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A/N
Hey readers! If you want to set the vibe for this chapter, hit play on below. It's the perfect backdrop for that scene.
Enjoy!

https://youtu.be/sRUf30Afcyo

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After John pulled into the small parking lot outside of Pizza Hut. He stepped out from his side and headed to her side and opened the door. 

Charlie gave him a quick smile after he helped her down and they walked together side by side.

The smell she picked up suddenly was coming from inside the place where it was melted cheese and freshly baked crust wafted coming from the entrance. John stepped further and opened the door for her to step in before him.

The place was a comfortable mix of warm lighting and casual chatter. Booths lined the walls, each filled with customers enjoying their meals, and a few families were scattered among the tables. With the music playing of Driver by Incubus through the speakers somewhere in this place, it wasn't loud nor hard to hear since a hostess greeted them before leading them to a booth near the back, away from the louder tables. 

John motioned for Charlie to slide into her seat first before he did, sitting across from her. The waitress approached with a notepad in hand.

"What can I get you both to drink?"

"Root Beer," John said firmly with a quick glance.

"Water," Charlie added with a quick smile.

The waitress nodded and disappeared, and she turned her attention to John. He leaned forward and his arms rested on the table as his sharp and icy blue-like eyes settled her. Her chocolate eyes glanced at his hands, they were large—strong, with rough skin that told numbers of his years spent in the field. The veins along the backs of his hands were faint but visible, running beneath tanned skin like rivers carved through stone. His fingers were intertwined together and hands clasped.

What would they feel like? Against my own. The thought sent a small shiver down her spine, one she quickly glanced up at his face and his hair. Deep brown, almost like chestnut under the lighting of their booth. Thick and neatly trimmed, shorter at the sides but left long enough at the top to have a bit of a tousled look—whether intentional or simply the way it is for him. A few strands has shifted out of place.

For a moment, she wanted to smooth them back into place.

She needed to focus.

"How old are you?"

"Uh—what?" Charlie blinked, caught off guard by this sudden question.

He didn't repeat himself. Instead, he waited. Silence creeped in between them and it made her hesitated, unsure why he would ask her that question, but his cold stare made her answer.

"...I'm twenty-three."

John stared at her before his eyes hardened. He looked away briefly before he let out a quiet, low chuckle. Not the warm kind. It was hollow. Dry.

"What?" She almost frowned, confused.

He finally looked at her, smirking, but his jaw clenched.

"You're one year younger than my daughter," he answered casually.

She blinked, and he looked away again. The silence returned for a second long, and Charlie felt it. She opened her mouth to ask but didn't. He just straightened in his seat, shifted his gaze to her, and moved on.

"When is your birthday?"

"Uhm... two months away."

"December?"

"Yes."

John hummed. "Guess how old I am."

She raised her brows. "You want me to guess?"

"Go on."

She pressed her lips and frowned, almost in concentration. "Um... thirty-five?"

John arched an eyebrow, and slowly smirked. "Try again."

She squinted at him, taking in the sharp lines of his face and his beard with some hints of silver linings.

"...Forty-six?"

He scoffed and shook his head. "Seven notches. Forty-six minus Thirty-five."

Charlie blinked, processing his words before the math clicked. Her eyes widened.

"Thirty-nine?"

He nodded.

Charlie blinked at him twice. She couldn't believe it after hearing his actual age.

Sixteen years apart.

Her mouth almost opened but closed it when she couldn't believe it still. She thought he was much older than in his late thirties.... or maybe a little bit in mid-thirties. She knew Hailey would flip out if Charlie updates her after this 'supposed' dinner date. He hadn't left his eyes from her. When his smirk faded, his expression gave nothing away. She could tell something about her age had set him off. Almost.

"You don't look like it," she said softly before she could stop herself.

"Is that so?" John said, raising his eyebrow in a skeptical way.

"I mean—you don't look... you know, old," she said before looking away, feeling warmth creep up her neck.

He chuckled heartily while shaking his head and looked away again briefly before her. "Appreciate the flattery, sweetheart."

