Page 139 of Reeves

When the Saints Go Marching In:The anthem of the New Orleans second line. It is not a song about death, but about arrival.

I stand in the hallway,one bare foot balanced on the cool hardwood, the other still on the worn rug Benjy dropped by his door this morning. The house settles around me with those small creaks that only come after dark.

Through the gap where his door isn't quite closed, I watch.

Reeves sits on Benjy's twin bed, his frame taking up most of the narrow mattress. His shoulders curve forward to fit the small space, and the tank book looks tiny in his hands. His voice carries just enough to reach me.

He took off the camo shirt and is wearing the light tan t-shirt tucked into his camo pants. The shirt pulls tightly across his broad shoulders, and the sleeves hug his inked biceps tightly.

He is a stunning man.

"The M1A2 Abrams weighs sixty-eight tons," he reads, pausing when Benjy shifts under his dinosaur sheets. "That's about the same as twelve elephants."

"Twelve?" Benjy's voice is soft, already thick with sleep.

"Give or take." Reeves turns the page carefully, holding it so Benjy can see the picture. "The armor is made of special materials that can stop most anything."

I should announce myself and step into the room. This is my house, my son, my bedtime routine. The private tenderness keeps me right here in the shadows, watching this scene unfold without me.

Benjy's eyes drift closed, then pop open again. "Do they have bathrooms inside?"

"They do. And air conditioning." Reeves's answer comes without hesitation, like he expected the question. "The crew can stay inside for days if they need to."

"Days?" But Benjy's voice fades on the word.

Reeves keeps reading anyway, his tone low and even. When he reaches the end of a page, he glances down at Benjy's face. The book stays open in his lap, but he doesn't turn the page yet.

Benjy's breathing shifts, deeper now, but his tiny, perfect fingers still grip the edge of his blanket.

Reeves reaches over and adjusts the sheet where it's bunched around Benjy's shoulder. The gesture is automatic, like he's done so many nights before.

He closes the book but doesn't move. He sits there in the dim glow of the green frog nightlight, watching Benjy sleep. His hand rests on the mattress near Benjy's arm, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth.

Minutes pass. I count my own heartbeats, waiting for him to leave.

When Reeves finally stands, he does it slowly, seeming to test the floorboards for creaks. He sets the book on the nightstand next to the cup of water and the small flashlight Benjy insists on keeping there.

Turning toward the door, he stops before walking out when his eyes find mine through the crack.

He opens it the rest of the way. Neither of us speaks, but there's no awkwardness in the silence.

I step back to give him room. My shoulder brushes his arm as I reach past him to pull Benjy's door closed. The latch clicks as softly as a whisper.

We move through the house without discussion. My bare feet know every area that creaks. Reeves follows closely until we're out of the hall.

In the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and hold up an Abita beer. He nods, neither of us needing words. I grab two and head toward him.

The patio door slides open with barely a sound, and the night air is cooler now, the heat of the day finally breaking. I hand him a beer as I drop into one of the wicker chairs, and he takes it without hesitation.

He’s still here. Second night in a row. I didn't necessarily invite him to stay. It just keeps getting extended through Benjy's pleas. But if I'm completely honest with myself, I don't want him to leave.

And that scares the shit out of me.

“Nice move earlier,” I say, twisting the cap off my bottle. “Buying him that tank book knowing he’d make you read it tonight.”

He huffs out a quiet breath, tipping the bottle back for a sip. “That wasn’t a strategy.”

“Sure it wasn’t, Lieutenant.”