THIRTY-TWO
ARSENY
Niko comes back to work quietly. There’s no announcement, no speeches, and no one pretending this means anything is solved. He turns up on time, shaved, uniform straight, and hair a little too neat.
I notice it immediately, and then make myself stop looking because hovering helps no one. People can feel concern when it turns into scrutiny, and Niko has had enough eyes on him already. So, I let him walk into the building under his own steam, carry his own folder, answer his own questions, and sit through the first half hour without stepping in every five minutes to check whether he’s still functioning.
He seems to be, and that has to be enough for now.
Later, when we’re alone for a minute between briefings, he tells me about the sitter in the practical tone he uses. Vetted, local, available on short notice, and close enough to the barracks that getting back won’t be a full operation in itself.
“That’s good,” I say, and mean it.
He nods, but there’s a delay to it, like he’s still waiting to see whether I’m going to argue with him or point out something he missed. Then he says, “I’m—” The sentence dies halfway out of his mouth. He looks away, then tries again. “I’m working again,” hesays. “Properly.”
He means he’s made childcare arrangements, shown up on time, and managed to put his boots on without feeling like the floor might open. He means he wants me to see that he is doing what he can. “I know,” I say. “I can see it.”
That gets the smallest change in him. His shoulders ease, but only by a hair. I see the relief, but it’s not enough to make me stop worrying. That was never going to happen this soon. Grief doesn’t suddenly become bearable because somebody comes back to work in a pressed uniform. Still, this is what the beginning of recovery looks like most of the time.
Turning up, eating badly but regularly, and going one day at a time.
I leave him to it after that, not because I stop thinking about him, but because he deserves the space to try.
The operation briefing lands on my desk just after lunch.
Joint effort, limited footprint, and, to my surprise, British-led. I know what that means before I finish reading the page. Their side will take point, and ours will do what ours always does when someone higher up wants control without visible overreach.
I’m in the room when it’s presented, standing off to one side with the others while maps go up on the wall and timings get laid out in broad strokes. Risks are acknowledged without being looked attoo closely. As usual. Nobody likes saying the ugly parts aloud in briefings like this. It makes them too real in the moment.
Caiden is there with his unit, which catches my attention more fully than the paperwork does — irritating but true.
He’s leaning a little forward in his seat, enough that I recognise he’s locked in. The tension I’ve been watching him carry all week changes when the briefing starts. This is his territory. Systems, responsibility, and practical pressure. The sort of thing that lets him stop turning anger over in his head and actually do something with it.
I watch him track the information, then watch the moment he realises leadership is sitting on his shoulders. The room empties in stages afterwards. I let the crowd thin enough that catching up to Caiden looks accidental, then fall into step beside him in the corridor.
“So,” I say, keeping my voice light enough to pass as casual. “Looks like you finally get to be the boss, detka.”
He makes a face at that, but I still get the snort before he can stop it. “God help them.”
“You’ll do great,” I say. “Probably.”
That gets a proper grin out of him. “Motor pool later?” he asks, taking a quick glance around.
There he is.
“Mm, yes, sir,” I say. He laughs and keeps moving. I let him go because that’s how this works, and because the anticipation is half the fun anyway.
The rest of the afternoon passes in the usual bits and pieces. A problem with a supply count, one soldier whothinks “nearly correct” is a usable standard, and another who’s managed to lose an entire form and looks genuinely surprised that I don’t find it charming in the slightest. Routine, in other words.
Still, under all of it, there’s that thin, live thread of later, which is the only reason why I leave the soldier in question with his pride intact.
Caiden is already at the motorpool when I get there. I get close enough to see him properly — standing in the shadow of one of the trucks with his hands in his pockets like he hasn’t been watching for me at all — and I keep walking until I’m in front of him.
He still looks tired, but lighter than he did a few days ago. “Come here,” I say quietly, and then I catch his sleeve and pull him by the arm. I keep walking until we reach the armoured transport truck with its reinforced bodywork and blacked-out windows. It's not the first place we've used, and it won't be the last. I wrestle the heavy door open and don't look at him when I say, “Get in.”
He does it immediately.
The second the door shuts behind us, the sounds on base are muted. The space inside the truck is cramped, but Caiden climbs over me without me saying anything and settles astride my lap like he’s been thinking about this for hours.
