On Friday, the lovely Miss Amy said:
Isn’t this the best thing ever???? Lol, you should do a flash fiction based on the premise of the idea. What did she/he reply back??”
Why, yes. Yes, it is. Not to mention, I adore this woman something fierce sooo…
I wake up in the strongest embrace belonging to any mortal, anchored to the sturdiest chest on planet Earth. It’s been so long that the sensation almost feels foreign and yet, still intimately familiar because…
“I’m dreaming,” I hear myself sigh. I know I am since I’ve been dreaming this moment every night. Every single night for three months straight.
“You’re not dreaming,” my imagination answers, climbing the stairs, “but you are drooling on me.”
“Smartass.” Same as in real life. Exactly how I love him.
“Why were you sleeping on the couch, babe?”
I nuzzle into my fantasy and mumble, “We can’t sleep in bed without you.”
Everything stops dead. “We?”
“What the hell do you mean by we?”
My very real man is starting to tremble. He leans against the railing for support and groans, “Babe, please.”
I don’t think he’s going to remain standing. I don’t think it’s possible. Curling my fingers into the front of his desert tan t-shirt, I whisper, “Don’t drop us.”
My prediction is correct. He doesn’t remain standing. Tightening his hold, he turns and sinks down onto the steps, his arms cradling me with a tenderness so fierce it threatens to dissolve my soul. An eternity of silence passes by before he finally murmurs, “How far along?”
“Thirteen weeks.” I can’t help but smile. “Our goodbye fuck.” One of many.
“Don’t say that word.”
I reach up to cup his jaw, relishing the roughness in my palm. “What word?”
“Why not?” I laugh. “We did fuck, didn’t we?”
“No. Yes. No.” With a frustrated grunt, he shakes his head. “Just stop swearing, okay?”
Rolling my eyes at the ridiculous demand, I give his cheek a firm pat. A firm, condescending pat. “You swear all the time.”
Although I laugh again, I believe him. He’s already talking like a father.
And Daddy’s not amused in the least. He buries an agonized sound into my hair and chokes out, “I’m sorry.”
I don’t need to ask what he’s apologizing for.
As a Delta Force operative, there is absolutely zero contact once he deploys. The instant he steps foot out the door, he ceases to exist. He becomes a ghost. I never know when he’ll return home again and if ever he doesn’t…
I will never know why.
There won’t even be a body to bury. He’ll simply vanish into thin air. Gone. Nothing but a distant memory.
He’s apologizing for the past fifty-one days. He’s apologizing for the thousand more to come.
I want to tell him it’s okay. I really want to.
But I don’t.
Because the reality is that it’s not okay. It’s anything but okay. So I choose to sidestep the landmine and say, “You smell like Pine-Sol.”
He stiffens at my comment, unsure of how to react. A part of him is pissed I refuse to deal with the issue. A bigger part of him is relieved I let it slide.
At last, he releases a chuckle, rumbling low from deep inside his chest, which makes my heart constrict into a painful knot. I’ve missed him. God, how I’ve missed him.
“I cleaned the bathroom,” he explains. It isn’t necessary to elaborate. We’re both well aware it’s his way of assimilating back into civilization. It’s always the first thing he does.
And I always find it so fucking hot. Oops. I mean, so fracking hot or whatever. Semantics aside, “That really turns me on.”
Even as his molten honey gaze burns directly through mine, smoldering with countless hours of pent-up lust, his perfect lips settle into a stubborn, unyielding line. He doesn’t move to kiss me. He doesn’t move to do anything. He doesn’t move. Period.
“And, no, you can’t hurt the baby.”