Page 200 of California Wild

“I told him he did.”

Hayley swallowed. “What?”

“You.”

The world tilted.

Something inside her snapped.

Heath continued, “I told him that if he wanted you back—if he ever wanted to deserve you—he had to become the man you needed. The man you deserved.”

She stared at Heath, barely breathing, her mind racing back over every moment, every word, every fucking thing Jesse had said and done since coming back.

His sobriety. His discipline. His relentless self-control.

The way he had learned to walk away instead of spiraling. The way he had changed—truly changed.

Not for the SEALs.

Not for himself.

For her.

Jesse got sober to win her back.

Not just to win her—but to be worthy of her.

She let out a shaky breath, her chest tightening, emotions slamming into her so hard she almost doubled over.

Heath’s voice was softer now. “He didn’t get sober for the Navy, Hayley. Not even for himself.” A pause. “He got sober because you were the only thing he ever wanted to be good enough for.”

Tears burned at the edges of her vision.

She pressed her knuckles hard against her mouth, trying to hold it in, trying to breathe.

Because this changed everything.

Everything.

Jesse didn’t just want her. He had built himself from the ground up just to be worthy of her. Somewhere along the line, she had become his lodestar, and he would always—always—come back to her.

* * * * *

Hayley could lie and pretend she was forced to stay.

Blame it on exhaustion. On Heath’s insistence. On Natalie showing up with an overnight bag full of comfortable clothes and a knowing look that said, You’re not going anywhere tonight.

But the truth?

The moment she stepped into Jesse’s apartment, she didn’t want to leave.

She didn’t want to go back to the empty quiet of her own place, where every shadow felt like a memory waiting to drown her.

Here—here, it smelled like him. Felt like him.

Small but his. Cozy, lived-in, full of small things that told the story of the man he had become. A record player with stacks of vinyl. Books lined up on his nightstand, dog-eared and worn. A coffee mug with a tiny crack at the handle because he refused to throw it away.

And his bed.

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