Page 30 of My Forbidden Commander

Hayes rolls his eyes. “I withdraw my earlier comment about backup being reassuring.”

“Noted,” I say, unsure of why I’m entertaining his less-than-insightful asides.

I put them through jumping jacks and mountain climbers, not correcting anybody, because chances are I’ll put my hands on the wrong man for the wrong reason, and I’m not doing that in front of twelve sets of eyes and God.

“Reyes,” I say anyway, because his form is off and I built a career on not letting things slide, even when it’s inconvenient. “Elbows in on the push-up.”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s no hook in the words this morning. He fixes his elbows and doesn’t look up at me again. Somehow that’s worse than the hook. I don’t know what to do with him when he’s not testing me.

“Formation up. Wire run, single file to the gate road.”

I take the front like I usually do. This morning, though, I take the front like a man putting distance between himself and a fire, setting a pace that has Hayes swearing quietly by the end of the first kilometer.

“He’s punishing us,” he gasps from somewhere behind me. “This is a punishment. I did nothing. I have done nothing wrong in my entire adult life.”

“Pace is the same as Tuesday,” Delgado says.

“Pace is a war crime,” Hayes counters.

“I’d call you all pussies,” Quinn says, not sounding winded at all, “but it seems like you can’t take the same kind of beating. Be an insult to vaginas everywhere.”

Maddox snorts, and Callahan chuckles.

I don’t slow down, though I find myself trying to separate Reyes’s breathing from the rest. I do check over my shoulder at the halfway mark, just once. He’s running in the middle of the pack, easy, unbothered. For half a second, our eyes meet across the wet gravel. He doesn’t smile. He just holds my gaze.

I face front and run harder.

The second lap is worse because everyone’s too tired to complain, and the quiet makes a man hear his thoughts too clearly. Mine are always the same: the sound I made when I came. His hand. The way he said sir, like he’d wanted to say it that way for weeks and finally got the chance.

By the time we hit the gate road for the second time, my lungs are burning way more than four kilometers should cause, and I realize with cold clarity that I spent the entire PT session running from a twenty-three-year-old specialist without ever increasing the distance between us.

“Formation, halt.” I don’t look at anyone in particular as I speak. “Weapons maintenance, then tasking at 0900. Dismissed.”

They scatter toward their huts, and I stand on the gravel with my hands on my hips, getting my breath back, letting myself watch Reyes’s back until he rounds the corner and disappears.

I do not think I am going to survive this deployment the way I planned to.

I spend the rest of the day like I’m walking through a minefield with an unknown layout, and it doesn’t take me long to realize my avoidance is a tell in its own.

At 0900 tasking, I brief the route reconnaissance through Okafor. I don’t address Reyes directly once, not even when he asks a perfectly reasonable question about rally points on the north leg. I have Okafor answer as I stare at the map board instead, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see his jaw tighten.

At 1100, I send word to his hut about ammunition resupply through a runner instead of walking the forty meters myself.

At 1300, Wilder wants to walk the ridge and discuss sniper positions, and I go with him gladly, because a few hours off base discussing sight lines and dead space are a few hours I don’t have to spend on this base pretending I don’t know exactly where Reyes is at any given moment.

At 1530, back at the command hut, I catch him near the supply line, laughing at something Walker said, and when his eyes drift toward me across the yard, I look down at the clipboard in my hand like it’s just delivered urgent news from headquarters. It hasn’t. It’s yesterday’s ammunition count. I already know it by heart. Distracted, I walk straight into Okafor, nearly knocking him to the ground.

I know I’m running—I’ve commanded enough scared men to recognize it. If there’s a difference between discipline and denial, I’m not sure which one I’m practicing anymore.

By 1700, the light’s starting to die over the ridge, and I’m alone in the command hut with the day’s paperwork when the door opens after a clipped knock. Which means it’s Okafor.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just standing there with his arms loose at his sides, looking at me like he’s mapping new terrain.

“Something on your mind, Sergeant?” I ask, because the silence is starting to feel worse than any question he may have.

“Just wondering if you’re avoiding Reyes,” Okafor says, “or if Reyes is avoiding you.” He waits a moment, obviously not in a rush. “Either way, it’s loud.”