Here’s your excerpt:

Joe Graves wasn’t in the mood for a goddamn celebration.

The bar was packed, music loud, laughter even louder, but it all felt distant. The guys were throwing back drinks, talking about the mission, the close calls, the next deployment. Joe was listening—halfway, at least—but his mind was elsewhere. On the ache in his knuckles, the tension in his spine, the empty house he had to go back to.

He was here for one reason: to not be home. Not to sit in the silence of a house that didn’t feel like his anymore, next to a woman who wasn’t his anymore. Not to pick another pointless fight with her over a marriage that had been rotting. Divorce papers sitting on the kitchen counter.

He drained his whiskey and reached for his phone. Not out of habit—out of boredom. Maybe even desperation. Anything to keep his mind off of her—or rather, the slow, bitter death of what they used to be.

Then his phone buzzed.

Unknown number. One message.

“Miss me, Gravsey?”

His breath caught in his throat. The room tilted. And his heart—steady even under fire—stumbled in his chest.

Because no one called him that. Not his team. Not his soon-to-be ex. Only one person had ever called him that, and she was dead.

Afghanistan. Eight months ago. Nasry had gotten to her first. Joe had fought like hell, but he was too late. He remembered the blood, the dirt, the way her body had crumpled. He’d dropped to his knees, hands pressing against her wound, whispering her name like a prayer. Her fingers curled weakly into his sleeve. And her eyes—fuck, those eyes—locked onto his, something pleading, something desperate, just before his own vision blurred.

By the time he woke up on the hellicarrier, they told him she was gone. KIA. No body to retrieve. Just gone.

Joe’s grip on his phone was tight enough to crack it. His blood pounded. His breath was slow. Measured.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

And yet—his fingers moved, typing back before he could stop himself.

“Who the hell is this?”