Page 142 of Hide From Me

I’m me—every bruised, beautiful inch that Moe somehow loved before he even knew I existed.

Haha fuck you Lance, look who I am now.

We don’t say his name. We don’t think it. He’s gone for good, without a trace. The silence he left behind made it easy for Moe—without asking—to move in.

It all began the night of Caspian’s wedding. One bag of clothes, a toothbrush, and his boots by the front door, andsomehow, he never left. The place that used to smell like mildew and grief, and I couldn’t walk through it without feeling the weight of every bad memory pressing against my ribs. Now, it carries the scent of bergamot from candles I keep forgetting to blow out, the smell of burnt toast from Moe’s heroic but tragic attempts at breakfast, and a trace of his cologne on everything he touches.

He fixed the floorboards as if he were healing the place's bones. I painted the windowsills in colors I never used to allow myself to want—soft, hopeful, and ours.

The tires crunch over loose gravel as I park near the main building. The base is quieter than usual, with just a few soldiers milling about, clearly trying not to look like they’re watching me. I step out, paper bag in hand. Moe never remembers to eat when he’s buried in reports, so I brought him lunch. He’ll groan and accuse me of spoiling him, but he’ll eat every bite.

A couple of the younger soldiers nod as I pass. One of them, grinning far too widely for this early in the morning, leans toward the other and whispers,"Mrs. Lieutenant,"as if it’s the world’s most obvious joke.

I shake my head but don’t bother to correct him as I swipe my clearance badge. The scanner chirps, and the door unlocks, revealing the vast space I still haven't fully learned but am starting to feel comfortable in.

I push the office door open without knocking, expecting something dull. Perhaps paperwork, or Moe pretending to read a report while secretly watching Game of Thrones with one earbud in and a fake scowl on his face. Normal things. Predictable things.

Instead, I walk into chaos.

Jasmine lunges across the room as if diving for a grenade, her arms flailing as she tries—unsuccessfully—to block the monitor from view. In the process, Cordelia knocks over her coffee, the cup spinning in a half-circle before crashingto the floor. Moe stands frozen in the middle of the chaos, hands half-raised as if he’s just been caught red-handed in a heist he wasn’t prepared for.

“What the hell?” I blink at the scene, trying to take it in piece by piece. “Is this some kind of faction ritual I wasn’t invited to?”

“Abort!” Jasmine hisses, as if calling a code red. “Shut it down, shut it down—”

“Too late,” Cordelia mutters grimly as she grabs napkins to dab futilely at the spill. Her eyes snap toward Moe, as if she’s mentally preparing his eulogy—and not the flattering kind.

Moe groans like a man at the end of his rope and drops his head into his hands. “Goddamn it.”

I shut the door behind me and walk in slowly and cautiously, as if I were entering a crime scene where the suspect is still holding the weapon.

“Okay,” I say, stretching out the word. “What did I just walk into? And please, for the love of all things good and holy, do not say 'porn.' Because I will absolutely have to murder you in front of your coworkers, and I’d hate to ruin your new promotion.”

Cordelia snorts without looking up. “Hewishesit were that simple.”

“Don’t,” Moe mutters into his palms. “Just… don’t.”

I hold up the brown paper bag like a peace offering. “I brought lunch. But if you’re too busy committing felonies, I’ll just feed it to the men in the cellars.”

Cordelia doesn’t even attempt to stay; she’s already halfway to the door, backing away as if the room might implode. “I’m going to go check on the armory.”

“There’s a full-blown security team for that,” Moe replies flatly, not looking up.

“Cool. Then I’ll just go stare at the wall.”

And with that, she disappears, one hand on the door, one foot already halfway down the hall.

Jasmine lingers for only a moment longer, her expression a mix of admiration and regret. As she passes, she leans in, her voice low but unapologetic.

“I had nothing to do with this,” she whispers, wide-eyed innocence written all over her face. “But if a ring does show up in the next few weeks, pretend you’re surprised.”

I blink in confusion. “Wait, what ring—?”

The door clicks shut behind her before I can finish my question, and the silence that follows is deafening.

I turn toward Moe slowly, feeling suspicious. He’s sitting stiff at his desk now, pretending to type something, his cheeks tinged a telltale pink, and his jaw locked tight as if he’s expecting a missile strike.

I round the desk, moving slow and deliberate. “Do you want to explain why your entire team just scattered like they triggered an international incident by mistake?”

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