Page 192 of California Wild

Heath didn’t push. Just kept working, the cool press of medical glue against his skin, his hands firm, steady.

Jesse exhaled, his throat tight. “She’s pregnant.”

Heath’s hands paused for the briefest second. Then—“Yeah?”

“I asked her to marry me.”

Heath’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “And that’s what you want?”

Jesse let out a sharp breath. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

Heath gave a small nod, eyes back on his work. “I’m happy for you, man. But I get it.”

Jesse swallowed. “I’m leaving her in a fucking mess. She’s pregnant, and I’m not gonna be there. I’ve got a friend who’s lost and vulnerable, and I should be looking for him, but I’m leaving for God knows how long. I have no choice. No fucking choice.” His voice cracked, frustration bleeding through. “And I don’t think either of them will truly understand that.”

Heath was quiet for a beat. Then, his voice even, steady—“Brother, you focus on the mission. Get back out there. Get on that plane. I’ll watch Hayley. I’ll help her. And I’ll find your friend. Just give me the details.”

Jesse blinked at him, throat thick.

“Heath, I—”

“It’s okay, bud.” Heath’s voice softened. “I got your back.”

Jesse inhaled sharply, blinking hard as he reached out, clamping a hand on Heath’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he rasped. “Thank you so fucking much.”

Heath just nodded, securing the last of the bandaging.

Then Jesse stood, tugging his shirt down, the weight of the job settling back over his shoulders.

One hour. He had one hour before wheels up. No fucking choice.

* * * * *

The C-17’s engines thundered to life, a deep, bone-rattling growl that vibrated through the steel floor, up Jesse’s boots, into his spine. The air inside the massive cargo bay was thick with the stench of oil, sweat, and metal, a scent so familiar it was almost comforting. Almost.

Strapped into the rigid canvas seat, Jesse adjusted his helmet in his lap, his rifle resting between his knees, barrel pointed down. The weight of his gear pressed into him—plate carrier snug against his chest, sidearm strapped to his thigh, comms secured. Everything in place. Everything ready.

Except his fucking mind.

He should be locked in, running through the mission plan in his head. Should be visualizing the objective, assessing contingencies, preparing for whatever shitshow they were about to walk into.

Instead—Hayley.

The way she’d looked at him.

The way her lips had parted, like she wanted to argue, to tell him this wasn’t fair.

The way her fingers had curled into the front of his shirt before she’d let go, stepping back.

She had let go.

And he had walked away.

Again.

The engines revved higher, the aircraft vibrating beneath him as the rear ramp sealed shut, locking them into the belly of the beast. The crew moved through final checks, shouting over the roar of turbines, securing cargo, strapping in last-minute gear. Around him, his team sat in their own heads, some silent, some bullshitting to break the tension, some adjusting their gear with meticulous precision.

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