Page 15 of Served

As I drive home through the quiet streets of Deepwood Mountain, tears are sliding down my cheeks—not from sadness, but from suddenly feeling something other than grief for the first time in years.

Happiness shouldn’t be this frightening.

So why am I so scared?

CHAPTER 6

FELIX

I reach for her before I’m fully awake, my hand finding only cool sheets where Letty’s warm body should be. The disconnect jolts me into consciousness.

“Letty?” My voice comes out rough with sleep and something like fear.

Silence. Daylight stabs through the curtains and I sit up, scanning the room, hoping to spot her in the bathroom doorway or by the window.

Then I see it—a folded piece of paper on her pillow. My heart plummets before I even read a word. This is a move I know too well from my own past life: the classic morning-after escape.

I unfold the note and begin to read, her elegant handwriting slanted across the hotel stationery.

Felix,

I need some time to think. This feels overwhelming in the best possible way, and I have to be sure I’m ready. Thank you for last night—for everything.

—L

Not goodbye, at least. Just a pause.

Thank god.

I drag a hand down my face, the sheets tangled around my waist, still damp and smelling of our musk. My cock stiffens again as memories of last night come flooding back—her sighs as I kissed down her throat, the way she came screaming my name, how she’d clung to me afterward, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

Best sex of my goddamn life, hands down.

Fuck.

Every instinct screams at me to call her, to track her down at the food truck or her house and make sure she’s okay. The Marine in me wants to charge into battle, to fix this, to win. But that’s the old Felix.

This Felix—the one who survived when his squad brothers didn’t, and who has learned that patience isn’t weakness—knows better. If she needs space, I need to respect that.

I shower mechanically, the water scalding. I press a palm to the tile, head bowed. The phantom pain is bad this morning, a burning sensation where my calf should be. Stress tends to aggravate it.

My phone buzzes with a message from Troy about final Memorial Day preparations. The ceremony is tomorrow, and there’s still work to be done on the tribute display. It’ll be a welcome distraction.

Be right there, I text back.

At the community center, I throw myself into arranging the photos and mementos that families have contributed. Each one represents someone who didn’t come home, their loved ones carrying their memory like I do Gordy’s.

My fingers linger on his photograph—cocky grin, eyes squinting in the sun, desert sand in the background. The man who loved Letty.

“You okay?” Troy asks, coming up beside me with a stack of programs.

I nod, carefully placing the frame on the display. “Yeah. I know this particular Marine, is all.”

Troy’s quiet for a moment. “Letty’s husband? Really? You served with him?”

“Same squad.” My throat constricts. “Great guy.”

Troy’s eyes flash. “Does Letty know?”

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