Page 39 of Reeves

The kitchen clock ticks away each second with mechanical precision. Just me, a cold cup of coffee, and the thin, folded paper sitting on the table beside my phone.

The evidence stares back at me. Two flat rectangular objects holding more questions than answers.

The conversation from last night replays in my head. Her standing in that driveway. Me sitting in my truck. We talked about my father's death. About my deployment schedule. About nothing that actually mattered.

I rub my palm against the stubble on my jaw, hearing the scratch against calloused skin.

It should be simple. A direct question with a yes or no answer. Is the kid mine? That is all I need to know. Problem identified, solution executed. That is how I operate.

So why the fuck did I drive away?

The uncertainty shoots through my body, more prevalent than the pain radiating from my shoulder. If that kid is mine, I have missed five years. First steps. First words.

If he is not?—

I shake my head, my jaw tightening. Either way, I need the truth.

This is not a mission where I can afford to wait. This is my life. And possibly someone else's.

The clock ticks as the coffee cools beside me. The house stays too still around it.

I reach for my phone and pull up her contact. I never deleted it. I left it there like everything else I walked away from.

My thumb hovers over the call button, close enough to press, not close enough to commit. My pulse picks up, the same edge I get before breaching a door, except this time there is no plan behind it.

Calling is too direct. It leaves no room to adjust.

I switch to the message thread instead. It is empty. We sent thousands of texts, and now there is nothing left of it.

For a second, I consider leaving it that way. In a week, I go back to base, or whatever desk they put me behind. I know how to leave things unfinished. I have done it before.

I start typing.

We need to talk about the boy I saw at your house.

Too blunt. I delete it.

I got your letter.

Too vague. I delete it.

Is he mine?

I stare at the words, then clear the screen again.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. The words need to be right. Clear enough to get answers, but not so direct that they slam doors shut. I'd approach any tactical situation with careful planning. This deserves the same precision.

I should have asked you something yesterday. Do you have time to meet before I leave for deployment next week?

Simple and direct, leaving room for her to respond however she needs to.

I read it three times, checking each word with the same care I'd give a mission brief. Then I press send before I can overthink it more.

The message disappears into the ether. And now our text thread is no longer empty.

The screen goes black. Just like me.

I set the phone down beside Charli's folded letter and lean back in the kitchen chair. The question I couldn't ask yesterday now sits between us, a live grenade with the pin halfway pulled.