Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ELLIOT
Elliot woke in 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 like he 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.
“Hey,” Hale responded without looking at him.
Elliot packed three vests and three helmets, then glanced at Hale's pile.
Hale loaded his bag with what appeared like half the equipment room. He had six vests stacked. Four helmets. Three of the heavy training packs.
Elliot snorted. He grabbed two more vests, and added them to his pile. Then three more helmets.
Hale glanced at him. "What are you doing?"
"Getting gear." Elliot kept his tone flat. "What does it look like?"
"It looks like you're overcompensating for something."
Elliot picked up another training pack. "Says the guy who's about to throw his back out."
Hale added another pack to his duffel without breaking eye contact. "I'm fine."
"Right. Because you're so strong and capable."
"I am strong and capable."
Elliot grabbed two more packs. His pile was absurd now, completely unnecessary, but he’d committed to the bit. “Sure.”
Hale's mouth curved into that competitive half-smile. "You're an idiot."
"And you're carrying approximately forty pounds of equipment you don't need."
"Sixty, actually." Hale hoisted his duffel onto his shoulder. No strain, no grunt. "Maybe you should hit the gym more, Shaw."
"Maybe you should stop showing off, Hale."
"I'm not. I'm just better at this than you."
Elliot raised an eyebrow. "You are not better at this than me."
"Evidence suggests otherwise."
Elliot eyed his own ridiculous pile of gear, then Hale standing there with his perfectly balanced duffel looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Elliot's chest felt lighter than it had in two days.
"Fuck you," he said.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Hale's wicked grin widened.
Unsecured room. Unlocked door. Elliot’s brain supplied an image of Hale against those shelves anyway, head thrown back, that low groan like—
He kept his face neutral. "You're such an asshole."
Grinning, Hale turned and headed for the door, duffel over his shoulder. "Try to keep up, Shaw."
Elliot grabbed his gear and followed. As they reached the door, his hand found Hale's ass and squeezed.
Hale jumped. His duffel hit the floor, equipment spilling across the concrete.
"You were saying?" Elliot said, stepping past him into the cold air.
Behind him, Hale cursed, equipment clattering as he scrambled to pick it up.
Elliot walked away, the corner of his lips pulling into a smile.
Formation that morning started like any other.
They lined up in rows on the frozen parade ground, breath rising in white clouds in the grey morning air, boots crunching on the thin layer of overnight frost. Sergeant Kowalski's hands were clasped behind his back instead of at his sides, his face set, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
Elliot's shoulders tensed. He'd seen this before, right before they'd announced evaluation week. Something was coming.
"Listen up," Kowalski barked. "Two weeks. That's what you've got left here. Until Selection ends and you move on to specialized training."
Two weeks. Fourteen days.
Elliot's hands flexed at his sides. He didn't look two spots to his right, didn’t trust himself to keep his expression neutral if he did.
"You've all been evaluated," Kowalski continued. "Your performance, your aptitudes, your strengths and weaknesses. We've made recommendations for your specializations."
Elliot suspected where he was headed: North Carolina. Tactical operations. Ground control. The kind of position that led to command, according to his father.
The question was where Hale would go. How far Hale would go.
"When I call your name, step forward.” Kowalski consulted the spreadsheet in front of him. “Lieutenant Reed."
Reed moved out of formation and planted himself, solid as ever.
"Infantry. Fort Liberty, North Carolina. Eighty-Second Airborne."
Reed nodded once, face serious. Eighty-Second Airborne—first boots on the ground when everything went sideways.
Kowalski kept going. "Lieutenant Novak. Intelligence analysis. Fort Meade, Maryland."
Novak’s shoulders dropped.
"Lieutenant Briggs. Infantry. Fort Benning, Georgia."
Briggs smirked like he’d won something. Asshole.
More names. More locations. Elliot tracked them—mapping who would be stationed where, building the network in his mind. But his attention kept circling back, waiting for the only assignment that really mattered.
"Lieutenant Hale."
Elliot's breath caught in his throat.
Hale stepped forward, squared shoulders, chin up. But his hands were rigid at his sides, far from relaxed.
"Aviation. Lewis-McChord, Washington."
Washington.
The word landed like a punch to Elliot’s stomach. The West Coast. Approximately 2,800 miles from Fort Liberty. He kept his face blank while his mind ran the numbers.
"Lieutenant Shaw."
Elliot stepped forward, boots crunching on the frost.
"Tactical operations. Fort Liberty, North Carolina."
Confirmation of the assignment he'd expected. Trained for even.
Elliot stepped back into formation. His ears were ringing so loud that he wondered if Hale could hear two spots over.
Two weeks left of Selection. Then there were no more storage rooms. No more excuses for proximity. No more Hale looking at him across a room like they shared a secret—because they wouldn't anymore.
No more Hale.
Kowalski kept talking, but Elliot heard none of it. His mind ran calculations he didn't want to run—distances, posting lengths, leave allowances, how often two soldiers on opposite coasts could reasonably end up in the same place.
But there was no advantage. The assignments were final. In fourteen days, this ended.
He'd known that to begin with. They both had. So why did his throat feel tight?
Elliot was eight years old again, standing in the backyard in his pajamas, the rain coming down in sheets.
Thunder cracked overhead, so loud it sounded like the sky split open, and he heard himself cry.
Small, hiccupping sobs he couldn't control.
His father was in the doorway, backlit by the house lights, his face hard and disapproving.
"You’re a Shaw. Shaws don't cry," his father said, his voice cold and precise, each word clipped like a command. "You'll stay out here until you learn that."
The door closed. The lock clicked.
Elliot remained, alone in the dark, lightning flashing across the sky like artillery fire. He pressed himself against the house, seeking shelter under the eaves, but the wind drove the rain sideways, pelting his face, his arms, soaking him to the bone.
The thunder kept coming, each crack making him flinch, making him cry despite his efforts not to.
Nobody came.
He woke up gasping, his T-shirt soaked through with sweat. Steady breathing surrounded him in the dark barracks.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his damp hair.
Bordel.
The walls were too close, the air too thick with the smell of soldiers in close quarters—stale and sweaty.
He flexed his fingers. They trembled. If he lay back down, he'd be back there—eight years old, alone in the rain, listening to thunder and wondering if The General would ever let him back inside.
He grabbed his boots, laced them with shaking hands, the leather stiff and cold under his fingers, and slipped out of the barracks.
The night air hit him like a slap, washing away the phantom sensation of rain still clinging to his skin. He headed for the stairwell at the end of the building, the one nobody used because it only led to a locked roof. It was private.
Elliot sat on the concrete steps, the cold seeping through his sweatpants. Elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
In for four, hold for four, out for four.
His pulse raced—one-twenty, maybe more.