Overnight. You can fix this. “You need to go.”

She poured the wine into two glasses. “Seriously, we’re not having this conversation again. This isn’t the time. You’re still healing—”

“I’m fine!” I lied. Her eyes flew toward mine, widening. Fuck. “I’m sorry. I’m fine,” I said softer. “I need you to stop assuming that I’m not. I’ve flown, I sleep, I eat, the nightmares have stopped. I need you to know that I’m okay.”

“I do know,” she replied in a near-whisper. “Maybe I’m not.”

“Maybe I need you to go.”

She flinched. “Why?”

“Because I need to know that I didn’t cost you the future you’ve worked your ass off for. I can’t let your dreams get crushed under mine. Now more than ever.”

Her eyes narrowed, her head tilting slightly. “Josh. What are you talking about? What did you do?”

I carried our plates past her to the table, setting them in our places. “Let’s have dinner, then we’ll talk.”

“Let’s talk now.”

“December—”

“What is it?” she pushed. “Why especially now?”

I hated everything about this, the way her voice pitched higher with worry, the frantic darting of her eyes, as if she could find something different about me. “I just think you might get pretty pissed at me soon.” Pissed enough to run, like you should.

Was I really about to do this to her? She’d been through so much, and I just kept heaping it on. She didn’t deserve it.

I didn’t deserve her.

“Did you bring that bike back? Is the Ducati in there?” She stormed past me.

“Ember, no!” I called, but she’d already thrown open the garage door. I leaned over the kitchen counter, my hands gripping the granite so hard I was surprised I didn’t bleed.

“I swear, Josh, if you took that thing out of storage again, I’m—” She halted midsentence, and in that exact moment, I hated myself. I hated the life I’d chosen, the risks I took, the bags that she’d just found packed in our garage. I hated myself for loving her, for going after her in the first place, for putting her through this. Again.

“Why are your duffels packed?” she asked so quietly I barely heard her. I pulled air through my lungs, forcing my heart to beat.

“Because I’m leaving.”

She stood across from me, the island separating us, her stare burning a hole through my very soul. “Where are you going?”

I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could block it all out, skip this, make everything perfect. But nothing was perfect in the world we lived in. It was all broken puzzle pieces slammed together, the edges jagged and tearing while we pretended it clicked, pretended that if we loved each other enough, the rest would fall in line. “You know where.”

“You’re going to have to say it.”

I sucked in a breath and looked up. My resolve nearly cracked there, with her eyes begging me not to confirm her worst fears. “December…”

“Say it.”

“Afghanistan.”

Her whimper damn near broke me. She looked away, her face showing so many emotions at once that I wasn’t sure even she knew how she felt. God, we were twin souls in that. “When?”

“Please don’t hate me.”

“Josh, when?” she snapped.

“Tomorrow.”

Her head whipped toward me, her every muscle going rigid. “What? You’re going to have to say that again, because I think you just told me that one, you’re going back to war, and two, you’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “That’s just not possible. I refuse to believe that’s possible.”

“I wasn’t officially cleared to deploy until this morning. Tomorrow is the last flight out to bring personnel. We only have two and a half months left in the rotation. Any later and there’s really no point in going.”

“Then don’t fucking go!” She slammed her hands onto the counter, and I cringed.

“I have to.”

“Were you ordered? Because I can’t believe that someone would order you to go back this soon after you almost died in that crash.”

Here it was, the line I knew she’d never understand me crossing, the wedge I wasn’t sure she could get past, or if she even should. This would be her reason to walk away. But she’d go to Turkey. She’d live her dream. “I volunteered. Rizzo and I both did.”

“You volunteered.” She drew out each syllable, looking for meaning I knew she couldn’t find.

“They’re short pilots—”

“It’s the army. They’re never short pilots. They can take them from whatever other unit has them. Don’t use that bullshit excuse on me. You’re going because you want to go.”

“That’s not it.” I stepped toward her, and she skirted around the island, keeping it between us. “You’ve seen it—the times I’m not here. It’s because parts of me are still there, Ember. My guys are there, my unit. What the hell kind of man heals up and then stays behind while his unit is at war?”

“The kind who lives! The kind who doesn’t promise his fiancée a wedding she might not get to have, because he’ll die this time around.” She choked on the last few words.