Once outside his office, I stop. It’s only a couple of seconds before the door slides open.
Supreme Commander Anderson looks up at me from his desk.
He smiles.
I salute.
“Step inside, soldier.”
I do.
“How are you adjusting?” he says, closing a folder on his desk. He does not ask me to sit down. “It’s been a few days since your transfer from 241.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?” He leans forward, clasps his hands in front of him. “How are you feeling?”
“Sir?”
He tilts his head at me. Picks up a mug of coffee. The acrid scent of the dark liquid burns my nose. I watch him take a sip and the simple action conjures a stutter of emotion inside of me. Feeling presses against my mind in flashes of memory: a bed, a green sweater, a pair of black glasses, then nothing. Flint failing to spark a flame.
“Are you missing your family?” he asks.
“I have no family, sir.”
“Friends? A boyfriend?”
Vague irritation rises up inside of me; I push it aside. “None, sir.”
He relaxes in his chair, his smile growing wider. “It’s better that way, of course. Easier.”
“Yes, sir.”
He gets to his feet. “Your work these past couple of days has been remarkable. Your training has been even more successful than we expected.” He glances up at me then, waiting for a reaction.
I merely stare.
He takes another sip of the coffee before setting the cup down beside a sheaf of papers. He walks around the desk and stands in front of me, assessing. One step closer and the smell of coffee overwhelms me. I inhale the bitter, nutty scent and it floods my senses, leaving me vaguely nauseated. Still, I stare straight ahead.
The closer he gets, the more aware of him I become.
His physical presence is solid. Categorically male. He’s a wall of muscle standing before me, and even the suit he wears can’t hide the subtle, sculpted curves of his arms and legs. His face is hard, the line of his jaw so sharp I can see it even out of focus. He smells like coffee and something else, something clean and fragrant. It’s unexpectedly pleasant; it fills my head.
“Juliette,” he says.
A needle of unease pierces my mind. It is more than unusual for the supreme commander to call me by my first name.
“Look at me.”
I obey, lifting my head to meet his eyes.
He stares down at me, his expression fiery. His eyes are a strange, stark shade of blue, and there’s something about him—his heavy brow, his sharp nose—that stirs up ancient feelings inside my chest. Silence gathers around us, unspoken curiosities pulling us together. He searches my face for so long that I begin to search him, too. Somehow I know that this is rare; that he might never again give me the opportunity to look at him like this.
I seize it.
I catalog the faint lines creasing his forehead, the starbursts around his eyes. I’m so close I can see the grain of his skin, rough but not yet leathery, his most recent shave evidenced in a microscopic nick at the base of his jaw. His brown hair is full and thick, his cheekbones high and his lips a dusky shade of pink.
He touches a finger to my chin, tilts up my face. “Your beauty is excessive,” he says. “I don’t know what your mother was thinking.”
