After parking his truck along a narrow street, John stepped out and adjusted his thick jacket around his shoulders. The weight of the Glock 19 under his jacket settled against his lower back. Always loaded. Always within reach. He never left without it, not because he expected trouble, but because he was trained to.

Peace of mind didn't come from flowers. It came from knowing he could protect what mattered.

The night air was crisp, carrying the distant sounds of laughter and music from a nearby pub. He barely registered it. His focus was set. Under his arm, he held a bouquet of flowers—a mix of roses and daisies, their petals soft and vibrant against the roughness of his grip.

He hadn't planned on buying them.

Hell, he wasn't even the type to stop and look at flowers, much less buy them. But as he passed by the display in the supermarket after spending time with Soap and the crew, something had made him pause.

Charlie would like them.

It would cheer her up, convince her enough to know that he wasn't acting distant or upset about yesterday.

The texts they'd exchanged earlier.

John sighed, running a hand down his beard as he crossed the street.

Texting. It wasn't his thing. He'd always been the kind of man who preferred direct conversations—face-to-face, or at least a quick phone call. No wasted words. No typing on a damn screen. But Charlie was young, a different generation from him.

Texting was second nature to her, and if he wanted to get to know her—really know her—he had to try.

Granted, his responses had been short, clipped, but he'd answered for her.

Charlie wasn't like him. She was softer, more open. A young woman who probably liked small, simple gestures. It wasn't that he didn't know how to be thoughtful—it was that he never had a reason to be. Not until now.

And so, against his usual instincts, he bought the bouquet.

Not because he had to.

But he wanted to.

As he reached and entered the apartment building, his grip tightened around the bouquet as his mind warred with itself.

Control yourself, Price.

He wasn't an impulsive man.

He had discipline—years of training, command, and war had made sure of that. But Charlie tested him in ways he never expected.

The way she smiled at him, the way she looked up at him with those chocolate brown eyes—it made something tighten in his chest, something primal that he had to keep in check.

She was beautiful and beyond—she made him feel and she reminded him of...

He stopped that thought but it still came.

Penny.

Not in looks and voice.

But in the same way she made him feel also.

Penny had been wild. Confident. A rich girl with a silver spoon and a heart full of fun. She was spoiled, yes—but not heartless. She pushed back on rules, pushed him. And for a while, she had made him feel like he could be more than what the world expected him to do of his future.

But Charlie wasn't rebellion.

She was gentler and cleaner.

Penny loved danger.

Charlie looked at him and didn't run.

He didn't know which one scared him more.

But as much as he tried to suppress it, he knew there was no way out the more he was around her. The harder it is for him to lose his grip of any ounce of his self-control. But between the ticking clock of his deployment and the reality that their time together was slipping away.

John adjusted the flowers under his large hand.

Six weeks.

How was he going to explain this to her tonight?

Should he give her the flower before telling her about his leave, or should he wait?

The thought of not seeing Charlie for a long time gnawed at him. He knew it was the same feeling he had before every deployment.

The acceptance that if he never returned.

Charlie would move on, of life going on without him, made something ugly twist in his gut. Inside of this closed mouth, he chewed inside of his cheek.

He knew better than to expect anyone to wait for him.

He'd seen it happen before—soldiers leaving for months, years, only to come back and find their girls had moved on—like a breakup or a divorce.

He never blamed them for it.

A man like him—someone whose entire life was built around war—wasn't exactly built for commitment.

Love was never on the table for him either.

His past experiences after Penny, if he could call them that, had been nothing more than casual flings and one-night stands between deployments. Temporary distractions before he was back in the field.

No attachments.

No promises.

Just the unspoken understanding that he belonged to the job first, that he was never truly theirs to keep.

Most women he slept with were picked up either at the bar or during his active duty when downtime allowed for a brief escape.

They were fleeting encounters—whiskey-soaked nights with lips he'd forget by morning, hands that traced over his tattoos but never asked about them.

Some were locals in places he'd been stationed, others were women who were in game, who knew better than to expect anything more than a few hours tangled in the sheets.

They were easy. No strings, no complications, no goodbyes that mattered.

