He leans up on his elbow and rests his head on his hand. “How many moments of weaknesses did you have?”

“What?” I ask, tears pricking in the back of my eyes. I can already hear the disappointment in his voice. “If you want to ask something just come out and ask, Dylan.”

“Did you drink while I was gone?”

“No.”

“Not even—”

“Nothing, Dylan. Not a drop. And to be honest I’m a little pissed—”

“I’m sorry,” he cuts in, sitting all the way up and bringing me to him. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I just worry. It has to be hard for you and I just don’t want anything to set you back, that’s all.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, my shoulders tense. “You have enough to worry about over there, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“I’m always going to worry about you, Ry.”

“What if I said that I had been drinking, or that I couldn’t handle it? What would it change?”

“I’d leave.”

“Leave what? Afghanistan? You don’t have a choice!”

“The military.”

“Don’t be dumb.”

“Wow, Ry.”

“You can’t leave the military, Dylan. It means too much to you. And I wouldn’t let you.”

“You won’t let me?” he asks incredulously. “I hate to break it to you, babe, but if I had to make the choice between you and the Marines, I’d choose you. Every time.”

“That’s not what I want, though!” I shake my head, my gaze lowered when he finally releases me. “Dylan, that’s not what I want this relationship to be—you always watching out for me, worrying about me, giving up your life for me. I’m so much stronger than I was when you met me. And you helped me become that. I don’t want to go through the rest of my life knowing you’re watching my every move and me walking on eggshells always afraid I’m going to disappoint you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he mumbles, his finger on my chin forcing me to look at him. Then he smiles. “The rest of your life?”

“Huh?”

“You said the rest of your life. So you plan on being with me forever.”

I roll my eyes. “I thought that was obvious, Dylan, and that’s not the point. The point is—”

“The point is you love me and I love you and we really suck at talking.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. “We really do.”

He grasps my shoulders, bringing us both back to our lying positions. “Dad told me he showed you some letters—the ones my mom wrote him while he was deployed but never sent?”

I nod against his chest.

“I never got any letters from you.”

I sit up slightly. “Were you expecting them?” I ask, my heart dropping.

He smiles, moving the hair away from my eyes. “I was. But now I know why and I get it.”

“You do?”

He nods, pulling me back down to him. “Did you write to me?”

“Maybe.”

A smile pulls on his lips. “Are you going to show me?”

“One day. Maybe.”

“That’s good enough,” he says, then changes the subject. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“I have work—”

“No you don’t.”

“What?”

“I didn’t tell you?”

I roll my eyes again. “Tell me what?”

“Eric organized for you to have the time off while I was back. They were all in on it, too.”

I sit up quickly, pick up my pillow and throw it at him. “Shut up!”

He groans, his eyes shut tight. “Quit throwing shit at me.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he says through a chuckle. “But I don’t know anymore. Maybe you should go to work.” He puts the pillow back in place. “I think my life’s safer in Afghanistan.”

“Dylan,” I deadpan. “Seriously? I don’t have to work?”

“No. For the third time. I wanted you all to myself.”

I pick up the pillow again because, obviously, I do stupid shit when I’m excited.

Before I have a chance to throw it, he takes it from me, throws it across the room and grasps both my hands, flipping me onto my back at the same time. His entire body covers me, his hands holding mine above my head. “I told you to quit throwing shit, Riley.”

I giggle and try to squirm out of his hold, knowing full well it’s useless. He’s too strong, too demanding.

“Quit fighting it,” he says, using his knees to spread my legs apart. He settles between them, his hard-on rocking against my center.

I lean up and kiss him quickly. “What’s my punishment, Lance Corporal?”

He groans from deep in his throat, dipping his head. “Aren’t you sore?”

“A little,” I admit.

“Need me to kiss it better?”

I nod.

He smirks.

Then his phone goes off.

Dave: What are you doing, handsome?

Dylan: Gettingxmoney and ducking bitches.

He throws his phone across the room.

Then he kisses me better.

So much better.

Thirty-Eight

Dylan

I can’t tell you how many times I tried to remember her exactly the way she is; sleeping peacefully on her stomach, her hair a mess, her mouth parted, her breaths even.