Page 2 of Eternally London

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” I nod.

“Okay.” London places a soft kiss against my chest. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I mindlessly trace circles against her smooth skin as her breathing slows. A silky lock of her hair falls onto her cheek, and I gently swipe it back. I take in her peaceful face, just visible from the faint early morning light. I envy the serenity that surrounds her.

I’m happier than I’ve ever been. This life that London and I have built is nothing short of a gift. I’m blessed to wake up to this woman every day. It’s a privilege to be on the receiving end of her endless love. It’s a life, until recently, I never knew was possible, and I’ll never take it for granted. Not a minute of it.

Yet the truth of it is that the nights are still hard. When darkness covers the earth and my head hits the pillow, I lose all pretense of control. My mind is an unguarded vault, a tomb filled with horrors that too often escape and terrorize my nights.

It’s a reality I’ve learned to live with. Nightmares don’t come every evening. They vary in severity, some easier to swallow than others. I manage…pretty well, I’d say. I’m luckier than most.

I hate that I woke London tonight. I try not to burden her with my dark thoughts. Not that she would mind. Honestly, I’m sure she’d rather know, so she could help me. She’d do anything for me. But it’s not a weight she needs to carry because the fact is, there’s nothing she can do about it. It just is what it is. My life will always contain flashbacks, regrets, and pain. One can’t see the things I have and just forget. But I try to make each day count, to give back, to help.

As I lie here, holding London in my arms, I listen to her shallow breaths. I press my face into her hair, smelling the scent of her new shampoo. In the silence of dawn, I hear the deep sound of the repetitive drum of her heart—a heart that beats for me.

She is the light amid so much darkness. My sanctuary isn’t a place; it’s a person. London will forever be my safe haven. She has no idea, but she continues to save me each and every day. I like to think that I’m strong—maybe I am—but even the mightiest of men need a reason to fight, and London is mine.

When I walk into the house, I hear the keys on the computer clicking away as London talks to someone on speakerphone, and I immediately recognize the voice as her friend Kate, who lives in California.

“Oh my gosh! I know, right?” London says in a valley girl voice.

London sees me and tells Kate that they’ll chat later.

“Hey, babe. How was work?” she asks cheerfully.

“Great. How was your day?”

“Awesome. I’m almost done with this article, and I got a job in Savannah in two weeks. Do you think you’ll be able to get some time off and come with me?”

“I think that can be arranged.” I plop down on the couch beside her, kicking my feet up onto the coffee table. “It still amazes me how you can type one thought while talking on the phone about something else. I can’t do that.”

“I’m gifted. What can I say?” She shrugs before closing her laptop and setting it down beside her.

She throws one of her legs over my lap to straddle me. “Your fatigues are a major turn-on,” she tells me, pulling on the collar of my uniform.

I smile. “I know. You tell me daily.” I wrap my hands around her waist.

“That’s because, every day, I’m reminded of how hot my husband is.”

London bends forward, bringing her lips to mine. Her mouth lightly touches me, and my heart skips a beat before it begins to accelerate.

This inherent connection I have with London has always been present. Even at the very beginning when it was unwelcome, it existed. She’s mine, and I’m hers. There’s not a doubt in my mind that we’ll always be together.

Our lips move together, slow, purposeful, void of any urgent desperation. After almost a year of marriage, her kisses still light a bright fire within me, rendering me incapable of thinking about anything other than her.

Even without her kisses, she’s perpetually on my mind. I carry her with me wherever I go and in whatever I do. She’s my constant, my life.

She pulls away, and a soft groan escapes us both.

“There’s nothing more I’d like to do than take these hot-ass fatigues off you and show you just how much they turn me on, but…”

“But?” I quirk up a brow.

“I’m starving,” she states simply. “Like, my-stomach-is-about-to-eat-my-other-organs starving.”

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