Chapter 1 - Cravings
Pike
There are moments in marriage where you realize combat training has not, in fact, prepared you for civilian life.
Like when your pregnant wife looks you dead in the eye at 10:37 p.m. and says, perfectly serious,
“I need pickles dipped in peanut butter. And melted cheese on ice cream.”
I just stared at her. “Come again?”
She blinked. “Pickles. Peanut butter. Melted cheese. Ice cream.”
“That’s four separate crimes, Grace.”
She gave me the slow, hormonal death glare. “Do you want to tell your child no?”
And just like that, I was up, grabbing my jacket like it was go-time.
We were out of peanut butter. And apparently we had the wrong kind of ice cream.
Not the wrong flavor. The wrong kind.
“Vanilla bean,” I said. “That’s what we have.”
She grimaced. “No, that’s too fancy. I need plain vanilla. The cheap kind. The kind that tastes like freezer burn and nostalgia.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. “Okay. Got it. Deployment-grade vanilla.”
I hit the door. “Be right back.”
Stop one: Will’s place.
He opened the door in sweatpants, holding a coffee mug. “It’s ten-thirty, Pike. What’s on fire?”
“My sanity,” I said. “Grace needs shredded cheese.”
He blinked. “Is she cooking or…?”
“No.”
He grinned, already heading to the fridge. “Ah. Craving night.”
I caught the bag he tossed me. “You boys keep score on these or what?”
He leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. “You’re three for three this month. Last time was that—what was it—mac-and-jelly disaster?”
I groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“Good luck, brother,” he said, clapping my shoulder. “And hey—don’t forget to breathe.”
Stop two: Jackson’s.
He answered before I could knock twice. “What now?”
“Need ice cream.”
He didn’t even blink. “Flavor?”
“Vanilla. But not the good kind.”
He snorted, heading for the freezer. “You know, back in the teams, we used to worry about IEDs. Now it’s lactose.”
“Don’t start,” I said. “I’m running on fumes.”
He handed over a carton. “Pregnancy cravings, huh?”
I nodded.
“Respect. That’s high-tier training. You’re officially domesticated.”
“Keep talking and I’ll domesticate your jaw.”
He laughed. “Tell Grace I said hi—and that she’s breaking records. Lopez was just saying—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I muttered, already walking off.
Stop three: Lopez.
He opened the door grinning. “Midnight supply run?”
“Peanut butter,” I said.
He whistled low. “You’re a better man than me. I’d have faked a food shortage.”
I held out my hand. “Just give me the jar, Lopez.”
He leaned in the doorway, shaking his head like a proud older brother. “You remember when we used to raid supply crates for ammo and MREs?”
“Yeah.”
“Now it’s Jif and Häagen-Dazs. You’ve fallen, my man.”
“Falling’s relative,” I said, pocketing the jar. “She’s happy. That’s enough.”
He grinned wider. “And whipped.”
“Say it again and I’ll use the jar as a projectile.”
He laughed all the way back into the house.
By the time I got home, I’d done a three-house supply raid, half the team had laughed at me, and I smelled like cold air and exhaustion.
Grace was still awake, legs tucked under a blanket, scrolling through baby names. She looked up like an angel in pajama pants.
“Did you get everything?”
I dropped the bag on the counter with a thud. “Cheese from Will. Ice cream from Jackson. Peanut butter from Lopez. The enemy was relentless, but the mission’s complete.”
She gasped, eyes shining. “You’re my hero.”
I pointed at her with mock sternness. “You better remember that when you’re crying over laundry tomorrow.”
“Probably will,” she said cheerfully, already assembling her monstrosity.
I leaned on the counter, watching in horrified fascination as she built it—pickle spear, peanut butter smear, molten cheese, and a perfect scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.
Then she took a bite.
Her eyes fluttered closed. “Oh my gosh.”
I blinked. “Grace.”
“Mm?”
“That’s a war crime.”
She laughed so hard she snorted, and somehow it was worth every weird look, every sarcastic comment, every midnight drive.
The next morning, my phone lit up with the group chat.
Will: You survive?
Pike: Barely.
Barrett: Heard about the ice cream incident. Proud of you, man. Domesticated life suits you.
Jackson: Please tell me it wasn’t cheddar again.
Pike: Mozzarella this time.
Lopez: Improvement. Still disturbing.
Clay: Next time bring her here. Liz wants to see if it’s really that bad.
Pike: It’s worse. Trust me.
Barrett: I’m adding it to the bingo card.
Pike: What bingo card?
Barrett: The “Grace Craving Apocalypse” bingo. We’ve got peanut butter pickles in the top row, mac-and-jelly in the middle, and cheese-on-ice-cream just scored the free space.
Jackson: I call dibs on “she drinks ranch straight from the bottle.” That’s coming. I can feel it.
Lopez: Nah, I’m betting on “hot sauce in oatmeal.” Grace has chaotic energy.
Clay: Gentlemen, place your bets. Winner buys the next round when the baby’s born.
Barrett: Oh, it’s on.
I stared at the screen, shaking my head.
Pike: You’re all children.
Will: Maybe. But you’re the one melting cheese on dessert, brother.
I typed before thinking:
I should’ve joined the Air Force.
There was a pause—then the group chat exploded.
Barrett: WHOA. WHOA. SAY IT AGAIN, TRAITOR.
Jackson: Somebody screenshot that before he deletes it.
Will: Pike’s trading in his trident for a flight suit.
Lopez: You did not just say that.
Barrett: Traitor. Straight-up traitor.
Jackson: Delete it before command sees.
Will: Nah, screenshot it. Frame it. Hang it over his bed.
Clay: Can’t believe I served with you. All those times you had my six, and this is how you repay me?
Lopez: Unbelievable.
Barrett: Dishonor on you. Dishonor on your cow.
Jackson: He doesn’t have a cow.
Barrett: Then buy one, so I can dishonor it properly.
Will: Somebody write this down for the next barbecue roast.
Clay: Oh, it’s already going in the speech at his funeral.
Pike: You’re all ridiculous.
Lopez: We’re changing your call sign to Turncoat.
Will: Or Captain Betrayal.
Jackson: Colonel Sellout has a nice ring.
Clay: Lieutenant Weak Moment.
I tossed the phone onto the counter and muttered, “I hate all of you.”
Across the kitchen, Grace called, “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just being tried for treason by my so-called brothers.”
She raised an eyebrow, spoon halfway to her mouth. “Did you deserve it?”
“Apparently.”
She grinned. “Then yeah, sounds fair.”
My phone buzzed again. Barrett had changed my name in the group chat to “Pike, Betrayer of the Brotherhood.”
I groaned. “Unbelievable.”
Grace laughed. “You started it, hero.”
