Page 10 of Open Secrets
His arm comes around me, pulling me against his chest. He holds me the way he always does — steady, protective — even when he’s the reason I’m breaking.
“When you went MIA,” I whisper, my voice cracking, “I thought that was it. You were dead. They were going to find your body and I’d have to tell the kids. Tell your parents.”
My hand drags down my face, nails scratching skin, trying to ground myself. “And then this thought hit me. If you died… I wouldn’t have been the last person who kissed you. Or held you. Or loved you. Someone else would’ve had that.”
His arm tightens around me.
“I know it’s a stupid fucking reason,” I go on, breath hitching. “Who even thinks that, when their husband might be dead? But once it was there—it wouldn’t leave.”
His hand slides to my thigh holding steady. “I have the same thought,” he says, voice low. “Every time something bad happens. Or anything, really.”
I turn toward him, blinking through tears, a fragile smile tugging at my lips. “What?”
He shrugs, eyes flicking away. His jaw clenches like saying more will cost him.
“I haven’t really… done the whole open thing in a while,” he admits finally, voice rough. “I mean, I did before. But after the team—”
I catch his hand, gripping it tight, anchoring both of us.
About roughly, a year ago, Lyle and his team were ambushed during a mission. I wasn’t told all the details but I can guess, considering six went in and only two came out.
Silence stretches between us. Heavy, not empty.
“Do you ever wish we’d never opened it?” I ask. My voice is soft, but the question lands like a hammer.
Lyle’s eyes flick to mine, then away. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
My chest tightens. “Me too. More than sometimes.”
His thumb rubs over my knuckles, distracted, almost absent. “At first… I thought it was freedom. No more being alone or struggling.”
I swallow hard. “And now?”
He exhales, long and tired, and leans his forehead against the side of mine. “I hate it,” he says. “I hate the thought of anyone else touching you. And I hate myself for letting it happen.”
The words crack something in me. Tears spill hot and fast. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you asked for it,” he says simply. “And I’d rather share you than lose you.”
The sob I’ve been holding breaks loose. I try to cover my mouth, but he pulls my hand away, forcing me to look at him.
“Never again,” he says, fierce. “We don’t do it again. I don’t care what it costs. I’d rather fight with you, just you, than lose one more second to anyone else.”
I smile through my tears, “what will you say to the buddies that worship you for our marriage?”
“I know I already said this,” he murmurs through a sigh, “but I’m so sorry about what Markus said.”
“I get he’s hurting,” I say. “I feel for him. But honestly? I’m glad you punched him.”
He huffs a short laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I sniff, a laugh slipping out despite myself. “You remember the last time you punched someone for me?”
He finally smiles — small, crooked, real. “How could I forget?”
Twenty-Four Years Ago – Galveston, Texas. 2001.
“Hey,” Lyle said, sliding into the passenger seat of my car. “What was so important you drove all the way to Galveston?”
