Yeah? How?”

“Well, for instance, there was an incident the other morning. I may have reacted a little strongly when I walked into the barbecue joint that’s opening next door.”

One side of his gorgeous full bottom lip lifts upward. “Oh, do tell.”

“I may have threatened the owner with neutering.” I flush. I’ll blame the wicked sensuality of that upturned lip instead of my own embarrassment over the incident. “We could call what happened a strong disagreement.”

“Honey, neutering isn’t a strong disagreement. Those would be fighting words for most men.”

Funny how him calling me “honey” in that moment doesn’t scrape against my skin. There’s something about his smile, hidden in the shadows, that warms the space around my heart. He has a really great smile. Like it surprises him every time it happens. There’s a shyness to him, an uncertainty buried in the quiet strength of this man.

He’s staring at me and I am unable to look away from the shadows lingering in his eyes, always there. Ever present. Brooding. I’ve never really thought about what a brooding man looks like in real life but I think I’ve finally seen it.

And now I understand why people find brooding compelling. Attractive.

I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. His gaze darts to my lips, then back up again. I didn’t think it was possible but his eyes have darkened now.

“Some things are worth fighting over,” I finally whisper.

“Like not smelling barbecue when you’re doing yoga?”

I return his smile then. Faintly, because it’s dancing too close to my own scars—mental and physical. “Yeah. It’s really unsettling for some people.”

“By ‘some people’ do you mean you?”

I look away then, unable to find the words to tell him about the war and the marks it left on me. “Sure. If that makes me seem less crazy.”

I focus on the candle. The small, controlled flame that gives light in the eerie, cold cellar is the stuff of nightmares. It doesn’t frighten me. It doesn’t spark terrible nightmares. But a sense of something familiar washes over me, like I’ve done this before.

Funny how something so small and fragile can build into something capable of destroying the world with the right fuel.

He shifts before I can respond, his palm sliding over my knee to squeeze gently. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says softly. “Some things aren’t easy to talk about.”

I look away from the candle at the man sitting next to me. He’s close. Closer than he should be. The heat from his body wraps around me, his scent an enthralling mixture of smoke and man. A good kind of mixture.

The kind that makes a girl want to do stupid things. Like crawl into his lap and cup his face. Rock gently against him while he kisses me slow and deep.

He catches me staring. And he doesn’t look away. He’s caught, just like me. Drawn into a shared need for warm human contact encased in the cold brick tomb that surrounds us. The quiet gasps of our bodies mixing with the violence from the storm overhead.

It’s just a fantasy.

One I don’t want to end.