Hale:outside. black civic. try not to look too military
Elliot’s gaze tracked down his body. Black jeans, gray shirt, camouflage bag over one shoulder.Right.
He found the black Civic idling at the curb with its hazard lights on. Hale had his window down, arguing with a departures officer who was clearly telling him to move. Hale spotted Elliot, held up one finger, then said something that made the officer laugh and wave him off.
Hale could talk his way out of anything.
He threw his bag in the trunk and rounded the car to find a beaming Hale in the driver’s seat. "Hey."
"Hey."
"How was your flight?"
"It was all right."
"You eat?" Hale pulled into traffic without checking his mirror. Elliot's hand twitched toward the dashboard instinctively.
"On the plane."
"That's not eating." Hale glanced over at him, then back to the road. "You look terrible, by the way."
Elliot snorted. "I know."
Hale merged onto the I-5 one-handed, completely unbothered by the bustling traffic. Elliot settled back in the seat and looked out the window at the sprawl of the city,the pale afternoon light, the mountains barely visible in the distance.
"I'm glad you came," Hale said. Casual. Eyes forward.
Elliot swallowed hard. "Yeah. Me too."
Hale’s apartment was in Gig Harbor, on the third floor of a building that had probably been nice once. The elevator was out of service. A handwritten sign on the door said it had been since March, which appeared to be a different March than the current one.
Elliot followed Hale up the stairs with his bag slung over his shoulder.
“It’s not much,” Hale said, unlocking the door.
Elliot stepped inside, set his bag down, and glanced around.
Small living room, galley kitchen, a balcony big enough for two chairs. Flight manuals stacked on the coffee table. A photo of two women on the fridge—Taylor and his mother, Elliot assumed. Clean but sparse, the kind of space that belonged to someone who was never around long enough to accumulate anything.
A mouthwatering aroma of garlic and rosemary filled the space.
“You cooked?” Elliot asked.
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Hale dropped his keys on the counter and lifted the lid on a pan. “It’s just pasta.”
Elliot stilled in the middle of the small living room, his chest tightening. This felt… He wasn’t sure. Oddly domestic in a way he wasn’t used to.
“Sit,” Hale said, nodding toward the bar stools at the kitchen counter. “It’s almost ready.”
Elliot sat and watched Hale move around the small kitchen. It was strange seeing him in this environment, so at ease and unhurried. He poured two glasses of water and set one in front of Elliot.
“I thought we could maybe hang out here tonight? No agenda.”
Elliot turned the glass in his hands. Outside, the last of the daylight was fading over the rooftops.
No agenda.Elliot couldn't remember the last time that had been the case. And now he had a whole weekend with Hale, no plans in sight.
Hale served the pasta and sat on the stool beside him, close enough that their arms were almost touching. They ate. Hale talked—something about a training exercise that had gone sideways, a story about Reed that made Elliot smile.