John had never been the type to seek comfort in softness.

He knew what women saw in him—a man rough around the edges, someone who could take what he wanted and leave before dawn. And that works for him fine.

Because love?

Love demanded a part of him he didn't know how to give.

In fact, he wasn't sure if he'd ever had it—not truly.

Sure, there had been Penny Lockhart. The mother of his daughter, Cam. The woman he'd grown up with. 

Was that love?

Or was it just a fluke and an experience?

John had known her since they were kids. They ran in the same circles in their neighborhood, sticking together in good and bad times. She had been into much trouble than he was in their teen years. Let alone, she never wanted to go to law school nor go to college. All she wanted was to see what was out there and experience life.

And somehow, through the mess of teenage recklessness, she had been the first.

The first girl he'd kissed.

The first girl who had turned his world around when she told him she was pregnant.

And neither of them had been ready for that kind of reality.

John was barely sixteen, let alone how to be a father and to know how to step up. But Penny never blamed him, but her parents did. She cared about him, but her parents disapproved him because of his social status and barely finishing school.

The truth was, they were kids, and kids had no business trying to be parents. Until Penny was forced to leave London with their first baby to live in Virginia. It was a possible relocation, he remembered Penny have told him that, but there was another reason that her parents didn't want her and Cam around with John. That was right after he enlisted in the British Army.

They had kept in touch when they could, but they tried to work it out at the same time.

In truth of a matter, they were never in love.

They only tried because of Cam.

At first, it almost seemed like it could work.

They made an effort—tried to be in each other's lives, if not for themselves, then at least for their daughter.

They had calls—some short, some longer.

Penny would also update him on Cam's milestones, first words, first steps. She had always been good about keeping him in the loop, even sending pictures when she could. And John did his best to be present despite the distance.

Whenever he had leave, he'd fly out to see Cam, spending whatever time he could with her before duty called him back. But no matter how much he tried to make it work, it was never enough for Penny.

"You're always leaving," Penny had told him one night over the phone, frustration clear in her voice. "You think you can just pop in and out of Cam's life when it's convenient? Can't you do something different?"

"I'm doing the best I can," he had said, fingers pressed against his temple. He was stationed overseas at the time, dog-tired from a week-long mission, and the last thing he wanted was another argument.

"I know you are," she said with hint of exhaustion. "But it's not enough, John. I'm tired of being alone."

He'd gone quiet then, the comms line hissing with static between them. Thousands of miles apart, and yet she still found a way to make his chest feel tight. His hand gripped the edge of the metal cot he was sitting on, the cold biting through his calloused palm.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked quietly. "Walk away from everything? Just stop being who I am?"

"No, I just want you to want me more than the job." She hadn't said it cruelly. But That had gutted him more than he let on because if he couldn't admit it, she was right. 

The job was all he'd known how to give himself to.

John wasn't a father in the way Penny needed him to be. And the truth was, she wasn't a mother in the way Cam needed, either—not when she was overwhelmed, raising a child on her own without a father.

He remembered the day Penny had told him she was seeing someone, during a birthday party Penny threw for Cam, when she turned four years old. He remembered that bastard face well, who was three years older than Penny.

At first, he hadn't thought much of it.

He knew Penny deserved happiness. He wasn't selfish enough to deny that. But as time went on, the relationship between them became different since John hadn't been the jealous type, but when it came to his daughter, he didn't take chances when the bastard was around his child. And something about the man Penny was seeing didn't sit right with him either.

"He's good to Cam," she had insisted one evening, after John had questioned her. "He cares about her, and he's been helping me."

But John didn't give a damn about that. He wasn't about to let some other man raise his daughter.

So he did the one thing he never thought he'd have to do—he fought for custody.

It hadn't been easy since it was one of the ugliest chapters of his life.

Penny had been heartbroken, and her parents had been furious.

But John had stood his ground.

He didn't want Cam growing up in another man's house, calling someone else dad while he was out risking his life. He might not have been able to give her a perfect home, but he could give her one thing—a father.

The legal battle for custody had been long and brutal.

