None of it was accidental or sloppy.
By midafternoonthey were pulled aside with two others and reassigned without explanation. "Kitchen," Sergeant Barnes said, already walking away.
Hale stared after him with knitted brows like he’d been demoted.
Elliot committed the sulky expression to memory.
The kitchen was industrial, fluorescent-lit, and aggressively warm after hours in the cold. The smell of overcooked food and steam from the sinks hit him the second he stepped in, settling in the back of his throat.
They were handed aprons—white, starched, and suspiciously stained. Elliot tied his without comment, while Hale fumbled with the strings like he'd never seen an apron before in his life.
"This is so not my scene," Hale muttered.
Shaking his head, Elliot turned toward the sinks to work. Chopping, hauling bins that were heavier than they appeared, washing dishes in sinks that never seemed to empty. None of it was difficult in isolation, but together, after everything else today, it felt like punishment.
Hale, predictably, made a production out of it. Not enough to get reprimanded, but enough to entertain himself. Exaggerated sighs. A running commentary under his breath about culinary injustice.
Elliot was aware of Hale beside him—broad shoulders taking up room even when he wasn't moving. Every time Hale reached for something, he caught the shift of muscle under his shirt, and had to step aside to avoid their arms brushing.
The kitchen was too small. That was the problem.
"You cook?" Hale asked, elbow-deep in suds.
"Yes."
"Huh." Hale scrubbed at a pan. "Interesting."
Elliot glanced at him. "Why is that interesting?"
"My mom used to say cooking tells you a lot about a person." He laughed, short and dismissive. "Probably bullshit though."
Elliot returned to scrubbing, hands moving automatically. He’d had enough of Hale’s small talk for one day.
When they were finally dismissed, the sky outside had already darkened. Elliot peeled off the apron and handed it back without comment. His hands were aching, stomach growling, shoulders tight with the kind of tension that didn’t come from physical work alone.
He kept his eyes forward as they filed out and trudged back to the barracks.
That night, Elliot lay awake long past midnight.
His thoughts kept circling back to Hale. That easy confidence. His short blond hair, curling at the tips. The stupid grin on his face. And then later, in the kitchen, the way his forearms had looked wet and soapy, hands moving through dishwater.
Elliot had stared at those hands for too long before looking away. Then, two minutes later, he’d glanced back.
Putain.
CHAPTER THREE
HUDSON
Hudson grabbeda tray of runny eggs with burned toast and scanned the dining hall for a seat. Most tables were already full of guys hunched over trays, looking tired and focused on their food.
“Hale! Over here!” Reed waved from a table near the windows. He reminded Hudson of a golden retriever. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy hair and an easy grin that Hudson knew had gotten him laid… a lot.
Hudson dropped into the seat across from him. Novak was already there—compact, shaved head, built like a boxer. Next to him sat Fernandez, a lean Hispanic guy from SoCal. The more exhausted he got, the heavier the Spanglish—and by the end of most days, Hudson could barely understand him.
“Sleep okay?” Reed asked.
“Define okay,” Hudson muttered.
