The General

Chapter 5.

​The house was finally quiet, the kind of heavy silence that follows a storm of forced laughter and awkward revelations. Archer and Mallory had left an hour ago, retreating to their apartment with the same tactile, affectionate energy they had displayed all evening. Eliza had tucked herself into bed, exhausted by the emotional labor of hosting, leaving Briar alone with her thoughts.

​Briar’s mind was a chaotic loop of Mallory’s pitying smiles and Archer’s shrugs. Seeking an escape from the four walls that felt like they were closing in, she grabbed a pre-rolled joint from her nightstand and slipped out the back door onto the porch.

​The cool night air hit her lungs, a welcome relief from the scent of rosemary and chocolate cake. But as she rounded the corner of the wraparound porch, she froze.

​A massive silhouette sat on the top step, his back against a post. Even in the dark, the broad set of those shoulders was unmistakable. Victor.

​Briar winced slightly, the screen door clicking shut behind her.

"Sorry about dinner," she mum24bled, her voice barely a whisper in the cricket-filled night. "Although... I feel like you thought it was at least somewhat amusing."

​She moved toward the railing, the joint held between her fingers. Victor didn't turn around immediately, but the glowing cherry of a cigar in his hand signaled he’d been out here for a while. He gave a non-committal shrug, a silent gesture that didn't deny her theory.

​Briar struck a match, the small flame illuminating her blonde hair for a fleeting second before she lit the joint. She took a long, steady puff, letting the herbal smoke settle her nerves. As the light from the porch lamp caught him at a certain angle, she saw it- the black ink sprawling across his forearm, disappearing beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. It looked like a dense thicket of thorns and geometric patterns, intricate and dark.

​"Nice tattoos," she said, exhaling a plume of smoke. She hoisted herself up, pulling her weight onto the sturdy railing to sit, her legs dangling over the edge.

​"Thank you," he rumbled. His voice was deeper out here, resonant and steady like the hum of a distant engine. He didn't make eye contact at first, keeping his focus on the dark treeline, but then he slowly turned his gaze up toward her. "Do you have any?"

​Briar let out a slight, self-deprecating laugh.

"Yeah, but I couldn't exactly show you." She gestured vaguely toward the side of her hip, near her butt. "It’s a little heart. I was nineteen and thought it would be cute." She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. "Turns out, I’m not as 'hard' as I look."

​Victor gave a light, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes returning to the vast expanse of the night sky. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable; it was expectant.

​"The arrangement," he noted, his voice low and clinical. "It really bothers you."

​Briar let out a huff, taking another long puff of the joint. Her gaze followed his to the stars, the smoke curling around her head like a silver halo. She blew it out slowly, the bitterness of the earlier conversation returning to her tongue.

​"I used to think they were the epitome of love," she admitted, her voice cracking just a little. "I wanted what they had." She let out a light scoff, rolling her eyes at her own past self. "In a way, I guess I did get it. Travis certainly thought 'arrangements' were a great idea, he just forgot to tell me about it."

​She looked at the joint, then back at the man who looked like he was carved out of granite. "I mean, is it so hard to ask for complete loyalty? I want a family, kids, someday. My clock is ticking and I can’t exactly wait around for ten years hoping that the person I picked isn't just screwing around behind my back. I might as well swear off dating entirely- oh my god, Briar, stop talking."

​She slapped her forehead with her free hand, the heat of embarrassment flushing her cheeks. "Sorry," she added quickly. "I’m rambling. It’s the weed and the... everything else."

Victor didn’t flinch at her outburst. He didn't offer a polite, empty reassurance either. Instead, he maintained that heavy, grounding eye contact that made Briar feel like he was reading the fine print of her soul.

​"Don't apologize for having a code," he said. His voice was like low-octane fuel, steady and dangerous. "Most people trade their standards for company because they’re terrified of being alone. They call it being 'realistic.' I call it settling for a slow leak."

​He took a slow drag of his cigar, the orange glow highlighting the rugged line of his jaw and the dark ink that seemed to pulse against his skin.

​"You’re looking for something absolute," Victor continued, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he watched her. "In my line of work, absolute is the only thing that keeps you breathing. You trust the man to your left with your life, or you don't. There is no 'arrangement' when the stakes are that high. Why people think their homes should be any different is beyond me."

​Briar felt a strange hum in her chest. For hours, she had felt like the crazy one- the naive little sister who didn't understand how the "real world" functioned. But here was a man who had seen the darkest corners of that world, and he wasn't laughing at her.

​"Exactly," Briar whispered, taking another hit of the joint and exhaling toward the moon. "I don't want a part-time heart. I’d rather have nothing at all than something that only belongs to me when it’s convenient."

​She looked down at him, her legs swinging rhythmically against the porch slats. "Archer says I'm a romantic. Like it’s a bad thing. Like wanting to be the only person your partner sees is some kind of childhood fantasy."

​"Archer is comfortable," Victor rumbled, flicking a bit of ash into the grass. "Comfortable is easy. What you’re talking about is difficult. It’s a weight. Not many men are strong enough to carry it without looking for a way to put it down when things get heavy."

​"Are you?" The question slipped out before she could catch it. The boldness of the smoke was definitely taking hold. "Are you strong enough to carry that?"

​Victor went still. The air between them felt charged, a physical pressure that made the crickets seem to go quiet. He looked back at the dark line of trees, his profile sharp and unyielding.

​"I’ve spent twelve years carrying weights most people can’t even imagine, Briar," he said, his voice dropping to a register that made her skin prickle. "If I give my word to something- or someone, it’s etched in. Just like the ink. It doesn't wash off when the weather changes."

​He turned his head back to her, his gaze locking onto hers with a sudden, searing intensity. "But a man like that... he expects the same in return. Total. Unbroken. Most people find that level of expectation suffocating."

​Briar didn't blink. She felt a magnetic pull toward him, an attraction rooted in the fact that he spoke her language of extremes.

"I don't find it suffocating," she said firmly. "I find it... honest."

​A small, almost invisible curve touched the corner of Victor’s mouth. It wasn't a smile, but it was an acknowledgement. He stood up then, his massive frame unfolding with a predatory grace that forced Briar to look up even higher from her perch on the railing.

​He stepped closer, standing right in front of her. He was close enough that she could smell the tobacco, the faint scent of woodsmoke, and the clean, metallic tang of the military life he wore like a second skin.

​"Get some sleep, Briar," he said quietly. He reached out, his large hand hovering near her knee for a split second before he pulled it back, showing a rare moment of hesitation. "The world looks a little less bleak when you aren't staring at it through a cloud of smoke."

​"Goodnight, Victor," she murmured.

​He nodded once, a sharp, disciplined movement, and disappeared into the shadows of the house. Briar stayed on the railing for a long time, the joint forgotten in her hand. She looked at the spot where he had been standing, realizing that for the first time in months, she didn't feel like the only person left who still believed in loyalty.