"It wasn't flattery," Charlie said quickly and glanced back to him, her cheeks still burning.

"When I was eighteen, I took my first life."

After that, there was a pause, his words carrying a bitter truth. 

As the music played, she bit the inside of her cheek, considering what to say next. She had received a rare opportunity—something John was not known to offer. It was a chance to ask anything she wished, without restriction, and to learn more about the man seated opposite her.

"What did you do?" she asked slowly.

"You don't want to know," John answered solemnly.

She inhaled, then exhaled.

"Okay," Charlie started slowly, "then what's it like being a dad?"

"Different," he replied even. "Not something I planned for."

Charlie titled her head, curious. "Did you raise Cam?"

"No. Her mum and her parents had her most of the time. I wasn't around when Cam was born."

The way he said it, she picked up on the edges of restraint in his tone. He wasn't going to hand her everything all at once, but he would give her enough that Charlie wouldn't step into something sensitive that John isn't ready to open up yet.

"What was your partner like?"

His lips pressed together briefly before he answered, "Penny." The way he said her name was neutral. Not warm—just a simple statement. "She was... wild but good. We grew up together."

Charlie tilted her head. "Friends?"

He nodded.

"We knew each other since we were kids," his fingers tapped against the table before he continued, "Didn't mean to happen the way it did between us."

Charlie stayed quiet, letting him say what he was willing to.

"She got pregnant when she was fifteen and had Cam when she turned sixteen before I was," he said bluntly. "And before I enlisted."

Her stomach flipped. It was hard to imagine the man sitting in front of her—a hardened soldier—as a teenage father.

John seemed to read her thoughts because there was no real humor in it. "We didn't think about the consequences back then. Just did it. Hell, I don't remember how I got her pregnant but I guess we got drunk and got carried away. Maybe that's it."

Charlie nodded, taking in details of his words before continuing. "And... what about her parents... do they like you? Do you keep in touch with them?"

"No," he said sharply.

She nodded again, silent. She could picture it. Her parents disapproving of him, seeing him as a reckless boy with no future. Charlie never saw the side of John being the type of man that middle-class parents wanted for their daughter.

"They didn't think I was a best fit for her. Let alone, I'd be able to provide," he admitted. "Didn't come from much. And I'd already joined the infantry by then. They didn't see stability in that either."

She frowned. "That's not fair."

John shrugged. "Didn't matter what they think. I did what I had to do."

Silence stretched between them for another long beat, and Charlie hesitated before asking another question.

"Do you regret it?"

"No," he answered.

Charlie exhaled, nodding. "Does Cam know?"

"Some of it. Cam lived with her mum's side when she was born, but we were close." His voice dropped, a little bit more rougher as he continued, "When she turned eighteen, we fell apart and we didn't speak for years after she left London to go live with her late mother's grandparents and joined the Navy after..."

"... your disapproval?" Charlie finished his sentence.

"Yes."

She wanted to ask more, but the way he leaned back and crossed arms. Something told her that was enough for him to talk about it. Instead, she offered him a small smile.

"What happen to Penny?"

He paused, there was silent. John cleared his throat before he answered, "she died from an accident. Drunk driving."

"Oh," her heart sank after her smile faded. "I'm sorry to hear that."

John shrugged. "It was her choice, we tried to work it out. But it was our breaking point to where Penny wanted to be with somebody else and I fought to get Cam into my custody. I don't like someone raising my daughter while I am on the ground."

"I think you did fine," she said absently.

John lifted a brow at her response.

"I mean, Cam seems like she turned out alright," she added quickly, "so you couldn't have been that bad of a dad."

Something unreadable flickered in his gaze before he leaned forward and rested his hands over his arms.

"I'll take that as another compliment," he said. "But you cannot tell Cam about her mother. Can you promise me?"

Charlie blinked again. "Why?"

"Trust me. It's best that I'll handle it myself one day."

Before Charlie could press further, the waitress returned with their drinks, setting them down with a polite smile. "You ready to order?"

