Page 111 of California Wild

Jesse hesitated.

Because if he told her the truth—if he told her they played everything from punk to blues to old-school rock—he knew she’d make him pick up a guitar in front of her. And he wasn’t ready for that kind of humiliation.

“Mostly… dumb shit.”

She gasped, mock-offended. “Dumb shit? Do I look like someone who tolerates dumb shit?”

Jesse laughed. “You tolerate me.”

“Barely.”

He grinned, tugging her a little closer as they walked. “You’d like some of it.”

“Oh, I bet I’d like all of it.” She nudged him again. “You know I’m gonna make you play for me, right?”

Jesse exhaled, but his stomach tightened.

He didn’t mind the idea as much as he thought he would.

“Does your band have a name?” She asked.

“Sure does.” He grinned, baiting her.

They turned onto his street, the warm breeze rolling in off the ocean, the sound of waves crashing in the distance. The afternoon sun had started to sink, casting golden light over everything.

“And?” She demanded, stopping.

He stopped and turned to her. “The Hayley Fox fan club.”

And then he kept walking, faster than before, listening to her groaning behind him.

“I swear to God,” she said as she caught up. “And what will I have to do to see this in action?”

For a second, Jesse let himself believe this could be normal. That he could come home to this—to her. That this wasn’t temporary.

“Play your cards right,” he said eventually, squeezing her hand. “And you’ll hear one song.”

Hayley’s eyes lit up, victorious.

But Jesse already knew—she wasn’t going to let him stop at one.

* * * * *

The place was quiet when they got in—familiar, still, the way it always was after a deployment. Jesse watched Hayley drop onto the bed like gravity had claimed her, her body giving in the second she crossed the threshold. She hadn’t even made it under the covers. One arm flung over her eyes, her shoes strewn aside by the door.

She was out in minutes.

He left her there.

Unpacked the groceries slow. Systematic. Food in the fridge. Dirty dishes in the washer. Kitchen counters wiped down. The little mundane things that grounded him when the noise in his head got too loud.

Then he ran.

Six miles. Sand and asphalt. No headphones. Just his breath, his boots, the Pacific crashing somewhere in the distance. He pushed harder than he needed to. Let the burn in his legs chase away the memory of week five, of that kid’s eyes.

When he got back, the house was still quiet.

He showered, quick and hot, steam billowing up as he scrubbed the jungle from his skin. Pulled on boxers and sweatpants. Then moved into the kitchen and made dinner. Something simple—grilled chicken, rice, the ginger tea Hayley barely tolerated but still drank because he put it in front of her.

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