Page 82 of Major Love

But suddenly a thought hits me and now it’s my turn to get hot under the collar.

Because I guess that I don’t haveallthe healthcare stuff.

I glance at her shorts before rumbling, “Is there anything else I need to grab from the pharmacy?”

She lifts herself back onto her elbow so that she’s looking down at me from the bed.

“You’d do that for me?” she whispers.

“If you need anything, I’ll do it.”

We aren’t saying the words out loud but she knows what I’m implying. I’ve never bought women’s health stuff before but I’m pretty sure I’d manage to find whatever she needs.

“I think I’ve got enough,” she whispers, “but thank you for offering. That’s… really sweet.”

I shake my head. “It’s the bare minimum. Let me go and grab some water and a couple painkillers.”

“I took some for the temperature earlier,” she rasps quietly. “I can’t take any for a couple more hours.”

I curse again and lock our fingers back together, thinking that maybe I should set up camp by her bedside.

She must know exactly what I’m thinking because she asks, “Are you sure you won’t get sick?”

I chuckle softly, squeezing her hand. “I don’t really get sick, baby.”

After over a decade in the Army, being exposed to so many different people and climates, my body learned pretty quickly that it needed to regulate to keep healthy. In those kinds of environments it’s necessary, because you can’t have sick-days in the middle of a mission. You have to eat good, stay strong, and keep as positive as possible, because it’s as much a mental thing as it is a physical one.

You have to be on the top of your game twenty-four-seven when you’re in the military.

Even if I did catch something, I’m confident it wouldn’t last long. I’ve dealt with some dire shit so a cold wouldn’t faze me too much.

But that’s not something that I choose to verbalise because talking about the Army with anyone other than a former soldier always brings questions.

So that’s why soldiers don’t choose to talk about it.

Because civilians don’t like the answers.

My gaze drifts back to Sunday’s and we watch each other in silence. I always feel like she knows what I’m thinking, which is probably why I start mulling over the idea of opening up to her about my time in the Army.

Sunday has always been the exception to the rule.

I bring her knuckles to my mouth and press a kiss to her warm skin, my stubble rasping over her smoothness and making her shiver for another reason entirely.

“I’m sorry you got sick,” I murmur. “And I’m sorry about… your crimson time.”

She laughs at that, until she hisses, her brow creasing in pain.

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispers breathlessly. “I’m sorry I caught a cold at the worst time of the month, and now we can’t go to the outdoor screening together. We’ve been waiting for, like, over a decade.”

I smirk at that and murmur, “What’s one more year?”

She laughs softly and my heart races because technically I’m not just talking about the movie night. I’m talking about us. I’m talking about the fact that we did our time apart and, no matter how long it’s been, we still feel the same.

One year, two, ten… our feelings never changed because we knew that it’d be worth the wait.

And even if she needed more time in Nashville, I could work with that.

Like I said – what’s one more year?

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