Chapter 9 #2
People stand, grab drinks and protein bars laid out on a table at the edge of the clearing, and then move toward their partners. Trevor and Zay are already talking animatedly. Sienna and Juno are laughing about something.
I grab two water bottles and two bars, then walk around the firepit toward Sulla. He stands as I approach.
We face each other.
“Partners,” he says. Voice neutral. He accepts the water and bar with a nod of thanks.
“Yeah. Partners.”
“We should talk,” he says. “Set ground rules.”
“Agreed.”
We find a spot away from the others and sit on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing. After we take a few moments to eat and drink, he takes my garbage from my hands and walks over to dispose of the trash.
Returning, he resumes his seat beside me at the other end of the log. Two feet between us.
The silence stretches.
“I work alone,” he says. “Always have. This will be… complicated.”
“I don’t carry dead weight,” I say. “And I don’t like being carried.”
His mouth almost curves. Almost. “Then we’re aligned.”
“We keep it tactical,” I continue. “Clear communication. No ego.”
“Agreed.”
“If something’s wrong, we say it directly.”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“No unnecessary risk,” I add, wanting to do everything I can to ensure I finish in the money.
His eyes hold mine. “We’ll decide what’s necessary.”
“Not when your partner pays for it.”
Silence stretches again.
Then he nods once. “Fair.”
More silence.
He looks at me directly. “I’ll do my job, Reid. I’ll be a good partner. You won’t have to carry me.”
“I know. Same here.”
We shake hands. Professional agreement. Partners.
Nothing more.
But as we walk back toward the fire pit together—our first walk as a team—I’m aware of him beside me. The way he moves. The quiet competence. The gray in his hair and the scars on his hands and the way he looked at me across the fire pit when Mac called our names.
Professional partners.
That’s all this is.
The tightening in my chest is irrelevant.
I adjust my pace. He matches it without comment.
Professional. I can do professional. I don’t have another option.
We board the bus that is waiting for us on the gravel road at the edge of the clearing. The partners sit together. Some talk quietly.
Most, like us, don’t engage in conversation, instead we stare out the windows.
Back at the mess tent, dinner is quieter than usual.
Pairs sit together. Or try to.
Blake is already arguing with Heather. Trevor and Zay are sketching strategies in a notebook. Sienna and Juno look relaxed.
Sulla and I sit across from each other. Not touching. Not speaking much.
Mac waits until trays are half-empty before he rises to say, “One more thing.”
Conversation dies instantly.
“Partnership means total integration.” A pause. “You’ll no longer be housed in the main barracks.”
The room goes very still.
“Seven two-man tents have been pitched in the courtyard. Gear has already been reassigned.”
Someone swears under their breath.
Mac doesn’t react.
“You live with your partner. You move with your partner. You succeed or fail with your partner.”
He looks around the room.
“Welcome to Phase Two.”
A staff member with a clipboard assigns us tent numbers, and we head toward the door. When we step outside, they're there.
Seven small canvas tents in a semicircle.
Close enough that you can hear your neighbor breathe.
No one speaks as we cross the courtyard.
The tents are identical—canvas, low, utilitarian. No attempt at comfort. Numbers stenciled in black near the entrance flap.
Tent Four.
I reach it first. Don't hesitate. Duck inside.
Sulla follows.
The space is smaller than it looked from a distance. Two narrow cots. Two duffels already placed at the foot of each. A single battery lantern hanging from the center support pole. The canvas walls breathe with the evening wind, shifting in and out like lungs.
Four feet between the cots.
I scan the interior automatically. Old habit.
"Left or right?" I ask.
"Doesn't matter."
My duffel is on the left. I take it.
He takes the right without comment.
Outside, the other pairs are settling in. Canvas flaps snapping. Low voices. Someone laughing too loudly.
In here, the air feels tighter.
I kneel at my duffel and unpack with the movements I've used a hundred times in a hundred different forward operating bases. Boots aligned beneath the cot. Clothing folded. Headlamp hung within reach.
He mirrors the action without discussion.
We move around each other once — too close, the tent not accounting for two people trying to occupy the same space at the same time. My arm nearly brushes his shoulder.
We both adjust without comment.
There's nowhere to look that isn't him. Or the canvas. Or the four feet between us.
I pull my shirt over my head in one clean motion, turning my back before the fabric clears my shoulders.
Professional.
I can hear him behind me. The careful, unhurried sound of someone who doesn't make unnecessary noise. Buckles. Fabric. The soft thud of boots on canvas floor.
I keep my eyes on my own kit.
Layer by layer, we reduce ourselves to the basics of sleep.
I stand to change at the same moment he does.
We both pivot. Our eyes meet — not by accident, not quite — for a fraction of a second too long.
Then I look away first.
I sit, pull off my socks, lie down facing the opposite wall.
"Lights out at twenty-two hundred," I say.
"Yes."
The lantern clicks off.
Darkness.
The canvas shifts with the wind, brushing faintly against the support pole. Everything is close. The tent. The dark. The four feet between us that feel like less than that.
I can hear him breathing. Even. Controlled. Almost too controlled, like a man making a deliberate effort.
I shift once, adjusting to the unfamiliar cot.
He shifts at the same time.
Then stillness.
Four feet. Closer than a rope pulled taut between two people. I'm aware of exactly where he is in the dark the way you're aware of something with weight and heat and presence. The way you're aware of a door you've decided not to open.
I close my eyes.
Sleep doesn't come quickly.
Neither of us speaks.
Not tonight.