The scars.
The nightmares.
The way he watched doors and windows.
The hidden gun upstairs.
This man had carried war home inside him.
And somehow…
he still loved gently.
Tears burned instantly behind my eyes.
“Hersh…”
His attention snapped back to me immediately.
Always me.
“What?”
My voice cracked softly.
“You were nineteen when you left.”
Pain flickered briefly across his face.
“Yeah.”
“You were just a boy.”
The entire tavern fell silent after that.
Because everybody in the room understood exactly what I meant.
Young men sent into hell.
Boys forced into monsters to stop worse monsters.
Hersh’s throat moved once hard.
Then quietly?—
“Not after Juárez.”
God.
The grief in those four words nearly dropped me to my knees.
I wrapped both arms around him instantly.
Tight.
Protective right back.
And for one tiny second?—