John gave her a curt nod before glancing at Charlie. She looked at the menu quick and answered, "Large pepperoni and sausage? We can share."

He shrugged casually as a way of saying, "yeah" to her choice since John rarely eat pizza. At least, it was a good outing to eat with someone rather than eating alone.

She moved her glance to the waitress and said, "Large pepperoni and sausage, please."

The waitress nodded, jotting it down. "Got it. Anything else?"

"We're good," she said last with a smile.

As the waitress walked off, Charlie sipped her water before setting it down near her. There was still a small knot of worry that had been sitting in her chest ever since she found out about Cam. And the way that he was watching her, his sharp eyes unwavering as he took a slow sip of his root beer. He was waiting for her to say more.

Charlie hesitated before mustering the courage to ask more, "Do you think... Cam would have a problem with me? Because I'm... you know, seeing you?"

He didn't react right away. John set his drink down before he leaned in again.

"That what you've been worrying about?" He said, his authority bleeding into his tone.

"I mean, I just—" Charlie paused, shifting in her seat under the weight of his stare. "She's my age, John. I know she's already thinking it's weird."

"And?" John said, unimpressed.

Her lips parted, caught off guard by how blunt he was about it.

"I don't want her to hate me."

John frowned. "Cam's not the type to hate someone without reason. And you? You're not givin' her a reason."

"But what if—"

"Stop," he interrupted her. "Thought we had this discussion or do I need to remind you?"

Charlie frowned back at him. "What are you talking about?"

"The day I asked why you were interested in me."

It took her a minute to think back days ago. She remembered now. The curiosity he had warned her would kill a bird, a figurative of speech that he knew she would ask him too many questions in one setting, only in return, it would kill a bird like her.

"Oh," she muttered, glancing away. "I remember."

"Then say it."

Her heart skipped a beat at the way he commanded. When she looked at him again, he was serious.

She swallowed and said, "I wanted to know you. A genuine connection, not convenient."

"And that's why we're sittin' here," John said firmly. "Because I knew you weren't playing games, Charlotte."

She felt her face warm. He made it sound like it was final, like she had already earned her place.

"But what if she thinks bad about me?" she pressed nervously.

John shook his head, his jaw tightening for just a second before he softened. "She might have opinions, but at the end of the day, it's not her choice." His voice dipped lower in the end. "It's mine."

Her breath caught in her throat. That shouldn't have made her stomach flip the way it did. The way he said it like once he made a decision, he stuck by it. And he expected her to accept it.

"Stop worrying about things that haven't happened yet," he told her, voice steady. "And stop tryin' to decide what Cam thinks before she even tells you herself."

Charlie nodding slowly. The knot in her chest loosened (just a little).

As the waitress returned with their pizza, they watched her set the tray down between them and left their table. Charlie exhaled, grateful for a small distraction. She watched John picked up a slice and took his first bite.

"You gonna eat, sweetheart? Or keep stressin' over things that don't need stressin'?"

Charlie huffed, rolling her eyes before reaching for her own slice.

"Bossy," she muttered.

John smirked. "Someone has to."

She didn't answer. As she took a bite, she hadn't realized how hungry she was until now. They ate in silence for five minutes until John finished a piece and picks up another slice before he began.

"Your thesis."

Charlie froze mid-bite and set her slice down. "Oh... right. That."

"Forgot, didn't you?" He teased.

She sighed after she placed her pizza down. Grabbing her backpack, she pulled out her laptop and push the screen up and it lit up. She knew her thesis needed work—she just wasn't sure where to begin. Scrolling through the document, she frowned. The words were there, but they didn't feel right. It was like trying to assemble a puzzle with missing pieces, and no matter how many times she went back over it, something wasn't clicking.

"You really wanna go over this now?" Charlie glanced at him.

"I said I would, hadn't I?" He said after chewing and swallowing a bite size piece.

She pursed her lips before moving her laptop to where they can look at the screen together. Her fingers lightly tapping against the trackpad.

