I filed it away, because I could.
The baby, now drifting, pressed her face into the hollow of his collarbone and let out a low, uncertain whine. Jai ran his palm down her back, slow and even. “Shh. I got you,” he said. His voice wasn’t soft, but it was the closest he got.
I wanted, very badly, to cross the gap between us and do something—anything—other than watch. But the rules of this standoff were set, and neither of us was ready to call a draw.
Instead, I leaned forward, knuckles white on the edge of the counter, and asked, “What are you thinking?”
He flicked his eyes at me, then away, then back. “I’m thinking if she falls asleep now, she’ll wake up again at six, and then you’re on deck.”
“Deal,” I said. It was the first thing we’d agreed on without an argument.
He stood there, baby in arms, unmoving for a long, slow minute. The hood light cast everything in a ring of false gold, and the city—unwitnessed—kept spinning outside the glass.
He finally said, “You ever sleep?”
“Not often,” I answered.
He nodded, like that was the right answer. “I get it.”
The refrigerator kicked on, the motor noise a background drone. The bottle, half-empty, sat next to his hand on the counter, the ring of formula at the lip catching the light.
“You always do the after-action review before you sleep?” I said.
He grinned, more with his eyes than his mouth. “Only when I think the night might get weird.”
“Does it?”
“With you? Statistically, yes.” He put the lollipop between his teeth, letting it click loud against the molar. “You here to audit my parenting technique, or you just like watching me work?”
“Both.”
He considered, then shrugged. “Fair.”
The city outside pulsed brighter now, the rain easing up, the river glassy and black. Inside, the air had a tension to it, the kind that builds in a fire team right before the breach.
I catalogued his posture: loose but ready, the muscle in his jaw flexed to keep from saying what he was thinking. The scent off his skin was fresh, and beneath it, the high, sweet trace of cherry blossom, more pronounced in the warmth of the apartment.
He rolled the sucker with his tongue and said, “You going to ask, or should I just start narrating?”
“Start,” I said.
He took a breath, prepping himself. “You want to know about the wolf thing, or the military thing?”
I let a microsecond pass, then said, “Whichever one you think matters more.”
He grinned, quick and sharp, like he’d won something. “All right.” He pulled the lollipop from his mouth and let it rest on the wrapper. “Military’s easy. Seven years Army. Last three with 75th Ranger Regiment. Got out because I was tired of letting other people decide if I was worth the oxygen.”
“Your record’s exceptional,” I said, and meant it. “No black marks.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s because they stopped caring about black marks when Don’t Ask Don’t Tell ended. They just made your life miserable until you did the paperwork for them.”
He said it like he’d rehearsed the line, but there was an old bruise under the words. I could see the outline of it: the years of silence, the camouflage of jokes and hard work, the math of surviving a system built for someone else.
I waited for the rest.
He let it come. “I’m gay. In case you missed it in the paperwork.”
I held his gaze. “I noticed.”
