My breath caught. I thought he was going to ask for the rings back. I had kept them in a small box on my nightstand, unable to wear them, unable to put them away.
But instead, Lucas pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It was yellowed with age, the edges frayed.
“When I was in the dark,” Lucas said, his voice meant only for me, “when Voss’s people kept me in that cell, I survived by remembering a note you left in my duffel bag before our first deployment.”
He unfolded it and slid it across the wooden table.
It was my handwriting. Hurried, scrawled in blue ink.
If we survive the impossible things, remind me that an ordinary, boring life was the dream.
I looked at the note. I looked at my brother, laughing as he struggled to balance on his cane while flipping a burger. I looked at my mother, who had finally learned that appearing perfect was a cage. I looked at my own scarred shoulder.
And I looked at the man who had died to save me, and clawed his way back from the grave to find me.
There was no grand sweeping romance. No movie-ending kiss. Just the raw, jagged reality of survival, and the choice to build something out of the wreckage.
I reached into the pocket of my jeans. I pulled out the tungsten ring and slid it across the table toward him.
“Put it on,” I said softly.
Lucas stared at it. His hands shook as he picked it up and slid it onto his left ring finger. It fit perfectly.
I pulled out the silver band and put it on my own finger.
It wasn’t a restoration of the past. It was a promise for whatever came next.
“So,” I said, leaning back and taking a sip of my iced tea. “Are you going to help my brother, or are we eating charcoal today?”
Lucas smiled. A real, genuine smile that reached his stormy gray eyes. “I’ve got it, Captain.”
He walked over to the grill, bumping shoulders with Ryan.