Penny had fought him at first, not out of malice, but because she didn't want to be alone. She was barely getting by, balancing odd jobs, raising Cam, and struggling under the weight of her parents' expectation.

She wanted to be a good mother, but the truth was, she wasn't built for it. Not in the way Cam needed. She had fought John not because she believed she could give Cam the best life—but because the alternative meant facing the fact that she wasn't enough either.

"You think you can just take her?" Penny had hissed at him once, gripping the edge of her chair in the courtroom hallway, her hands trembling.

John had kept his voice level, but his jaw had been clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack.

"She's my daughter."

"And I'm her mother."

"You're barely present," he shot back, his voice low, controlled. "You're out drinking, running around with some bloke I don't trust, and you want to tell me you're the best thing for her?"

She flinched at that.

But she didn't deny it.

They both knew the truth.

Penny's parents had tried to fight him on it, but the courts had sided with him. They had seen the police reports, the history of reckless behavior, the fact that Penny had left Cam with her mother more times than she could count while she ran off to escape the responsibility she never asked for.

And in the end, when the ruling was made, and John walked out of that courthouse with custody papers in hand, it was final. On Cam's birth certificate, his last name was the one that remained.

Price.

Not Lockhart.

Not a hyphenated mess.

Just Price.

It had always been that way, from the moment she was born. He may have been stationed overseas, but when it came time to sign that damn paper, his last name had been there all this time and she didn't tell him.

It turned out that she wrote her will behind her parents back since she won't let them keep Cam, if anything happens to Penny. Because from the start, there was never a question—Cameron was his. 

Penny had loved him more than he did to her.

Since the day he traveled back to London to give Cam a home—Penny had started to fade.

She still called for a while, still sent letters, but each one became less heartfelt. It was like she was erasing herself from both Cam and his life in slow motion, backing away before her daughter could remember her mother.

And then, the calls just stopped until that night.

John had just gotten back from a mission, exhausted, his body aching from days spent in the field. His phone had rung—an unknown number.

The voice on the other end was a paramedic.

A car accident.

Drunk driving.

Dead on impact.

He remembered he stood in silence, his phone still pressed to his ear. John had gotten the call in the middle of a briefing—blood drained from his face, ears ringing as the words droned into blur.

Twenty-three.

Penny had died at that age.

And now... Charlie was twenty-three.

When she told him her age that night in the booth, it had turned in his gut. 

The way she answered—soft, innocent but confused.

He never told Charlie why.

He knew a part of him was haunted.

And the other part? He was terrified that if he let himself fall, he'd lose her too. 

He knew Penny had always been running from something to fill the void inside her. And in the end, it had caught up to her. And he never wanted Cam to know the truth of how she passed. Too young to carry that weight that only he would for his own. Cam would never have to know how her mother had depression and chasing after fixes to make herself feel better or numb.

Penny had been his past.

Cam had been his responsibility.

And Charlie? He wasn't sure what to call it—what this was between them.

Every time he looked at her, he saw the future he never had with Penny. A second chance he didn't think he deserved. A softness he wasn't sure he could keep.

And deep down, if this was all going to fall apart, if war took him again, or if fate decided twenty-three was a cursed number. Then she deserved something better before his time is up.

All he knew was that it had been years since someone had made him feel.

Love wasn't about wanting someone—it was about needing them, and John had spent his whole life making sure he never needed anyone. Not after Penny passed on.

But would Charlie wait for him? Would she accept him unlike Penny?

What if he didn't come back, would she find someone else who wasn't always in and out of war zones? The realization unsettled him.

A part of him knew she deserved more than what he could give her. But the other part—the selfish part of him—hated the thought.

He had wet dreams of her—twice.

John scoffed at himself, shaking his head as if he could physically push the thoughts away.

He needs to focus.

With a sharp exhale, he began climbing up the stairs.

If I tell her now, would she be disappointed? John thought to himself. Nah, I should wait. I'll tell her when the time is right. It can't hurt to make memories with her before our time is up, just for an experience, right?

He'd made a decision.

He would spend as much time with her as possible, making every minute count. At least, he would have to teether himself not to become attached to her.

