Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Reid
It’s the ninth night of the competition. It was less than ten hours ago that we were in that freezing river.
Now, as we perform our nighttime routine, we’re both pretending nothing happened. Both maintaining professional distance. Both lying.
I change into sleep clothes with my back turned. Hear him doing the same behind me. Though we’ve done this before, it feels different tonight. More charged. We’ve felt each other’s bodies pressed close. We’ve slept tangled together. We can’t unring that bell.
I settle into my cot. He settles into his. Four feet of space between us. Might as well be four inches. Might as well be touching.
“Goodnight,” I say.
“Goodnight.”
Darkness. Silence. Breathing.
I can’t sleep. Keep thinking about waking up in his arms. The way his heartbeat felt steady against my back. The way he smelled like woodsmoke from the earlier fire. The way I didn’t want to move. The way some part of me felt safer there than I’ve felt in years.
That’s dangerous.
I don’t do trust. Not after the inquiry. Not after my CO hung me out to dry to save himself.
But Sulla’s breathing is steady across the tent, and some traitorous part of me is listening to it. Finding comfort in it. Using it to calm my own racing thoughts.
Around midnight, I hear him shift, then sit up.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask quietly.
Pause. Then, “No.”
“Me neither.”
Silence. Then he speaks again. “The water today. When you went down. I thought…”
He doesn’t finish.
“Thought what?”
“That I’d have to come in after you. Protocol says to let someone self-recover. But I was already moving before I could think.”
I sit up on my cot. Can’t see him clearly in the darkness but I can see his outline. Sitting there, shoulders tense.
“You would have come in.”
“Yes.” His tone is earnest.
“Even though that would’ve been tactically stupid.”
“Yes.”
I don’t know what to do with that. With the certainty in his voice. With the knowledge that he would have risked himself for me without hesitation.
“Why?” I ask.
Long pause. “I don’t know.”
Honest, at least.
“What are you running from?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Another pause. Longer. Then, “Same thing you are.”
“You don’t know what I’m running from.” He doesn’t know me well enough to even guess at what’s going on with me.
“Don’t I? People who have somewhere to be don’t come to places like this.”
“That’s not an answer,” I say.
“It’s the only answer I have right now.”
Fair enough. I’m not ready to tell him everything either. Not ready to explain about Ramirez. About the inquiry. About watching my commanding officer lie and watching them believe him and watching my team die because I trusted someone I shouldn’t have.
But something about the darkness makes me want to share something. Anything.
“I don’t trust easily,” I say finally. “I trusted someone once. Someone in my chain of command. And people died because he failed. But the system protected him. Closed ranks. Called it operational necessity.”
Sulla doesn’t respond immediately. Just listens. That’s unusual. Most people try to fix it. Try to tell me it wasn’t my fault or offer platitudes.
He doesn’t.
“So now you don’t trust systems,” he says finally. “Or people with power.”
“Right.”
“That’s… understandable.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. People with power use it wrong. Systems protect the powerful, not the weak. You learned that.”
There’s something in his voice. Experience. Like he’s not just agreeing with me, he’s speaking from his own knowledge.
“What about you?” I ask. “What did you learn the hard way?”
Long silence. So much time passes, I think he’s not going to answer.
Finally, “That there are two kinds of people in the world. Those who hold the whip and those who feel it. And if you don’t want to feel it, you have to be the one holding it.”
The words hang in the darkness. Heavy. Honest. Dark.
“That’s bleak,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“Do you still believe that?”
Pause. “I’m trying not to.”
Something tight in my chest eases. He’s not defending it. Not doubling down. He’s trying.
I don’t know what to do with that,
“Me too,” I admit. “Trying to believe that not everyone with power will abuse it. That not all systems are corrupt. That trust is possible.”
“Is it working?”
“I don’t know yet.”
We sit in the darkness. Both of us broken in different ways. Both of us trying to put ourselves back together. Both of us not quite sure how.
“The body heat today,” I say carefully. “That was medical necessity.”
“Yes.”
“Nothing more.”
“Correct.”
We’re both lying again.
“But it felt…” I stop. Don’t know how to finish that sentence.
“Safe,” he finishes quietly. “It felt safe.”
Yes. That’s exactly what it felt like.
“I don’t do safe,” I say. “Don’t know how.”
“Neither do I.”
“But lying there. Listening to your heartbeat. Feeling you breathe. It felt…”
“Like maybe we could,” he finishes.
“Yeah.”
Silence. The weight of what we’re admitting settling between us.
“This is complicated,” I say.
“Yes.”
“We’re partners. Temporary. This ends in three weeks,” I remind him.
“I know.”
“We should keep this professional.”
“We should.”
Neither of us sounds convinced.
I lie back on my cot. So does he. Four feet of space between us. Might as well be nothing.
“Reid?” His voice in the darkness.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For telling me about your chain of command. About what happened.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m not ready to tell you everything yet. About what I’m running from. But… someday. Maybe.”
“Okay.”
“Is that enough? For now?” His voice is quieter this time.
I think about this. Think about the way he held me today without question. The way he would have come into freezing water after me. The way he listens without trying to fix things.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s enough.”
Silence again. But comfortable. Different from before.
His breathing evens out. Steady. Calm. That sound I’m learning to rely on.
I close my eyes. Listen to him breathe. Feel myself relax in increments.
For the first time since the inquiry, since Ramirez, since everything broke—peace. Something close to it.
Not permanent. Not fixed. Just this moment. This tent. This man breathing steadily in the cot beside mine who somehow makes me feel less alone.
I fall asleep listening to his breath. Knowing this is dangerous. Knowing I’m starting to care more than I should. Knowing that this ends soon and I’ll have to figure out how to be alone again.
But right now, I let myself have this.
The steady sound of his breathing. The knowledge that someone would risk themselves for me without question. The feeling, however temporary, of being safe.
Just for tonight.