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jeans, but that’s all he’s wearing.   A thickly muscled arm is lying across his eyes, his other arm hanging down toward the floor.   Bare feet hang over the arm of the couch.
    His perfectly sculpted chest bears seven stars tattooed over his left breast.  
    His brows are furrowed, his expression concerned.
    He’s a soldier who’s engaged in combat and he’s seen some horrible things.   He saw Cal blown to pieces.   I can only imagine the hell he must be seeing behind those lids right now.
    I’m torn.   I want to wake him from whatever nightmare I know he’s having.   But I also know about PTSD and how dangerous it can to be to wake a soldier in this state.
    His left shoulder twitches violently.   His face winces.
    “Lake,” I say, soft and gentle.
    He gives a little twitch, like me calling his name entered his dream, but he doesn’t wake.  
    “Lake,” I say, this time louder.   I keep my distance, standing by the door.
    He jerks up from the couch, half sitting up.   His right hand reaches for his hip, as if he’s searching for a sidearm.   His eyes sweep the room and fix on me.   They’re bloodshot and wide.
    “It’s okay,” I say, keeping my tone even and calm.   “It’s just me.”
    His breathing is hard and fast and it takes a minute for him to calm down and realize he isn’t out on the battlefield, in the middle of a warzone.
    “What do you want?” he asks.   His voice is hard and flat.
    Soldiers don’t like admitting when they’re dealing with post-field issues.   I’ve caught him in a moment of trauma, and he doesn’t like it.
    “Mom’s just about got dinner ready and asked me to come get you,” I say.   I’m not offended by his hard tone.   I understand.   “I’m sorry to wake you, but you looked like you were in a place you needed extraction from.”
    He looks at me for another really long minute.   Lake has the most impassive eyes.   I can’t tell what’s going on behind them.   Is he angry?   Is he embarrassed?   Indifferent?   It’s impossible to tell.
    “Yeah,” he finally replies.   He climbs off the couch and walks to the bedroom.   He looks over his shoulder at me just before he disappears behind the door.   My eyes drop away from him, embarrassed to realize he’s just caught me staring and embarrassed for the fact that I was.
    But who couldn’t admire a body like that?
    Thirty seconds later, he walks out with a long sleeved shirt on and socks on his feet.   He slips his boots on and we walk silently walk back to the house.
    “How was your day?” Mom asks him as soon as we walk through the door.   She’s just finished setting the table and laying all the food out.
    “Fine, thank you for asking, Mrs. James,” he says.   “Need a hand with anything?”
    “I’ve got everything ready, just sit yourself down,” Mom says with a wink as she hangs her apron on its hook.
    Lake and I sit on opposite ends of the table and Mom settles herself right in the middle.   She offers grace, and we help ourselves to the food.
    “So, Lake,” Mom says as she dishes herself some canned corn that came from the garden last year.   She struggled to get it to grow all year, so she’s proud of the fifteen cans she did manage to get.   “Tell me a bit about yourself.   You grew up in Woodinville?”
    Lake nods.   “Yeah.   Um, I graduated high school there.   My dad just retired as the head football coach there last year.   My brother teaches history at the high school.”
    “How many siblings do you have?” Mom asks as she cuts her roll open and butters it.
    He takes a second to swallow his bite.   “Three,” he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin.   “Like I said, my brother teaches at the high school.   Drake is the oldest.   He’s been married for about seven years now, I think.   He and Kaylee have four kids.”
    “Ah,” Mom coos.   “I bet your nieces and nephews love you.”
    That lopsided smile forms on his face.   His eyes