“Must be stifling,” I say.
“It is.” Something more serious crosses his face. “I wish they trusted me more. To make my own decisions. Live my own life.”
“Trust can be earned,” I tell him, thinking of my time in the military, of the bonds formed when lives depended on mutual trust. “But it takes time. And consistency.”
“Yeah?” He looks at me through the steam rising between us. “Did your parents trust you?”
“My parents expected perfection.” I don’t know why I’m sharing this, but something about being here, isolated from the outside world, makes it easier. “Trust wasn’t part of the equation. You either met standards or you didn’t.”
Wyatt studies me with new interest. “Military family?”
I nod. “Dad was Air Force. Mom ran the house like it was a base. Everything had to be regulation. Beds made with hospital corners, shoes polished, back straight.”
“Sounds intense.”
“It was just normal for me. Didn’t know any different until I went to friends’ houses and realized not everyone lived that way.”
Wyatt’s eyes drift to my chest, to the dog tags resting there. “Speaking of military,” he says, gesturing toward them, “you never take those off, do you?”
My hand instinctively rises to touch the metal tags. “No, I don’t.”
“Why not?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re not active duty anymore.”
I hesitate. This is veering into territory I don’t normally discuss. But Wyatt is looking at me with genuine curiosity, not the morbid fascination I sometimes get from civilians wanting war stories.
“They’re a reminder,” I say finally.
“Of the service?”
“Of discipline. Self-control.” I rub my thumb over the raised lettering of my name. “Things I sometimes struggle with.”
“You? Struggle with self-control?” Wyatt shakes his head. “You’re like the most controlled person I’ve ever met. Sometimes I think you’re a robot.”
“There was a time when I didn’t have such tight control.” I meet his gaze steadily. “When I let my…urges get the better of me.”
“What kind of urges?” He’s watching me intently now, his breathing visibly quicker.
I don’t answer immediately. Part of me knows I should change the subject, steer us back to safer territory. But another part, the part that’s been wound tight since Saturday, wants to push this further.
“The kind that lead to chaos,” I say finally. “The kind that can destroy what you’ve built, if you let them.”
Wyatt shifts on the bench, the towel tenting more visibly now. I don’t look at it directly, but I’m aware of it. Just as I’m aware of my own body’s response to this conversation.
“And why do they need to be controlled? These urges.”
Heat that has nothing to do with the sauna crawls up my neck. “Because I was raised to believe that control is everything. That discipline is what separates men from animals.”
“That’s not an answer.” His eyes haven’t left mine. “Why doyouthink they need to be controlled?”
The directness of his question catches me off guard. No one asks me things like this, forces me to articulate beliefs I’ve held for so long they’ve become part of my foundation.
“Because without control, without boundaries…” I trail off, searching for words. “Things fall apart. People get hurt.”
“Did you hurt someone?”
“No.” I shake my head. “But I could have. I came close.”
We stare at each other, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore his gaze, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips, the way his chest rises and falls more rapidly than the heat justifies.
