“We’re still here,” Melvin murmured.
Mac exhaled. “Tomorrow’s another patrol. Another report. Another reason to stay grounded.”
Melvin smiled faintly. “But tonight?”
Mac nodded. “Tonight I don’t have to choose every word.” They kissed. Then they finished the work they came for. Locks checked. Weapons logged. Normal on paper.
But something between them had shifted.
And it wasn’t going back.
Chapter 32 - Melvin
Days began to fold into one another. Not dramatic days. Just the steady compression at the end of a deployment when everyone pretends they are not counting. Relief-in-place packets circulated. Inventory lists grew longer. Briefings shifted from clearing ground to documenting it.
Before dawn one morning, Melvin stood outside the TOC with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, radio clipped in place, clipboard tucked beneath his arm. The air was still cool, generators humming, boots crunching over gravel somewhere beyond the perimeter lights.
Mac stepped out of the barracks ten minutes later. Same pace. Same unshakable professionalism. When his eyes met Melvin’s, there was a flicker there.
Recognition.
Melvin held out the second cup without a word.
Mac took it. Their fingers brushed, brief and intentional, and then the moment passed.
“You want to take lead?” Mac asked quietly, nodding toward the briefing room.
Melvin scanned the yard once more. “Yeah. Let’s get them moving.”
They fell into step together. Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to deny it.
By midday the heat had settled over the compound like weight. Third Platoon gathered for joint patrol prep, boots scuffing dust across concrete, radios chirping bursts of static. Mac stepped out from the TOC, patrol gloves tucked into his belt. Melvin followed with the clipboard.
They walked side by side.
Barnes noticed first. Nodded once. Went back to loading gear.
Reynolds raised his voice from near the rear Humvee. “Sun’s trying to kill us again. I vote we leave first and report from the shade.”
A few soldiers laughed.
Mac didn’t miss a beat. “Duly noted. You’re still riding rear.”
“Figures,” Reynolds muttered.
Melvin handed the clipboard to Diaz, adjusted his radio channel, then leaned toward Mac and said something low, too quiet for anyone else to hear. Whatever it was eased a line from Mac’s brow.
Then, without thinking, Mac reached up and fixed the edge of Melvin’s patrol cap, quick and practiced enough to look unremarkable.
Someone across the yard went quiet mid-sentence.
A few heads turned.
No one said a word.
Mac met Melvin’s eyes. “Let’s roll.”
“You’ve got point,” Melvin replied.
