This is Just a Dream

Chapter 19

The sun was cresting over the horizon, painting the college town in hues of bruised peach and gold, when the notification chimed on Eden’s phone. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, bird-like rhythm that echoed the anxiety of the last three days. She had spent the better part of seventy-two hours in a state of suspended animation, waiting for the results of the final, grueling teaching block that stood as the last sentinel between her and her degree.

She tapped the screen, her breath hitching as she navigated the portal.

Pass. Pass. Honors.

The words seemed to vibrate. A sob, sharp and jagged, ripped from her throat, followed immediately by a laugh that felt like a dam breaking. She was done. The sacrifices, the late-night study sessions fueled by adrenaline and grief, the crushing weight of trying to build a future while standing on the ruins of the past—it had all coalesced into this one, singular, definitive victory. She knew that Adam would be proud.

Her first instinct, the reflexive pull of her heart, was to share it with the man that had planned this future with her but then reality hit when she found his contact in her phone that that man was no longer here, he was a memory, he was a pillar of who she was. She sighed with a heavy tug at her heart for a man that was a memory but she knew that she could tell Garrett, the man who had been her silent partner through the rubble of her life after the loss of Adam.

She opened their thread. She didn't bother with the tactical banter today.

I passed, Garrett. Every single one. I’m officially moving into the final stage.

She paced the length of her living room, her hands trembling as she set the phone down. The space felt too small, the air too thin. She felt a desperate, clawing need to be close to him, to see that stern, unyielding face soften into the look he reserved only for her.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Her anxiety spiked—was he on a mission?

Then, the phone buzzed, the sound deep and resonant against the hardwood table.

I expected nothing less, he wrote. Congratulations, Eden.

She bit her lip, disappointed by the vagueness. Then, a second message arrived.

Put on something that isn't a band t-shirt. I’m picking you up at 1900. We’re going to dinner.

He stood in front of the mirror in his temporary hotel room, his reflection mocking him. He was a man composed of hard angles and scars, his shoulders so broad they seemed to strain against the fabric of the stiff, black button-down shirt he’d purchased specifically for this evening. He looked like a tank trying to pose as a gentleman. He felt ridiculous, cumbersome, and entirely out of his depth. He didn't have the body of a man that could fit in a suit, he was a hardened soldier that wore cargo and camo.

He had spent years in environments where the outcome was determined by ballistics and logistics. He understood the geometry of an ambush and the mechanics of a breach. He did not, however, understand the delicate social requirements of a "celebratory dinner" for a woman who was slowly, methodically, and quite effectively dismantling his defenses.

He was a man of iron, yet standing here, he was unnerved by the simple act of wearing a fitted shirt.

He drove to her place with the steady, measured caution of a man transporting volatile cargo. He parked and walked to her door, knocking three sharp times. When she opened the door, the air in his lungs seemed to vanish.

She was wearing a dress of deep, forest green that caught the light in a way that made his throat go dry. It wasn't the the casual, paint-stained loungewear of her daily life. It was vibrant. It was alive. She looked like a dream—a future he felt entirely unworthy of, yet pathologically incapable of staying away from.

"Garrett," she said, her smile wide and unencumbered.

He grunted—a low, gravelly sound that was his default state when he was confronted with something that made his pulse race. He took a half-step back, his massive frame looming in the doorway. He felt like a bear trying to navigate a china shop.

"You look..." He searched for a word, but the vocabulary of the infantry failed him. "You look ready for the objective."

She laughed, stepping out and closing the door behind her. "You mean dinner? Is it an objective now?"

"Everything is an objective," he said, offering his arm, though he pulled it back a fraction of a second later, worried he might accidentally bruise her. "I’ve secured a table at the place on the corner. The one with the white tablecloths and the candles. It seemed appropriate for… honors."

“Thank you Garrett” she smiled up at him and all he could think about was the fact that he lived his entire life without her, and he had no idea how he had managed that.

As they walked to his car, Garrett was hyper-aware of the proximity. He was a man who habitually kept six feet of spacing between himself and everyone else, a tactical necessity that had become his personal comfort zone. With Eden, he wanted to stay close enough to ensure she was safe, but far enough away that he didn't crowd her. It was a delicate, impossible calibration. He wanted to be the air she breathed.

At the restaurant, the hostess led them to a quiet booth tucked away in the back—a tactical advantage he had subconsciously sought out. The lighting was low, the air filled with the quiet clinking of silverware and the soft murmur of conversation.

Garrett sat, his knees knocking against the underside of the table, his shoulders filling the space of two men. He looked at the menu as if it were a complex tactical map, his brows knitted in intense concentration.

"Garrett," Eden said softly, leaning over the table.

He looked up, his gaze intense. "Are you hungry? I can order for you. I know you like the pasta."

She reached across the table, her small, graceful hand resting on his thick, calloused forearm. The contact was electric, a sudden shift in the pressure of the room. "I'm here because I wanted to celebrate with you and enjoy ourselves. Can you stop being a soldier for a few hours?"

Garrett looked down at her hand, then back to her face. He felt that familiar, dangerous softening in his chest. He was a man built to command, to remain unmoved by the chaos of the world. But he had a weakness—a singular, devastating, and beautiful weakness—for the woman sitting across from him.

