Being a Navy SEAL had shaped you—tough, sharp, and unbreakable. But the cost was high, and you were still paying for it. Retirement was supposed to bring peace, but two years later, the nightmares still held you tight. The team noticed, as always. Therapy, grounding techniques, and late-night support became routine. They tried everything.

Then there was Tara Lewis.

Tara had only joined a few months ago, but she fit in so naturally, it made you cautious. You’d learned not to trust anyone easily, especially newcomers. But Tara broke down your walls in a quiet, steady way. She didn’t push you, but her persistence wore you down. She didn’t just help because it was her job—she helped because she cared. When the nightmares hit, she was there, grounding you.

Lately, she’d been guiding you through cognitive therapy after the worst of the terrors. She said she saw progress, though you weren’t sure. It felt more like smoke than something real. Still, you let her keep trying. Something in her calm persistence made you want to believe.

Tonight, exhaustion took over. The jet’s hum rocked you into an uneasy sleep, curled up across two seats. To everyone else, you looked peaceful. Tara glanced at you often, her usual sharpness softening each time. Maybe, just maybe, you were getting a break.

But inside, the storm raged. Smoke and fire filled the air, the stench of blood thick and suffocating. Commands rang out in chaos—too fast, too loud, too much. And the hand, reaching, trembling, desperate—and you couldn’t save it. You couldn’t save them.

You jerked awake with a gasp, your chest tight as you fought for air. Sweat clung to your skin, hands gripping the armrests like they were the only thing keeping you anchored.

The cabin fell silent, everyone watching you with concern. But Tara was the first to move. She knelt beside you, speaking softly.

“You’re okay. You’re here. You’re safe.”