Lacquered Ruse

The bunk room smells like bleach and three decades of bad decisions. I lie on my cot, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the concrete like some people count sheep. Twenty seven. Twenty eight. The one that looks like a river delta branches off near the light fixture.

I don't sleep much anymore.

The door opens without a knock. I know it's him before I see him. The way the air changes. The weight of his presence pressing against the walls.

"Jackie."

I don't sit up. "Sir."

He steps inside and the door clicks shut behind him. The sound is soft but it lands like a gunshot in this quiet room. He's still in his tactical gear, the visor up, his face half in shadow. I've seen him without the mask exactly three times in two years. I count those moments like the cracks in the ceiling.

"You missed the briefing."

"I was running drills."

"At 0200?"

"I don't sleep much."

He stands at the foot of my cot. His hands are behind his back, military stance, but there's something else there. A tension in his shoulders that doesn't belong to protocol. I've learned to read him the way soldiers learn to read the ground before they step on it. Every shift means something.

"You're pushing yourself too hard."

"I'm fine."

"You're not." He says it flat. No heat. Just fact. "You've logged sixty three hours of field time this week. That's not sustainable."

I finally look at him. Really look. His jaw is set, his eyes dark, and there's a vein pulsing in his temple that I've only seen once before. After the Zurich operation. When he came back with blood on his hands and something broken behind his ribs.

"I can handle it."

"I know you can." He steps closer. One step. The cot frame is between us but it doesn't feel like a barrier. "That's not the question."

"Then what is?"

He doesn't answer. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Holds it out to me. I take it, unfold it, and my stomach drops.

It's a transfer request. My name. A new unit. A new theater.

Signed by him.

"You're reassigning me."

"I'm protecting you."

I sit up now. My feet hit the cold floor. The paper crumples in my fist. "I didn't ask for protection."

"I know." His voice drops. Quieter now. Almost gentle. "That's why I'm giving it to you anyway."

The room is too small. The walls are too close. I can smell him now. Gun oil and sweat and something else. Something darker. Something that makes my pulse skip.

"Sir, with respect, you don't get to decide what I can handle."

He moves. Fast. His hand catches my chin, tilts my face up. His thumb presses against my jaw, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to hold. His eyes bore into mine.

"I'm not deciding what you can handle." His voice is rough. Barely a whisper. "I'm deciding what I can live with."

My breath catches. I don't pull away.

"You watch me," he says. "Every mission. Every report. Every time you come back bleeding and I have to pretend I don't feel it. You think I don't see you? You think I don't notice the way you push, and push, and push until something breaks?"

"I'm still standing."

"Barely."

I laugh. It comes out sharp and bitter. "And that's your problem?"

He lets go of my chin. Steps back. Runs a hand through his hair and I see it. The crack in the armor. The moment where the soldier becomes something else.

"You're the best I've got," he says. "And I can't afford to lose you."

"Can't afford to. Or won't?"

He looks at me. Long enough that the silence stretches into something dangerous.

"Both."

I stand up. We're close now, closer than regulation allows. I can see the scar above his left eyebrow, the one he never talks about. The way his pupils dilate when I don't back down.

"Then don't send me away."

"I have to."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer. But his hand moves. Rests on my hip. Light. Asking permission.

I don't move away.

"This is a mistake," he says.

"Probably."

"And I'm still going to make it."

I feel his hand tighten. Feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of my shirt. My heart is hammering but my voice stays steady.

"Then stop talking."

He kisses me. Hard. His mouth is hot and demanding and I taste copper. Blood from a split lip I didn't notice. His hand slides up my back, pulls me against him, and I feel the armor plates press into my chest. The cold metal against my skin.

The paper falls from my hand. Lands on the floor between us.

I don't pick it up.

When he breaks the kiss, his forehead rests against mine. His breathing is ragged.

"I can't protect you from everything."

"I'm not asking you to."

"But I'll try anyway."

I kiss him again. Softer this time. His hands find my waist, my ribs, the space where my pulse beats wild and fast. The cot groans when I push him onto it. He looks up at me, and for a second, he's not Commander Gabriel Reyes. He's just a man who's been alone too long.

"Jackie."

"Yeah?"

"Don't make me regret this."

I lean down. My lips brush his ear.

"Too late."

He laughs. It's a broken sound, raw and real, and I feel it in my chest.

Outside, the base hums with the machinery of war. Tanks warming up. Dropships being prepped. Somewhere, orders are being written that will send people like us into the dark.

But right now, in this room, there's only the crack in the ceiling that looks like a river delta. And his hands on my skin.

And the question neither of us is brave enough to ask.

What happens when the sun comes up?