Page 74 of Reeves

My shoulder wakesup before I do.

The dull ache spreads from the joint down my arm as I shift against the pillows. Yesterday at the beach pushed harder than I anticipated. Building pirate traps with a five-year-old involves more digging and lifting than I expected.

I sit up slowly, testing the range of motion. The stiffness runs deep. Not surface-level soreness from overuse. This is the grinding reminder that my body carries damage I can't fix with willpower alone.

Fucking pool isn’t open. If I want to swim, I’ll have to drive back over to the Creston House. I debate whether it’s worth the trip, but I know it's the best way to loosen up my shoulder.

I grab the pill bottle. Two ibuprofen tablets go down harder than normal because my mouth is dry as shit. The bitter coating sticks to my tongue. I need some water.

Sleep didn't come easily last night.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Benjy's face tilted up at me while he rattled on about pirates and traps and recon. I didn’t know it was possible to feel that attached to a kid that fast.

I roll my shoulder again, working the joint loose. The ache stays constant. Lieutenant Kaplan's words echo in my head about degenerative damage. Fucking bullshit.

I stand and walk to the window overlooking the garden. The camellias my mother planted still bloom in neat rows along the brick path. Everything is maintained exactly as she left it, after all these years.

How has it been seventeen years since she died?

I pull clothes from the dresser, going for dark jeans. I throw a plain T-shirt on the bed. It's the same uniform I wear when I want to blend into civilian life.

But yesterday wasn't about blending.

Charli's house carries the unmistakable weight of a life built with intention. Toys are organized in baskets. Library books are stacked on the coffee table. Photographs stuck to the refrigerator with alphabet magnets. Every detail speaks of roots.

It's those invisible ties I've spent my entire life running from. The same ones that terrified me when she started talking about marriage and futures and staying in one place.

My phone sits silent on the nightstand. No messages. No expectations.

Benjy assumes I'll be there because that's what comrades do. They show up.

Not if. When.

The realization pushes through me more heavily than my expectation to report for duty.

I grab a towel from the bathroom counter and run cold water over my face. The image in the mirror stares back at me with my father’s jawline and my mother’s eyes.

The same eyes that looked up at me from Benjy’s face yesterday.

I spent most of yesterday being careful, watching Charli’s reactions, and taking my cues from her. I made sure I didn’t step past whatever boundaries she’s still figuring out.

But Benjy doesn’t think in boundaries. He thinks in missions.

She should know I’m willing to do more if she wants that, but she can't unless I let her know.

I dry my face and walk back into the bedroom. The house is quiet around me. Ms. Landry must already be out somewhere.

The phone sits on the nightstand.

I pick it up.

I’m not great at messages like this. Military communication is simple. I work in bullet points and clear objectives and defined parameters.

Texting the mother of my son about pirate traps on the beach requires a different kind of precision.

I type slowly.

I didn't want to put you on the spot last night, but if Benjy is still planning to hunt pirates today, I'm free and would be happy to help if I wouldn't be imposing.