"This," she said, motioning toward the title at the top, "is what I've been working on. My thesis is on proxy wars and how they contribute to global instability. But the more I work on it, the more I feel like I'm running in circles."

He leaned in, scanning the screen. His eyes flicked across the document, his face impassive as he read. Silence stretched and she chewed on her lip, waiting. She was watching how his face became concentrated while he was eating. In about five more minutes, he finished eating and looked at her.

"You're struggling with structure."

"What?"

He motioned toward the laptop. "Your points are scattered. You're writing like you're trying to justify too many things at once."

Charlie frowned, staring at the screen before him. She knew what she wanted to say—she could argue her points out loud, but somehow, when she tried putting them on paper, it never came out the way she intended. The ideas were all there, tangled together in a way that made sense in her head but didn't translate onto the page.

"I'm trying to highlight how proxy wars are preventing real resolutions," she explained. "If politicians actually put effort into diplomatic solutions instead of funding conflicts, there'd be a real chance for peace."

John stared at her before glancing back at the screen and her. "Then say that."

Charlie blinked. "I—what?"

"You're talking circles in your writing," he said simply. "But when you just now explained it to me, it's clear. If you can say it like that, then write it simple and straight to the point."

She pulled her laptop closer, staring at the screen. The words blurred before coming back into focus. She knew what she wanted to argue—she just wasn't sure how to make it work. Every time she thought she had it figured out, the arguments slipped between her fingers like sand.

"By the way, that's naive also."

Charlie blinked before looking at him. "Excuse me?"

"Politicians don't want resolution. Proxy wars aren't just happening—they're designed."

"But that doesn't make sense," she said after crossing her arms. "Why would they want to keep conflicts going if they could just—"

"Control," John cut in. "Wars make money. Proxy wars are just a way of fighting without getting your own hands dirty. They keep tensions high, economies fueled, and alliances in check."

"That's... awful."

"It's the truth," he said without a beat.

She blinked before glancing back at her screen after he slide the laptop back to her. "So, what—you think diplomacy is pointless?"

"Not pointless," he said evenly. "It's not as powerful as war."

"That's messed up."

"That's how it works in a real world, Charlie girl."

"But there has to be a way to fix it."

He shook his head and continued, "You think the world works the way you read in books? It doesn't. People like to believe war ends. That peace is something you can achieve permanently. But war and peace don't mix together like oil and water. They never have."

She hated that answer.

She hated how final he made it sound.

"I don't get it," Charlie muttered, looking at her laptop and him. "How can people be okay with that? Knowing the world is stuck in this never-ending cycle?"

John leaned in more to where his eyes hadn't left her still. "Because it benefits them."

She blinked twice.

"Politicians play dirty. Wars aren't about who's right or wrong. They're about control, power, greed, and keeping people exactly where they want them." He said sternly. "Peace is a pretty word. but it's never been a reality."

Her chest tightened, a mix of frustration and reluctant understanding settling inside her.

John watched her for a moment before nodding toward her laptop. "Fix your argument. Be direct. If you want to make a case, make it count."

She pulled her laptop to her side but her thoughts spiraling as his words settled heavily in her mind. Charlie stared at the screen, but the words she wrote became a blur. Her brain caught between two beliefs—one logical, the other emotional. Her logical side whispered that John was right. Wars weren't waged for righteousness, that behind every conflict was a web of reasoning behind the chaos. The evidence was there. She had read the articles, studied the political maneuvers, seen the patterns in war zones where diplomacy had failed time and time again. And yet. Her heart rebelled against it.

It shouldn't be this way.

There had to be a way out. A solution. Something that stopped bullets from flying before they left the chamber. But no matter how much she wanted to believe in that hope, his words wouldn't let go of her. They clung to her, dragged her into a world she had never faced. She had never stood in the places he had, never felt the weight of a gun in her hands, never been forced to pull the trigger and live with the consequences.

She swallowed hard, trying to clear the tightness in her throat. 

