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“Ask what?”

“Whatever’s on your mind. You keep tracing that scar.”

Heat crawls up my neck—not in embarrassment, but like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t have.

“I…” I hesitate, my fingers still resting there. “I was wondering how you got it.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

When he finally speaks, his voice is steady, but there’s a shift beneath it, like a door opening deep inside him. I brace myself for the words to come.

“Knife wound during my first deployment.”

My breath catches as my shoulders flinch. It’s like I knew the truth, but I wasn’t ready to actually hear the words.

I lift myself onto my elbow so I can look at him properly, but his eyes don’t meet mine. His jaw tightens as he stares at my ceiling, drifting off into a memory.

“I was a thirteen-bravo,” he begins. “Field artillery. We weren’t supposed to be up close, but war doesn’t give a shit what your orders are.”

I nod, trying to understand the military language.

“I was twenty,” he goes on. “Green as hell, thought I was invincible and nothing could touch me.”

A faint, humorless curve spreads across his lips.

“That scar’s from a night patrol gone sideways. Too close of quarters. A guy came out of nowhere. I didn’t see the blade until it was in me.”

My stomach twists.

“Was it bad?”

He exhales through his nose, nodding. “It was pretty deep. The pain didn’t register as I slipped into shock. Like my body didn’t believe I’d been stabbed.”

I press my palm over his hip, like I can take the pain away, erase the memory from his skin.

“I didn't tell anyone back home.” He continues. “Didn’t want anyone to worry. Everyone was still grieving Dad, and I couldn’t add more to their plate. I had the medics patch me up and send me back out. I made Staff Sergeant faster than I expected after that.”

There’s bitterness in his voice, mixed with a small dose of pride over his accomplishment.

“By twenty-six, I was an E-6 with two deployments in. More men under me than I knew how to protect, but we managed.”

“What’s E-6?”

“It’s like middle management,” he explains. “Bridging the gap between junior soldiers and commissioned officers.”

Not quite understanding, I nod. I’m naive about the military and its ranking system.

“Wa-was it hard?” I ask, even though I know the answer. I’ve seen movies, seen the struggles of war, but I don’t know how to ask the questions. I don’t want to be insensitive, even though Jett would never judge me.

His eyes finally meet mine, and I see the walls building. “Yeah,” he says simply. “It was.”

I nod, swallowing roughly. “I think it’s safe to say war changes people.”

“In more ways than you could imagine,” he agrees. “Some parts change for the better. Others change you in a way you never get back. Dad forced me into this path, but a part of me enjoyed the challenge. I didn’t feel like I was worthy of anything else. When Dad died, a part of me felt closer to him. Even though he wasn’t Army, it was something we shared. The discipline felt like a punishment I needed, and it turned out I was good at it.”

“At what?”