A soft sound, fabric shifting, pulled his attention to Boomer’s bunk. He met his eyes. He avoided them, his gut clenching. He hadn’t been able to meet them since he’d slunked out of his friend’s home and taken the undercover without permission.
He loosened the towel, his dick still sensitive as he found a clean pair of shorts, his hands trembling around the seams. He slipped them on, his hand going over his junk, but there was still no relief. With a sigh, he pressed his fingers to the back of his neck.
She was going to clean his weapons.
That thought hit with the force of a breaching charge. Blair, perfect, principled Blair, handling his rifle with those careful, capable hands. His heart hammered dangerously. His stomach twisted.
He should’ve said no. He should’ve told Ice to do it. Told Blair to go to bed. Walk away. Leave him alone before he violated every line he swore he wouldn’t cross.
But instead he’d said, let her.
Because he was a fucking idiot.
He dragged himself toward the bed, sat, and exhaled through his teeth as the injuries twinged. He reached for the painkillers Ice had shoved into his hand, swallowed them dry, then laid back, staring at the ceiling with eyes that wouldn’t stop burning.
He couldn’t afford her. Yet his body was wound so tight with want, again, he was surprised the air didn’t crack around him.
He closed his eyes, but that only made it worse, her mouth, her breath, her whispered confession echoing like it lived under his ribs now.
She was responsible for challenging a lifetime of belief.
20
United States Naval Academy, Bancroft Hall, Annapolis, Maryland
The day of the inquiry dawned without nerves. Fly didn’t need to second guess himself here. That certainty settled into him early, clean and steady, and he dressed with the same meticulous care he brought to everything else. Service Dress Blues. Pressed jacket. Pants crease sharp enough to cut. Shoes polished until they reflected the overhead light back at him. Instead of the regulation white shirt, he pulled on the one he’d worn to the gallery fundraiser.
He knew if he was caught “out of uniform” it would be frowned upon. Under normal circumstances, it might even earn a quiet correction. But nothing about this was normal, and no one was going to reprimand him after what had happened.
Also, he didn’t give a flying fuck.
He slid the cuff links into place last. The Australian kites.
The metal was cool against his fingers, the bird etched clean and precise, wings spread as if caught mid-current. He’d looked it up afterward. The way they read wind and thermals. The way they adjusted without wasting motion. The way they could see farther because they trusted the air instead of fighting it.
She had seen him. The realization still gutted him.
For a moment, his head dropped, shoulders tightening as that familiar wave rose fast and sharp. Grief surged, heavy enough to knock the breath from his lungs if he let it.
Mei.
Her name brushed through his mind like a soft breeze, gentle and devastating all at once. He swallowed hard and straightened. Hang the fuck on, Gallagher, he chastised himself. You have to be sharp and controlled. You’re being judged. Rightly so, but you will be clear and honest. Mei deserves it, and so did his crew.
The Academy had taught them early that honor wasn’t just about what you didn’t do. It wasn’t simply avoiding lies, cheating, or theft. It was about choosing what was right when the rules ran out and no one was watching. Integrity wasn’t passive. It demanded action.
Fly understood that now with brutal clarity. He hadn’t come to defend himself. He hadn’t come to shift blame or soften truth. Loyalty, to his crew, to the service, to the dead, required something harder. It required standing in the full weight of his decisions and speaking plainly about them, whatever the cost.
The Safety Board had been convened within twenty-four hours of the accident. Evidence was secured. Radio logs pulled. Weather data archived. Statements taken while the memory was still sharp and raw. Fly had answered every question plainly, without hedging or omission.
Four days later, Command ordered a full investigation. A fatality demanded it. Conflicting accounts made it unavoidable. Hollis claimed conditions had been acceptable. Fly’s report said otherwise. The divergence alone triggered escalation.
Now, two weeks after the bay had taken Mei, Fly was walking into the formal Incident Board of Inquiry to account for every decision he had made.
Today, truth would be spoken. Fly would see to it.
When he was ready, Fly turned to Than. As he lifted his hand to pick up his cover, the cuff link at his left wrist caught the light.
Than froze. He blinked once. Then again. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the chain at his throat and drew the pendant free from beneath his shirt. The buffalo rested against his palm, warm from his skin.
