Mac’s eyes shifted to him. “You think other supernaturals use these?”
Melvin nodded faintly. “Something built like this wouldn’t be for just us.”
The thought circled back to Baxter. The captain had suggested the shed too easily, as if he already knew what they might find here. A human officer wouldn’t have pointed them toward something like this.
The realization didn’t feel threatening. It just felt larger.
Mac huffed a quiet breath. “Almost the best two-hour pass I’ve ever seen.”
That almost pulled a smile out of Melvin. Almost.
He turned back toward the room instead, taking it in with new understanding. Neutral ground. No interruptions. No chain of command. No soldiers passing outside thin walls. Just time. Exactly two hours of it.
The quiet was physical. Not just an absence of sound, but a presence, thick and soft, settling over his skin. Melvin let his gaze drift from the desk to the bed, then to Mac, who was standing close enough that the warmth of him was a steady point in the cool air.
Mac’s eyes were on him, a quiet, assessing look that held no urgency. Just presence. Melvin felt the last of the wire’s tension bleed from his muscles.
He didn’t have to be a Lieutenant here.
He didn’t have to listen for the radio or watch the door.
Melvin reached out, his hand finding Mac’s wrist. His fingers slid under the cuff of Mac’s uniform, his thumb pressing against the steady beat of Mac’s pulse. The skin was warm and real.
Mac’s breath hitched, just once, a soft sound in the profound quiet.
Melvin didn’t pull. He just held on. Mac turned his hand, his palm meeting Melvin’s, their fingers threading together in a grip that was familiar and fierce.
No words passed between them. The door was closed, and for the moment the world could wait.
And for these two stolen hours, they were the only thing in it.
Melvin leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t a question. It was a claiming.
His free hand came up to cradle the side of Mac’s face, his thumb brushing the rough stubble along his jaw. Mac’s lips parted on a soft, surprised breath, and then he was kissing back, a low sound building in his chest as the quiet of the room folded around them.
This was different. There was no distant footfall to listen for, no part of their attention held in reserve. The kiss deepened slowly, a gradual sinking. Mac’s hands came up to Melvin’s hips, fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform shirt, holding him there as if he might drift away.
They broke apart only when they needed air. Mac’s eyes were closed, his breathing uneven. Melvin kept his hand on Mac’s face, feeling the heat there, the rapid flutter of a pulse at his temple.
“Two hours,” Mac murmured, voice rough.
“I know,” Melvin said. He didn’t move away. His thumb traced the line of Mac’s eyebrow, slow and deliberate. “Let’s not waste a second of it.”
Mac’s hands slid from his hips to the small of his back, pulling him closer until their bodies aligned from chest to thigh. The pressure was solid, real. Mac dipped his head, his nose brushing the side of Melvin’s neck, inhaling deeply. The scent there was clearer now, without the overlay of diesel and sweat.
Just him.
A shiver worked its way down Melvin’s spine. He turned his head, his lips finding Mac’s again. This kiss was softer, slow. Mac’s hands began to move, mapping the planes of his back through the uniform, learning the shape of him all over again.
Melvin’s fingers found the buttons of Mac’s shirt. He worked the first one free, then the second, unhurried. The backs of his knuckles brushed against the hot skin of Mac’s chest.
Mac shuddered.
“Let me,” Melvin said, voice low between them.
Mac nodded, his hands stilling. He let Melvin undress him, standing patient as the shirt was pushed from his shoulders. The cool, still air touched his skin, raising goosebumps. Melvin’s gaze traveled over him, taking in the familiar landscape of muscle and scar.
