The man who still sent her good-morning texts at 0600 sharp even though he knew she was usually already running this base on the move by then.
In the photo they were on the pier back home, wind whipping her hair across his cheek while he laughed, eyes crinkled, arm slung around her shoulders like the world was simple and safe.
He looked so… civilian. Soft around the edges. Safe.
The kind of man who would never understand why she sometimes came back from the range with her pulse hammering and her thighs slick beneath her fatigues.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the photograph. The words tasted like ash.
She pressed the heel of her hand against her sternum, trying to push the ache down.
It didn't work. Nothing worked tonight.
She lay back on the cot, the thin mattress creaking under her weight. Closed her eyes.
