Melvin smiled faintly. “Thanks for lunch.”
“Anytime.”
Melvin left the dining facility a few minutes later, tray returned and thoughts slower than his steps. The evening air had cooled enough to take the edge off the day’s heat. Soldiers moved through the company area in loose patterns. Nothing unusual.
But the conversation with Barnes stayed with him, the recognition underneath it. More people understood than anyone said out loud. The Army had always been full of quiet understandings like that.
By the time darkness settled in for good, Melvin found himself walking toward the TOC without having decided to.
That night he found Mac on the TOC roof.
Standing beside him settled something restless inside Melvin. The bond between them ran quiet and steady, not pulling or urgent.
“You heard?” Mac asked.
“About Bell? Yeah.”
“Baxter doesn’t play.” Mac smirked faintly.
They stood together in the wind while dust whispered across the roof.
“Any blowback?” Melvin asked.
“Some.”
“You sure you’re good?”
Mac exhaled slowly. “No. But it’s worth it.”
They stayed there longer than either of them needed to.
For once, silence didn’t feel like avoidance. It felt like they’d paid for it.
After a while Mac checked his watch and pushed to his feet. “I’ve got first pass on the night reports,” he said.
Melvin nodded. “I’ll finish the perimeter check.”
They headed down the ladder separately, the quiet between them settled instead of strained.
Later, when Melvin circled back to the barracks, he found Mac awake.
Mac lay on his back staring at the ceiling, still and controlled, eyes open, breath measured, the kind of wakefulness soldiers pretended was rest.
Melvin sat beside him and the mattress dipped, bringing them closer without either of them deciding it out loud. Melvin felt Mac’s heat through the thin fabric between them, steady and familiar.
For a moment Melvin didn’t say anything. He reached down beside the chair where he’d set his gear and pulled out a small wrapped bundle. Plain paper, corners softened from being carried around longer than they should have been.
“I meant to give you this sooner,” Melvin said quietly.
Mac pushed himself up on one elbow. “What is it?”
“Something from Jasmine.”
That made him sit up.
Melvin handed it over without ceremony. Mac unwrapped it carefully, the habit of not damaging anything still ingrained in his hands. The framed page came free first, the glass catching the low light from the lamp. He recognized the handwriting immediately, younger, uneven in places, but unmistakably Melvin’s.
“The poem,” Mac said.
