And the smallest of all, his own. A mark for the man he hoped to become, one who walked ahead but never alone.
Then came the brackets, the tribal band that now lived in Fly’s skin. A bond he had never expected to find, a kindred spirit who understood more than Than could ever articulate. Blood brothers in everything but blood, soon-to-be cadets, and after that…teammates in one of the toughest military forces on the planet.
SEALs.
The burn settled deeper, but beneath it was something warmer, something anchoring, a sense of rightness, of connection, of grounding in the place where he once felt most lost.
“You okay?” Fly asked quietly, not wanting to fracture the moment.
Than opened his eyes, nodded once. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s good.”
When the artist finished, he motioned for Than to sit up and handed him the mirror. Than angled it toward his ribs, and the breath left him in a soft, reverent rush.
Four bear tracks, descending in size. Shaded with care. They looked less like ink and more like the imprint of a spirit that had walked across his skin. The tribal band framed them perfectly, complementing each mark, tying past and present together.
It suited him.
It honored them.
It told his story without words.
Shamrock whistled. “Damn, little brother, that’s beautiful.”
Bolt nodded, sincerity rare and unmistakable. “Yeah. That’s legacy.”
Fly placed a hand on Than’s shoulder, voice low. “It’s perfect.”
Than touched the tender skin gently, fingers brushing the prints with quiet awe. “These are the people I walk with,” he murmured, the words simple but carrying the full weight of his heart.
Shamrock’s grin brightened, warm and fierce. “Then you’ll never walk alone again.”
Than smiled, a small, steady, devastating smile, and let the warmth of their laughter carry him forward, his new mark still burning with meaning against his skin.
Silver Strand Beach, San Diego, California, Two Weeks Later
The Pacific breathed in slow, steady pulses against the sand, each wave rolling in with a softness that didn’t match its power. Fly stretched out on his back, the salt air cooling his skin as twilight settled over Coronado. The sky had gone that deep blue that looked almost sacred, like the ocean had left a piece of itself hanging overhead.
Bolt lay beside him, hands folded behind his head, his ridiculous lightning bolt tattoo now completely healed and peeking above the waistband of his shorts. Than was on his other side, silent and steady, toes dug into the sand as if anchoring himself to the earth. Shamrock sprawled on his stomach, chin balanced on his crossed hands, the new Celtic knot over his heart dark against sun-warmed skin.
The four of them breathed in sync for a while, letting the quiet have its way with them.
It felt…good. Right. Like the moment between heartbeats when the world steadies before it pounds again.
Shamrock broke first, of course. He always did. “Tell me again why humans evolved to enjoy water,” he murmured. “It’s like crawling back into the womb except everything wants to drown you.”
Fly snorted softly. “You’re in the wrong line of work if water freaks you out.”
“It doesn’t freak me out,” Shamrock lied smoothly. “It just disrespects me. The Pacific has an attitude.”
Than smiled without looking over. “Everything has an attitude with you, Sham.”
Bolt chuckled, rolling onto one elbow. “The ocean doesn’t hate you, Mac. Second phase diving instructors? Yeah. They hated all of us.”
Fly turned his head. “Tell me.”
Bolt stretched, the motion lazy, like a predator warming its bones. “Dive phase is where the real separation happens,” he said. “You think you know fear until you’re thirty feet down, dark all around you, regulator yanked out of your mouth by an instructor pretending to be a homicidal squid.”
Shamrock shuddered dramatically. “Promises were made that I would never see those bastards again.”