"I'm trying," he admitted, his voice dropping to a rumble. "But it’s difficult to turn off the awareness. I keep checking the exits. I keep counting the people in the room. I keep thinking about the probability of an incident. Ive already planned out a method of attack if i needed it"

"Nothing is going to happen, we are okay here.," she whispered. "It’s just us."

He took a breath, forcing his shoulders to drop, forcing his jaw to unclench. He pushed the menu aside, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Okay," he said. "Just us."

The dinner progressed in a way that felt like a quiet, miraculous revolution. He watched her talk about her classes, the excitement radiating off her in waves, the way she spoke about the future as if it were a tangible, reachable thing. For the first time, he found himself listening, not to assess the risk, but to understand the dream.

He was a man who had seen the worst of humanity, a man who had buried too many friends in the sand and carried the weight of too many failures. But listening to Eden, he felt the heavy, suffocating mantle of the past begin to fray at the edges.

"You're a good teacher," he said, the words surprising even him. "You have the capacity to lead but care and be gentle. You don't just instruct; you influence. That’s a rare asset."

"Is that your military assessment, Commander?" she teased, her eyes sparkling.

"It's my assessment of the human potential," he corrected, his gaze intense. "And you have a lot of it."

He felt a sudden, sharp, and overwhelming urge to touch her, to pull her into his orbit and never let go. He was a large man, a man whose hands were designed for the grip of a rifle and the harsh, utilitarian work of survival. He was terrified that if he touched her, he would shatter her.

But then, as if sensing his hesitation, she moved her hand from his arm to his palm, lacing her fingers with his.

His heart thudded. The contact was solid, grounding, and absolute.

"You're doing it again," she said. "You're thinking too hard. Just be here, Garrett. Just be here with me."

He nodded, the movement slow and deliberate. He didn't say anything, but he didn't pull away. He held her hand with a tenderness that contradicted every instinct he had ever honed. His thumb stroked the back of her hand.

As the evening wore on, the restaurant began to clear out, the lights dimming to a soft, golden glow. Garrett was silent, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—the crushing guilt he still carried for Adam, the terrifying hope he felt for Eden, and the simple, undeniable reality of his own, burgeoning humanity.

He looked at her, at the way the candlelight played over her features, the resilience in her posture, the quiet, steady strength of her presence.

"I have a gift for you," he said suddenly, reaching into his pocket.

He pulled out a small, velvet box. He had bought it on a whim, terrified of the gesture, yet unable to resist the urge to mark this moment.

He opened it. It was a simple, delicate necklace—a silver locket, unadorned and elegant.

"It's for the future," he said, his voice gruff. "To hold the things you haven't done yet."

Eden stared at the locket, her eyes brimming with sudden, shimmering tears. She looked up at him, her expression so raw, so open, that Garrett felt his own composure threaten to collapse.

"Garrett," she breathed.

"It's just silver," he said, his own voice sounding thick. "But it’s a start. You passed, Eden. You earned this."

She reached out and took the locket, her fingers trembling as she traced the surface. "Thank you," she said, her voice small. "For everything."

He reached out, his large hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. The intimacy of the gesture, the vulnerability of it, felt like a breach of every rule he had ever lived by. But as he looked at her, he knew he didn't care.

"I’m the one who should be thanking you," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "You gave me back a piece of myself I thought was gone forever. You made me remember that there’s more to this world than the war."

She gazed at him with watery eyes and a genuine smile, he soon realized that he can't live without.

They left the restaurant in a haze, the cool night air hitting them as they stepped onto the quiet, tree-lined street. The drive back to her apartment was slow, their hands still linked and resting on Eden’s thigh, their presence a quiet, defiant assertion of life in the midst of the night.

When they reached her porch, she turned to face him, the moonlight catching the silver locket at her throat. She looked at him with an intensity that made his knees feel weak.

"This isn't just a celebration, is it?" she asked.

Garrett looked out at the street, then back at her. He felt the weight of his commanding title, the weight of his duty, and the weight of the man he had been. But he also felt the weight of the hand in his—warm, steady, and entirely, beautifully real.

"No," he said, his voice firm and absolute. "It’s not."

He stepped closer, his massive frame shielding her from the world, his gaze locked on hers. He wasn't the monster anymore. He was just a man, standing on a porch, in the quiet, star-dusted dark, finally, finally, allowing himself to want something for himself. He was hers, entirely.

"I don't want to go back to the base tomorrow," he confessed as he rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, taking in the moment, the words feeling like a betrayal of his command, yet a triumph of his soul.

Eden smiled, a slow, knowing, and profoundly hopeful expression. Her hand drifting up and resting against his chest over his racing heart, right over his heart.

"Then stay," she whispered.

Garrett looked down at her, the man who had seen the end of the world realizing that he was looking at the beginning of his own. He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know how to navigate the terrain of a life that wasn't defined by rules and missions. But he knew, with a certainty that burned through the last of his iron defenses, that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

He took a deep breath, the air filling his lungs, his heart beating with a steady, stubborn rhythm.

"Okay," he said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "I'll stay."

And as they stood there in the quiet of the night, the world continuing its indifferent, rhythmic turning, Garrett Hanson felt the wall finally crumble.

And as she leaned into him, a soft, contented sigh escaping her, he knew that she was his.