Before she could get lost in her own head, Charlie blurted out the question that had been burning in the back of her mind.

"How do you know all of this?"

John set his drink down with a quiet thud. His gaze leveled with hers, steady as stone.

"I was there," he said simply.

"You mean—"

"I've seen it," he clarified. "Proxy wars, political plays, backdoor deals—call it whatever you want, but I've been in places where men and women with suits sign papers and we carry rifles to clean up the aftermath."

Charlie felt something sink in her chest. "So you think there's no way out?"

"No."

She hated that answer too. Her fingers drummed lightly against her keys, struggling to piece together what she wanted to say.

"Doesn't that—" she said, struggling to piece together what she wanted to say, "bother you?"

He watched her carefully. Then, after a beat, he smirked—not in amusement.

"Course it does," he said. "But feeling bad about it doesn't change a damn thing."

"Then what does?"

His lips pressed into a firm line. He didn't answer immediately, and for a brief silent, she thought he wouldn't until he said a word.

"Survival."

That was his answer.

It made her stomach twist, like his short answer have stabbed her right in her stomach or more in her heart. Her idealistic approach to diplomacy went into clash against his view of 'no-such-thing-as-humanity-in-war' type of set. She watched him pick up his third slice of a pizza and ate big bite. He was waiting for her to either understand or challenge him. She swallowed past it.

"That's all it comes down to?" she asked, almost softly.

"Once you put on the uniform and pick up a weapon," he said, voice quiet but stern, "that's it."

Charlie opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"I know what you're thinkin'," he said nonchalantly.

"No, you don't," she said, shaking her head quickly.

"You still wanna believe there's another way," he said, his eyes darkened all of a sudden.

Her heart clenched. She watched him set the pizza down and grabbed a handful of napkins to wipe the food remain on his fingertips. All of a sudden, he sighed hard and the way his shoulders held tension—all of it told her exactly what he wasn't going to do to change her mind. Charlie glanced down at her untouched laptop again. The words of her thesis stared back at her like they were mocking her. Like they were written by someone who had never stepped foot in the world John had.

"I've lost people," John said suddenly.

Her eyes snapped back up to him.

"I've watched men and women I trained with bleed out in places they never should've been. I've heard 'em beg, scream, and go spiral mentally. And for what? To gain more votes from the people we fought to protect their union? Freedom? Order?"

She was silent.

"Peace comes with a price, Charlie. It always has. It's paid for with blood. Not negotiations. Not pretty speeches in fancy rooms to stop wars," he continued. "It's bodies in the dirt. And sometimes, you don't get to decide if it's yours or the poor bastard across from you. It's why I didn't want my daughter to go through it," he paused and he hadn't looked away, as if reading her thoughts. "Didn't want her to end up like me."

Her breath hitched, making her chest ached in a way she didn't know how to explain.

"But it doesn't matter now. Cam made her choice."

"But it mattered to you," she said, her voice softer.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he took another sip of his drink and set it down. "Doesn't change the fact that I can't undo what she's seen."

Charlie felt something sharp wedge itself in her throat. Her fingers itched to reach across the table, to place her hand over his, but she didn't. She wasn't sure if he would let her.

Instead, she settled for meeting his gaze. "You didn't want her to lose parts of herself, right?"

John exhaled through his nose, a quiet scoff.

"Aye," he muttered, almost to himself. "Guess you do listen."

She stared at him. Her hands curled against her lap, fingers gripping the fabric of her jeans. A part of herself will admit that she had never been in the battlefields but she felt his pain. Closed pain. It wasn't because John wanted pity. Plus, the half remains of the pizza between them sat untouched, forgotten.

Somehow, she didn't know what to say anymore—not because she didn't have anymore questions, but because she felt insignificant despite learning from someone, like him, who knew the horrors and the real war behind the political table. Charlie felt the shift in him—the way he looked at her. His gaze pinned her in place, sharp with icy stare.

"You're naïve," he said, blunt as a blade.

