Battle Scars

Chapter 3:

Leah

The doorbell rang, and before I could stop myself, I jumped. It wasn't a big movement—just a slight jerk of my shoulders, but it was enough to draw Jay's eyes to me. I caught the flicker of his gaze and quickly looked away, pretending not to notice. Nate was already on his feet, rambling something about the food, oblivious as ever. I focused on breathing slowly, letting the tension in my chest loosen, but it felt like I was trying to calm a storm.

I flexed my left shoulder, rolling it gently to ease the now familiar pang of pain that had started to settle there. I should probably take a shower and wash off the two days of travel that had layered me in dust and exhaustion. But when Nate came back carrying bags of food, my growling stomach won the internal debate. Food first, then shower.

Nate laid out the takeout bags on the coffee table in a chaotic sprawl, sauces and containers threatening to spill. I couldn't help but smirk—he was always so careless with this kind of stuff. Nate was the type of guy who would walk around with his shoelaces untied and wonder why he tripped over everything.

"Dig in!" Nate declared, beaming at his handiwork. He didn't sit right away, bouncing on his feet with an excited energy that reminded me of when we were kids and he'd get his first bowl of cereal while watching cartoons.

I tried to focus on the smell of grilled meat and spicy sauces instead of the nerves buzzing under my skin. Jay was quiet, sitting across from me, methodically opening his takeout containers and ignoring the mess Nate had made. Nate finally settled onto the couch next to me, grabbing a pair of chopsticks and attacking his food with the enthusiasm of a starving man.

The Korean BBQ looked good, and for a moment, I let myself just appreciate the sight of something familiar. But as I started eating, I couldn't stop the memories that came with each bite. It wasn't the same—nothing ever was—but the taste brought back flashes of late nights in Seoul, crammed into tiny restaurants with my friends, laughing and eating until we could barely move.

I swallowed the food, but the taste of sadness lingered. Those were some of the best days of my life, and I wouldn't get them back. I missed my friends more than I let myself admit, but it wasn't just that. It was the loss of something deeper—of a purpose, of belonging to something bigger than myself. The Air Force had given me all of that, and now... it was gone.

I tried to focus on the food in front of me, but my thoughts kept drifting. This wasn't where I thought I'd be at twenty-five. I loved serving—I was good at it. I thrived on the structure and the camaraderie, and I'd met the best friends I'd ever had. More than that, I needed the discipline, especially at that point in my life. But things change, and circumstances force you to make decisions you're not ready for. Adjust and overcome. That's what they drilled into us, and it's what I kept telling myself, even if I wasn't sure what I was supposed to overcome now.

Jay hadn't said a word, but I could feel his eyes on me every so often like he was trying to figure me out. It wasn't the kind of scrutiny that felt invasive, just curious. I ignored it, focusing instead on finishing my food.

"Pretty good, huh?" Nate asked, breaking the silence. His voice was full of hope like he was looking for validation that he was doing a good job. He wanted this to feel like home for me, even if it never could.

"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "It's great. Thanks, Nate."

He grinned, relieved. It wasn't a lie—the food was good—but it wasn't the same. The pang of longing for my friends and the life I'd left behind gnawed at me with every bite. I missed the familiar faces, the jokes that only we understood, and the sense of trust and safety that came from working side by side with people who had your back in the worst situations. But they were still there, still assuming they had all the time in the world to get things done to plan their lives.