As he arrived on the third floor, his face twisted into a frown as he saw a young man standing outside her apartment.

He was in his mid-twenties, maybe a few years younger than Charlie.

He had a strong, athletic build, broad shoulders that filled out his dark jacket, and an air of easy confidence. His sharp jawline was firm, and his lips were slightly pursed as if debating whether to knock. Dark brown hair, cut short but slightly tousled, framed a face that could've been mistaken for charming if not for the tension in his expression.

John's sharp gaze took in the details—the way he shifted his weight and the almost restless energy in his stance. His smooth olive-toned skin, with a hint of ruggedness, caught the hallway light.

His grip on the bouquet tightened.

Who the hell is he?

The young man, still focused on the door, hadn't noticed him yet. Like he had a reason to be here, and John didn't like that.

Sharpened from years of military training, John approached with a cautious motive.

"Hey," John said, lowering his voice but keeping it firm. "Are you waiting for someone?"

The young man snapped his head towards John, his gaze narrowing as he assessed him.

"Yeah," he replied, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Charlie."

His blood turned to ice. He didn't recognize this man—he had never seen him before—but something about how he said her name made him uneasy.

"Are you a friend of hers?" John asked.

The man attempted a smile but didn't reach his deep-set brown eyes. "Yeah."

His jaw tightened as John scrutinized the young man. As he was about to press for more information, laughter echoed in the background.

John turned to see them approaching as Charlie and Hailey came upstairs on the floor before him and the young man. And when their quiet conversation was interrupted by their presence, causing her laughter to die and her steps to falter. Charlie was the first to stand still.

Her hair, a soft wave of golden strands, framed her baby face beautifully. She was wearing her floral Sunday dress, a well-fitted blazer, and the lightweight fabric gently as she stopped in her tracks.

Hailey, who had been animated moments before, stiffened, her posture becoming guarded.

"Michael?" Charlie said, her tone holding a hint of tension with surprise.

The young man smirked and walked past John as if he wasn't there.

"Hey, Char. You miss me?"

John acted quickly when something clicked in his mind.

The way he noticed Charlie reacted, his instinct kicked in.

When he grabbed his arm without a second thought, John noticed Michael shifted his gaze from Charlie to him.

"Leave," John said sternly.

Michael moved his hand from him and took another step towards John; his arrogance grew, and a sneer formed on his lips.

"Who are you? Her new toy?" He gave John a quick once-over. "Char and I have history—"

John interrupted him, his voice remaining calm and detached. "I won't say it again. Leave. Now."

"You don't get to make that call—"

Before he could finish, John grabbed the man's shirt, his fingers digging in tightly as he pulled him close. The young man's confidence faltered all of a sudden.

"Come near her," John spoke through gritted teeth, his voice cold and threatening with each word, "and I'll fucking bury you deep. No one will remember you exist."

Michael was struck speechless, unable to respond.

When John released his grip and forcefully pushed him away. His piercing icy blue eyes fixed on Michael. The young man stumbled backward, but he, too, glared back at John before turning away.

Charlie clutched her tote bag strap until her knuckles turned white. She watched Michael turn his gaze at her and him before he scoffed and disappeared down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell.

When he was finally out of sight, she released a shaky breath and looked at John. Part of him had been a heartbeat away from drawing. If Michael had made the wrong moves, reached for her, said the wrong thing, it would've taken nothing for John to react.

He hated that instinct. But he trusted it more than words.

She didn't say a word, and John exhaled through his nose before looking at her.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear until she found her voice.

"Y-yeah," Charlie said weakly.

"Let's go inside," Hailey quickly smiled and suggested, placing her hand on her shoulder to encourage her to relax. Though he could tell Hailey was spooked as well.

John stepped aside for Charlie to search through her tote, but she dropped the keys from her trembling hand.

He knew something was wrong.

Kneeling down, he picked up the keys and handed them to her.

Charlie looked up at him. Her cheeks became flushed all of a sudden.

"Thanks."

He nodded. John watched her unlock the door and they entered before he followed them behind.