Page 23 of My Ex-Military Mountain Man

The simple truth of her statement loosens something tight in my chest. "Yes. Here you are."

Nicole shifts to sit up, the sheet pooling around her waist. In the golden afternoon light, her curves are accentuated, her skin glowing. She is, without question, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

"I can't pretend to understand exactly what you've been through, Jack," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "I've never been to war. I've never had to make the kinds of choices you've had to make." She pauses, her eyes dropping briefly before meeting mine again. "But I do understand wanting to be alone. Needing to be alone, sometimes."

She takes a deep breath, as if preparing herself. "I became a veterinarian partly because animals are safer than people. They don't judge. They don't mock. They don't tell you constantly that you'd be pretty 'if only' you were thinner."

The pain in her voice is unexpected, a vulnerability I hadn't glimpsed before.

"I was always curvier than the other girls," she continues, her hands unconsciously smoothing the sheet across her lap. "Always a little too much, according to... well, everyone. But especially my mother." Her voice catches slightly. "Every birthday, every Christmas, every accomplishment came with the same refrain: 'You'd be so beautiful if you just lost some weight.'"

Anger flares in me at the thought of anyone making her feel less than extraordinary. "Your mother said that to you?"

Nicole nods, a sad smile touching her lips. "Still does. Or would, if we still spoke. I cut contact three years ago, after she senta weight loss program as my graduation gift from veterinary school."

I sit up, taking her hands in mine. "Nicole, you are absolutely beautiful. Every inch of you. The thought of anyone making you feel otherwise..." The protective fury surprises me with its intensity.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears. "I know that, now. Most days. But those voices… They don't just disappear. They're managed, day by day."

The parallel isn't lost on me. Different traumas, different scars—some visible, some not—but the same daily work of keeping the past from poisoning the present.

"We're quite a pair, aren't we?" I say softly, reaching to brush a tear that has escaped down her cheek.

"Maybe that's why this feels right," she suggests. "We both understand what it means to build a life around certain wounds. To accommodate them without being defined by them."

I pull her gently against me, wrapping my arms around her as if I could shield her from those memories, those voices. She nestles into the embrace, her softness fitting perfectly against my harder edges.

"I can't promise I'll always be easy to be with," I murmur against her hair. "But I can promise to always see you—all of you—exactly as you are. Beautiful. Brilliant. Perfect."

She tilts her face up to mine, eyes still shining. "And I can't promise to always understand what you're going through. But I can promise to respect it. To give you space when you need it, and to be here when you don't."

The simplicity of these promises, their honest acknowledgment of our limitations and strengths, feels more meaningful than anygrand declarations could be. I lower my mouth to hers, sealing these truths between us with a kiss that speaks what words cannot.

When we finally separate, the light has shifted, the afternoon waning toward evening. Nicole sighs, a sound of contentment mingled with reluctance.

"We really should check on that eagle," she says.

"We should," I agree, though letting her go seems more difficult by the moment.

As we dress and prepare to return to our professional roles—sanctuary owner and consulting veterinarian—I find myself already counting the days until her promised return. Two weeks suddenly seems an eternity.

"One day at a time," Nicole reminds me, as if reading my thoughts. She reaches up to straighten my collar, the domestic gesture both unfamiliar and profoundly right. "Starting with one very determined eagle who needs her evening medication."

I capture her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "One day at a time," I agree.

And for the first time in years, I find myself looking forward to those days, rather than merely enduring them.

Two weeks later…

I pace the length of the main lodge's porch, checking my watch for the fourth time in twenty minutes. The gravel drive remains empty, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the sanctuary grounds. She's late. Or not coming.

Max, who has been watching me from his place by the door, tilts his head questioningly.

"I don't know where she is either, buddy," I tell him, feeling oddly comforted by the dog's presence despite my growing anxiety.

Nicole had left Max with me when she returned to Portland, claiming it made perfect sense for him to stay and "supervise the eagle's recovery" while she arranged things with her practice. I suspect she knew his companionship would ease the transition back to solitude. She was right.

The past two weeks have been an exercise in patience and trust. Daily video calls helped, Nicole's face on my phone screen becoming the highlight of each day. But doubt is a persistent companion, especially for someone accustomed to expecting the worst.

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