The General

Chapter 14.

​The cool night air of Lower Falls hit Briar like a physical weight, a sharp contrast to the thick, humid heat of the pub. The neon glow of the bar’s sign buzzed behind them, casting a rhythmic red pulse over the sidewalk. Briar had taken Victor’s advice- "slow and steady" but the cumulative effect of the tequila and the vodka-cranberries had finally caught up with her. She wasn't stumbling, exactly, but the world had developed a soft, blurry edge, and her heels felt significantly taller than they had three hours ago.

​Archer stood by the curb, his arm wrapped tightly around Mallory’s waist. Mallory was leaning into him heavily, her head lolling against his shoulder, a sleepy, satisfied grin on her face. The couple looked exhausted by their own brand of fun.

​Archer’s eyes, usually bright with mischief, were softened by the drinks and genuine concern as he looked at his sister, then up at the man standing like an iron pillar behind her.

​"Sir, I can trust you can take her home safely?" Archer asked, his voice losing its usual bravado. It was a request from a brother to a commander, a rare moment of absolute sincerity.

​"Of course," Victor said.

​The two words were clipped, final, and carried the weight of a sworn oath. Victor didn't need to elaborate; his word was a contract.

​Archer nodded, relieved, and maneuvered Mallory into the back of a waiting cab. As the door slammed shut and the car pulled away into the quiet, tree-lined street, the silence of the night rushed back in.

​Briar snorted, the sound uncharacteristically loud in the stillness. She let out a soft, melodic giggle that vibrated in the cool air, her body swaying dangerously before she found the brick wall of the pub for support.

​"Trust you," she murmured, her eyes finding Victor’s. They were hazy, but full of a strange, liquid warmth. "He trusts you. Mom trusts you. Even the sourdough trusts you. You’re probably the most trustworthy person in this town currently."

​Victor turned toward her, his silhouette cutting a jagged line against the dim streetlights. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his posture rigid. "Most people find me intimidating, Briar. Trust isn't usually the first word they use."

​"Pfft," Briar waved a hand dismissively, the movement nearly sending her off-balance. She caught herself, leaning her shoulder further into the rough brick. "You don't intimidate me. Not really."

​Victor’s brow arched, a rare show of curiosity. "No?"

​"No," Briar said firmly, though her voice was soft. "If you wanted to intimidate me, you would’ve done it by now. You’ve had plenty of chances. You’ve seen me at my worst- covered in flour, nearly getting tackled by my i***t ex. But you just... stand there. Like a mountain."

​She paused, her head tilting to the side as she studied him. The alcohol had stripped away her filter, leaving only her innate kindness and a touch of that stubborn Smith sass. "You’re just a... bear. You’re a bear, Victor."

​Victor actually froze. The man who had faced down insurgencies and navigated high-level tactical nightmares looked genuinely stumped. "I’m a bear?"

​Briar nodded solemnly, her blonde hair shifting over her shoulder. "Yeah. Because in the wild, you’re all scary. Huge. Powerful. Everyone is afraid of you because they know you could crush them if you wanted to. But in a home..." she trailed off, her voice dropping to a drunken, intimate register. "In a home, you’re like a teddy bear. You’re a protector of sorts, I suppose. A very grumbly, very serious protector."

​The silence that followed was different than the one before. It was charged, heavy with the things Victor never said. He took a slow step toward her, closing the distance until the heat of his body began to fight off the night chill. He looked down at her- at the way the pink silk of her dress shimmered, at the flush on her cheeks, and at the naive, sweet honesty in her eyes.

​His hand rose slowly, his fingers uncurling as if to brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek. His touch was hesitant, a stark contrast to his usual military precision.

​Just as his fingertips were an inch from her skin, a loud, obnoxious honk shattered the moment.

​A yellow cab pulled up to the curb, its headlights cutting through the amber dark. The driver peered out, waiting for his fare.

​The spell broke. Victor’s hand snapped back to his side, his jaw tightening as he looked toward the car. The invisible boundary he had spent years building was back in place, though perhaps a little frayed at the edges.

​"That’s us," Victor rumbled, his voice returning to its granite-like stability.

​Briar sighed, a small sound of disappointment that she didn't quite have the sense to hide. As she tried to push off the wall, her knees gave a traitorous buckle. Reflexively, her hand shot out, grasping the dark charcoal fabric of Victor’s sleeve. She needed something to hold onto- something that wouldn't shift under the weight of the tequila.

​"Easy," Victor murmured.

​As her fingers tightened on his sleeve, Victor didn't pull away. Instead, he reached down and gently disengaged her hand from his shirt. But he didn't let go. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, pressing his own hand firmly over hers. He effectively guided her so that she was holding onto his arm-a solid, unyielding anchor; rather than just a handful of fabric.

​"Hold on," he commanded softly.

​"I am," Briar whispered, her fingers feeling the hard, coiled muscle of his forearm beneath the shirt.

​They walked toward the cab in a slow, synchronized dance. Briar focused on the rhythm of his boots hitting the pavement- thud, thud, thud, using him to gauge her own balance. For someone who had spent the evening feeling judged by Mallory’s "realism," being tethered to Victor felt like the only real thing left in the world.

​He opened the door for her, his hand hovering near the small of her back to ensure she didn't trip on the curb. Once she was safely inside, he slid in next to her. The back of the cab was cramped, forcing them together. Briar’s head felt heavy, and without really thinking about it, she let it drift down until it rested against his shoulder.

​The cab smelled of cheap air freshener and old upholstery, but Victor smelled like home.

​"Victor?" she asked, her voice muffled by the charcoal fabric of his shirt.

​"Mmm?"

​"I'm glad you're the bear in my kitchen," she murmured, her eyes fluttering shut as the motion of the car began to lull her. "Better than a sniper on the roof."

​Victor stared out the window as the streetlights flickered by, his hand still resting near hers on the seat. He didn't answer- he wasn't a man for empty reassurances, but he shifted his weight just enough to make her more comfortable, acting as the stabilizer he was born to be.

​"Sleep, Briar," he said, his voice a low, soothing vibration in his chest. "I’ve got the watch."

​And as the cab wound its way through the quiet streets of their small town, Briar finally let the darkness take her, knowing that no matter how many lines were blurred, the man beside her would never let her fall. He was the standard she lived by, and tonight, he was the only home she needed.

​When they finally pulled into the gravel drive of the Smith house, the world was silent and silver under the moon. Victor paid the driver and then turned to the sleeping woman beside him. He didn't wake her with a start. He simply reached out and brushed her shoulder.

​"Briar. We’re home."

​She stirred, her eyes blinking open, looking confused and beautifully disheveled. "Home?"

​"Home," he repeated.

​He helped her out of the car, his grip firm as she navigated the gravel. The house was dark, Eliza likely long asleep. They climbed the porch steps, the wood creaking under Victor's weight.

​At the front door, Briar fumbled with her keys, her coordination still lacking. Victor stepped in close, his large hand covering hers as he took the keys and expertly slid the right one into the lock. He turned it with a soft click and pushed the door open, ushering her into the warm, familiar scent of cinnamon and old wood.

​"Thank you, Victor," Briar said, leaning against the doorframe as she stumbled through the doorway. "For everything. The bakery... the bar... the arm."

​Victor stood in the entryway, the moonlight through the side windows catching the scars on his knuckles. "It’s my job to look after the team, Briar."

​Briar gave a drunken, knowing smile. "I'm not on your team, General. I'm just the baker."

​Victor looked at her for a long, silent moment, his gaze tracing the lines of her face as if memorizing a map.

"You're more than that," he said, the words so quiet she almost missed them.