Habit won out over reflection. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the laminated Arabic slang card Marcus had given him years ago, its corners worn soft.
The desert heat shifted in his memory.
***
KANDAHAR, 2011
The tent held heat like a trap. Mac sat on his cot, rifle across his knees, wiping down the barrel again. The flap rustled. Marcus ducked in and dropped into a folding chair.
“You polishing that into a mirror,” Marcus asked, “or avoiding something?”
“Both.”
Marcus studied him. “You’ve been off.”
Mac set the rifle aside. “I trust you,” Mac said. “That’s the only reason I’m saying this.”
A nod. “Okay.”
The words burned coming out. “I’m gay.” He braced for distance. Marcus leaned back.
“Alright.”
Mac blinked. “That’s it?”
Marcus smiled faintly. “You don’t talk about women. You go quiet when the jokes start. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
“You don’t care?”
“I care that you’re safe,” Marcus said. “And that you trust your people.”
Relief settled heavy and real.
Marcus watched him a moment. “My turn.”
Mac frowned. “Your turn?”
“I’m a witch.” For a heartbeat, Marcus’s eyes flashed violet.
Mac went still. “You’re serious.”
“Third generation. Council-registered. Mostly wards.”
Mac exhaled. “You usually knew when things were about to go sideways.”
“Perks.”
“You ever read me?”
“No. That’d be invasive.” A pause. “But I knew what you were the moment I met you.”
“Wolf.”
Marcus nodded. “Military discipline over pack restraint. It stands out.”
Mac let out a quiet breath. “So I’m not as subtle as I thought.”
Marcus’s mouth twitched. “You’re subtle. Just not invisible.”
