TEN
Haven
He said I needed to eat first…but he needed to shower after a day at work.
And so did I, of course.
That was how we ended up in the shower—my leg hitched up around his waist, Wyatt’s lips on my throat as we went another round just a half hour or so after the tack room. I stayed in his arms afterward, shaking, my fingers gripping his muscular back as he breathed harshly against my pulse.
I felt the scars…shrapnel wounds, had to be.
After, he gave me one of his t-shirts, which I accepted even though I’d brought a set of my own PJs like a weirdo—then I sat at the small wooden kitchen table while he got out ingredients to cook. He moved around the kitchen with a surprising amount of familiarity, which I guess shouldn’t have beenthatsurprising given that he’d been living alone this whole time.
Still, it surprised me.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“Za’atar,” he said, setting a jar of spices on the counter.
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Za’atar chicken,” he says. “It’s a Middle Eastern spice blend. Herbs, sesame…a little sour. You’ll like it.”
“Well, that sounds fancy.”
“It’s really not,” Wyatt chuckled. “Just a recipe I picked up.”
He started mixing the ingredients in a bowl: yogurt, lemon juice, the spices, garlic. I watched his hands move, how deft he was, knowing how gentle and how rough those hands could be.
“Who taught you?” I asked. “Or do you just watch a lot of Food Network?”
He was quiet for a second. Kept cooking, didn’t look at me.
“Hm—guy I served with,” he said. “Ethan. His family was Lebanese on his dad’s side, used to talk about food the same way some guys talk about cars.” A pause. “Said if he ever got home, he was going to open a restaurant.”
“Did he—” I started.
But I didn’t finish—knew I didn’t have to.
He didn’t say it like Ethan had made it home.
Wyatt covered the bowl and put it in the fridge, then ran his hands under the tap. I sat there and didn’t say anything, because what the heck were you supposed to say to that?
Finally, he dried his hands and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms.
“The scars,” he said. “I know you’ve noticed.”
I frowned. “Just…I’ve been touching you. Happens.”
He hummed. “Wanna know?”
“Of course I do,” I breathed.
He turned around again, pulled a sheet pan out from under the oven, put it on the counter. I just—waited.
Then he talked again.
“IED,” he said. “Outside Fallujah, 2004. We’d been running the same supply route for six weeks…same road, same checkpoints, same order of everything.” He pulled the chicken out of the fridge, setting it on the counter. “Gets routine. That’s when it gets dangerous.”
