Page 2 of Always You

“I know,” I said, and his smile faltered a little, and he seemed puzzled for a moment, probably imagining that I was familiar somehow.

“It’s okay to come in. We don’t ask for names or?—”

“Jazz,” I blurted and coughed, remnants of the freaking viral shit that had landed me in the hospital.

He looked confused; then, his hand dropped, his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. Was he still going to welcome me in after sending me away twenty years ago? Was this the moment he slammed the door in my face again after telling me I was nothing to him? After a moment’s pause, he reached for me, gripped my wet-through coat, and dragged me into the house,closing the door behind me, then setting me back so he could check me out.

He was lost for words.

And I didn’t have a single damn thing to say.

Chapter Two

Alex

Jazz was almost unrecognizable.

His steps were hesitant, his shoulders hunched. He gazed at something beyond me. Broken. Lost. The shock of realizing it washim—my Jazz—jolted me as I stared, but my training kicked in, pushing past the initial shock. I’d seen many veterans come through those doors, each with their own ghosts, but this wasJazz—it was personal. When they emerged from the pockets of his worn jacket, his hands trembled—not only from the cold, but from a deeper, more pervasive chill that seemed to cling to him. When they finally met mine, his eyes were like windows to a soul that had seen too much, a deep well of pain and fear.

My heart broke.

I didn’t mean to send you away. I loved you.

Get your head straight, idiot, before he runs.

I cataloged what needed to be done. His cough rattled in his chest. Existing? New? Dangerous? Had he seen a doctor? Should I be taking him straight to a hospital? He wasn’t going to go anywhere with me.

First, a warm, welcoming space, a smile, no need for names—although he’d told me his—and now a hot drink, a meal, something to ease the chill that wasn’t only from the snow. Then, a quiet conversation about immediate needs: clothing, a shower, medical attention perhaps.

His appearance spoke volumes—the unwashed hair, the layer upon layer of clothes to keep out the cold, and a familiar distant look I’d seen in so many eyes. His beard hid most of his face—bushy, long, unkempt—but I knew him, and the lines etched by both time and trauma spoke of sleepless nights and unspoken fears. These were signs I’d become all too familiar with in my work here. I knew the routine, the steps to take, but with Jazz, it felt different, more urgent.

I had to tread carefully, respecting his pride while offering help, and it was a delicate balance, ensuring each person didn’t feel as if they were nothing more than a case, or another number. Every person who came here for help had their own story of service and sacrifice. But Jazz wasn’t justanyindividual—he was a part of my past, a part I thought I’d moved on from, the very reason Guardian Hall existed, and here he was, standing in front of me.

Okay. I can do this.

A door slammed somewhere in the building, startling Jazz. He stumbled a couple of steps until his back hit the front door, already searching for a way out. His posture was a study in wariness. His gaze darted around the hall like a cornered animal’s..

He unpeeled his fingers from the door handle, and I waited; then he stepped forward, another bout of coughing catching him between steps.

Note one, get Marcus here.

Every action he took was measured and cautious. The heavy burden of experiences too harrowing to articulate weighed himdown as if the simple act of walking into an unfamiliar space was laced with potential danger.

He was startled again, but I hadn’t heard a noise—even in this sanctuary, a place designed to offer comfort, safety, and as much hope as we could give,, Jazz was edgy, battles raging inside him that he’d never left behind, where conflict extended far beyond the battlefield.

“The kitchen…” I murmured, and he winced and stopped walking. I took a couple of steps back from him, toward the open kitchen door, inviting Jazz further into the building. “We can help,” I encouraged gently, leading the way to the heart of Guardian Hall—the kitchen. At last, he followed me, then waited in the doorway. I noted the way he scanned the room, a soldier’s instinct to assess his surroundings.

“It’s big,” he whispered.

I smiled. The wide, welcoming garden room extended from the back of the building. Big skylights showed the snowy sky but let in sunshine when possible. The old but well-maintained stove radiated warmth, soft and gentle—nothing too hot for a person who’d become hardened to the cold. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee lingered in the air.

“It’s my favorite place,” I said with another smile, gesturing at the collection of mismatched sofas in one corner, clustered around a coffee table, with a large bookcase crammed full of books to one side. “I sit there and read when I can.”

“You like it when it rains,” he blurted.

At first, it didn’t make sense, but then I realized what he meant. He remembered that I loved to sit and listen to rain on the windows, tucked up on a sofa reading. He’d sit next to me, back then, playing with my hair, stealing kisses, trying to drag me away from my books, but never trying too hard, content to curl up with me and fall asleep on my shoulder.

Grief flooded me.

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