She flinched at his words, but she didn't look away. "That's not—"

"You don't understand." His voice was steady, cutting through her protest before it could take shape.

Her fingers curled into fists more to where she almost felt pain within her palm. "I—"

"Unless you step into my shoes," he continued, his tone dark, "you'll have two choices: kill or be killed. You'll never understand what we have been through."

"That's not fair," she almost hissed.

John exhaled, the weight of his breath heavier than before. "Fairness has nothing to do with it."

"But I want to understand," she said without looking away.

He tilted his head again, like he was measuring her words and weighing the sincerity in them.

"You want to?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "You wouldn't last a day in the real world if you keep thinking you could 'fix' it."

She hated the way her heart clenched at his words. At the way he spoke like she was still a child who didn't know better. "So I'm just supposed to—what? Accept that there's no hope?"

John chuckled darkly. "You accept that the world isn't as clean as you think it is."

She pressed her lips together, feeling heat crawl up her throat—frustration, helplessness. But what unsettled her more than anything was the fact that he wasn't angry with her. It was more like he was dragging her into cold-world reality, forcing her to see the difference between what she had learned and what he had lived. The school hadn't taught her what war was like outside from the safety realm.

When her gaze flickered downward, her mind racing, trying to piece together something—anything—to argue with him. But she couldn't. Because some part of her, no matter how much she didn't want to believe him.

She barely registered it at first until the light pressure against her foot. Her gaze snapped down and up.

John hadn't moved, hadn't even looked like he had done anything. But his boot had nudged against hers under the table. She wasn't sure if it was from the conversation or the way he was peeling her open. The heat in her chest spread lower. She couldn't move. Couldn't think.

"You're not built for war, love."

The way he said love was different than usual.

It wasn't teasing.

It was a quiet affectionate.

Charlie swallowed, her pulse hammering in her ears. "But you are?"

His smirk was slight but unreadable. "Yes."

The weight of his boot stayed against her foot, unmoving. Solid. Or maybe holding her there. She tried to steady her breathing, but it was impossible. She watched him leaned forward a little more while his arms still resting on the table. The weight of his presence pressing down on her. He wasn't just sitting across from her; he was towering over her, even without moving. She could barely think, let alone form words. Charlie turned her glance from him to the pizza between them. The cheese had cooled and the crust no longer steaming. But she felt his boot pressed a fraction more against hers, not enough to hurt her toes—but enough to remind her he was still here.

"Look at me," he said, voice firmer now.

She did.

"What's goin' on that head of yours? Hmm?" He asked gruffly. His eyes were dark. They weren't searching—they were pulling her in.

Her pulse quickened and she began, "I... I don't know. I can't make sense of this thesis I'm working on."

John didn't move. Kept staring at her to where it forced her to keep going.

"I don't think my professor been into war, like you have. I mean, I want to understand what is going on around us. I wasn't trying to be ignorant, John. But... I—I feel the pain through you." Her voice cracked just a little. "I may not understand everything you've seen or been through. But that doesn't mean I'm not naive. I wanted peace. We all wanted peace. But..."

"These theories and lessons you learn from your class. They don't mean a same thing when you're out on the field," John said, his tone dipped harshly. "Trust me, I've been serving since I was sixteen. I've endured enough horrors, been kidnapped, tortured, and survived to stay alive. I've lost touch with humanity a long time ago."

Her heart was hammering from the way he spoke. The way he looked at her like she was fragile, but not in a way that meant he'd coddle her.

"I don't want you to understand, Charlie," he said, voice rougher now. "I don't want you anywhere near it."

Her throat tightened.

"I don't want you to know it's like to be covered in someone else's blood," his eyes burned into her. "I don't want you to ever carry that weight that I have."

His words weren't just for her thesis anymore. She wanted to tell him that she was okay. That she could handle what he was saying. But that would be a lie. Charlie felt his boot pressed a little more firmer against hers. Just when she thought he was holding her in place, he growled. Almost like it stole the air from her lungs.

"I'd burn the whole fucking world down before I let it touch you."