“And you said no?”
Melvin let the quiet sit.
“I’m not ready for that,” Reynolds said finally.
Then, softer, “And honestly, I don’t want it.”
He met Melvin’s eyes. “I belong here.”
Something in Melvin’s chest eased.
“You tell Carter yet?” Melvin asked.
Reynolds shook his head. “Figured you first.”
Melvin’s brow creased. “Why me?”
Reynolds shrugged once. “You’re my platoon leader. Seemed like the right place to start.”
Melvin nodded. “Yeah. It is.”
Reynolds studied him. “You think I should have said yes?”
Melvin shook his head. “No.” He considered a moment. “Valker isn’t a reward. It’s a responsibility. One you take when you know exactly who you are.”
Reynolds absorbed that. Then nodded once. “I figured.”
Melvin pushed off the wall. “You’re doing good work here,” he said. “Don’t rush the rest.”
Reynolds relaxed slightly. “Yes, sir.”
Melvin started toward the door. Behind him, Reynolds resumed the drills.
The movements sounded different now. Not like someone learning to survive. Like someone choosing where he belonged.
Melvin paused in the doorway long enough to watch Reynolds answer a routine question from a pair of specialists passing through, easy and unstrained, fully present in the moment.
A month ago Reynolds would have avoided the interaction. Now he handled it like any other Soldier handling business.
What struck Melvin most was how naturally the others accepted it. Soldiers judged a man by whether he pulled his weight and kept his word. Reynolds did both.
By mid-afternoon, routine carried on.
Mail came twice a week. Usually late. Usually dusty. Melvin hadn’t expected anything. So when a small box marked Hayes, M. landed in his hands during mail call, he stared at it a second before taking it.
The handwriting was familiar.
Jasmine.
He didn’t open it until he got back to his room. He sat on the edge of his bunk, peeled the tape loose, and opened the flaps. The first thing he pulled out was a folded sheet of paper. Jasmine’s handwriting. Clean and deliberate. He set it aside for a moment and reached back into the box. Bubble wrap crinkled under his fingers. A small wooden frame slid into his hand.
Melvin stilled.
It was the picture from dinner in New York. He remembered the waitress taking it, all four of them leaning close so everyone fit. He hadn’t realized he looked like that. Relaxed. Open. Happy in a way that didn’t happen often enough to trust.
He ran a thumb lightly across the glass. Restaurant lights. Voices overlapping. The quiet warmth of Mac’s knee brushing his under the table.
A night that had felt normal and safe.
