Reynolds shrugged. “Maybe.”
Melvin stepped up beside them, clipboard tucked against his hip.
The silicone band showed on his hand before he pulled his gloves on.
Reynolds’s eyes flicked to it, then back to Mac, then carefully to Melvin.
“Looks good on you,” Reynolds said.
Melvin’s mouth pulled into something faint and real. “Thanks. Don’t get blown up. I’m not doing another paperwork miracle this week.”
Reynolds cleared his throat, suddenly busy with his gear.
“Try harder,” Mac said.
Reynolds huffed a laugh. “Yes, sir.”
He turned to go, then paused and lifted his hand slightly. Not a full shift. Not a spectacle.
His nails had darkened into clean, controlled points, just enough to show mastery.
“Control,” Melvin said quietly.
Reynolds nodded once, pride sharp in his eyes. Then he let it fade, skin smoothing back to human.
Mac watched him walk away and felt something settle into place.
Proof.
They rolled out.
The road stayed quiet. No explosions. No fire. Checkpoints waved them through with lazy boredom. The incoming lieutenant watched rooftops like he expected them to sprout enemies out of sheer principle.
Mac let him.
You learned faster when fear didn’t get coddled.
When they returned, dust-coated and intact, the yard exhaled. Helmets came off. Radios unclipped. Someone cracked a joke that actually landed.
It wasn’t celebration, just permission to breathe.
Mac climbed down and caught Melvin’s eye across the lane.
Melvin held his gaze without flinching.
Mac didn’t smile, but Melvin caught it anyway. Mac saw it in his eyes.
By evening the compound was louder than usual.
Men packed and swapped gear, trying to trade away reminders of Iraq before they carried them home.
Mac found Melvin behind the TOC near the coffee station, alone for the first time all day.
Melvin had his sleeves rolled. His posture stayed officer-straight, but his eyes looked tired in a way Mac recognized.
Mac stepped beside him. Not touching. Close enough.
“You okay?” Mac asked.
