Shaw moved to the other cot and pulled on a blanket. The fire in the stove crackled low, shadows flickering across the wooden walls, but it suddenly felt colder. Wind rattled the shutters.
Hudson’s mind started to catch up. "Fuck," he said into the almost darkness.
"You regret it?" Shaw's voice came out too even.
"What? No." Hudson turned his head toward him. "I just... I never imagined I'd dothat. Like, ever. I need a second to wrap my head around it."
Shaw was so quiet that Hudson wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. Then, "Yeah, I get that." Hudson heard him shift on his cot. "Take all the time you need."
"Hey," he said, feeling Shaw needed to hear it again. "I don't regret it. Not for a second."
Shaw exhaled, long and slow.
"Do you?" The silence stretched and Hudson held hisbreath. “Because I'm pretty sure I'm gonna want to do that again, and it'd be really awkward if you hated it."
Shaw's laugh was genuine. "I didn't hate it."
“’Didn’t hate it’. That's basically a five-star review coming from you.”
Shaw snorted. "Goodnight, Hale."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ELLIOT
Elliot wokein the barracks before dawn, staring at the wooden beams above his bunk. He counted them as he did every morning. Fourteen.
The hike back from the cabin had been twenty klicks. Eight hours of Hale walking slightly ahead of him on the narrow trail, jacket pushed up at the sleeves despite the cold. Hale had talked more or less constantly about things Elliot couldn't even remember now. He had stopped processing words somewhere around the second hour and started watching the way Hale moved instead.
Twice they'd stopped—once at a ridge with a view that Hale had insisted on acknowledging like a tourist, and once because Hale had grabbed his collar and kissed him breathless against a pine tree.
Both times Elliot knew it was reckless. Both times he’d let it happen anyway.
That was the issue. Elliot had spent years building the kind of discipline that didn’t slip—not under pressure, not under exhaustion, not even under his father’s particular brand of warfare. But every time Hale looked at him likehe was something worth figuring out, his better judgment ceased to function.
They'd turned in their equipment, filed their reports, and returned to the barracks. Normal routine from then on.
Elliot had spent the two days since running the math on Briggs. How much damage he could do if he actually knew something. The answer never changed: too much.
So he kept his distance from Hale. No eye contact in the dining hall, different routes through the corridors, Hale’s schedule memorized purely to avoid it.
Yesterday Hale had passed him in the hallway. Their shoulders had brushed, half a second of eye contact, and a buzzing sensation filled Elliot’s hands—the impulse to reach out, grab a fistful of jacket, and push Hale into the nearest wall.
He'd kept walking. Hands at his sides.
It was the right decision. He was nearly certain of that.
Now, Elliot found himself at the equipment room door at 0600, volunteering for drill prep. Ten minutes before anyone else would show up. Space to think.
But when he entered, Hale was already there, loading a duffel bag.
Their eyes met and Elliot’s hard-won indifference crumbled.
Merde.
He moved to the shelves beside Hale and focused on the vests—counting them, checking their straps.
“Hey,” he said after a minute.
