He said he was checking in on Diaz. And he did, quick conversation about tomorrow’s loadout, a few offhand comments about second squad’s new turret mount, a checklist signed and filed.
But his head wasn’t in it.
It hadn’t been since the motor pool. Since Captain Baxter walked in. Since Mac’s hand was still on Melvin’s face. Too close. Too still. Too much.
Mac played it over again like surveillance footage. Frame by frame.
Melvin’s eyes on his. The way he didn’t pull back.
Baxter seeing all of it. And not saying a damn thing.
That was what Mac couldn’t place. He’d expected something. A raised eyebrow. A sharp word later. A shift in tone. But Baxter had looked, like he’d already filed it away, and moved on.
Mac had been in the Army long enough to know silence could mean patience. Or it could mean a longer fuse.
He found himself back outside his quarters, hand on the door handle, and still didn’t go in. He sat on the concrete step, staring at the ground like it might offer answers.
What if Baxter knew?
What if Melvin thought they were safe now?
What if they were already more visible than either of them realized?
And why did part of him feel relieved that someone had seen?
That part scared him the most.
For years he had worked hard to be exactly what the uniform demanded: disciplined, capable, the kind of officer nobody questioned, not for how he looked at another man, not for how close he stood, and not for how much he kept inside.
But Baxter hadn’t turned on them. He’d watched, calculated, and then let it go.
It wasn’t permission. It might have been trust. It might have been cover.
Or it might have meant nothing at all.
Mac exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. Fatigue pressed in around the edges along with regulation, memory, and all the words he still hadn’t said. He stood, opened the door, and stepped inside. He leaned back against the metal, cool through his shirt. In the silence, his breathing felt too loud. He closed his eyes and caught it. Not a memory, a scent, faint but stubborn in the fabric at his collar. Honey and amber.
Melvin.
His chest tightened.
The wolf in him, the part he kept leashed behind discipline and duty, stirred. It didn’t snarl. It didn’t pace. It just settled, like the scent alone was an anchor. And the relief he’d felt in the motor pool when Baxter saw them, that wasn’t only his own weakness. That was instinct too. The part that wanted the bond acknowledged. The part that wanted to stop pretending it was nothing.
Mac pushed off the door and stripped down with the methodical efficiency of a thousand nights. Body armor off. Boots lined. Blouse folded. Each piece set aside was a layer of Lieutenant put away.
The scent stayed. On his skin now.
He sat on the edge of his bunk in shorts, palms on the rough blanket. His mind went to the cabin. The fireplace. The way Melvin had felt under his hands without dust and rules between them. Not fantasy.
Memory. Something real.
His hand drifted to his chest, fingers spread over his sternum. He could almost feel the echo of weight there, Melvin’s head against him in sleep. The quiet of it had been profound. The safety even more so. One more shift ahead, one more silence to hold.
Only now the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt full. A look that didn’t flinch. A captain who didn’t react.
Mac lay back and stared at the ceiling. Earlier he’d seen Melvin carrying a small shipping box with Jasmine’s name on the label. Somewhere Reynolds was on watch. Melvin would be in his bunk by now, maybe going through whatever Jasmine had sent.
Mac wasn’t alone. The bond was a live wire under every duty and order, the most dangerous thing he had ever allowed, and the only thing that made the desert feel like it could ever be a home. He let outa long breath. This time it didn’t feel like he was carrying it by himself.
