Whiskey-Fueled Night

second glass. they're on the floor because the cot is too small for two people sitting and she's not ready to address what the cot is big enough for. the whiskey is islay. peaty. it tastes like decisions.

her head lands on his shoulder. she didn't decide it. her skull made an executive decision without consulting command. his shoulder doesn't move. 'you smell like smoke.' 'it's the scotch.' 'it's you. you smell like smoke and steel.' she shouldn't have said that.

third glass. she never has three. tonight she lets him pour it and his hand is steady and his eyes are steady and steady things make her feel something unsteady. 'I don't do this.' 'I know.' 'I don't know how to do this.' 'I know that too.'

the kiss tastes like twelve-year scotch and six years of not kissing anyone. his hand is in her hair — short hair, not much to hold, but he finds enough. the glasses are abandoned. the whiskey can wait. this can't.

the cot. she pulls him there by his shirt because the commander leads even when she's three whiskeys deep and her hands are trembling. 'this changes everything.' 'it was already changed.' he's right. she hates that he's always right. she loves it.

his thumb traces her scar. she flinches — then doesn't. no one has touched the scar since the medic stitched it. 'does it hurt?' 'not anymore.' she means the scar. she means something else too. the whiskey and the man and the narrow cot hold all of it. 'stay,' she says. second time ever.

she shoves him into the wall. the impact echoes. her hands on his chest, pinning. 'you looked at me in the briefing.' 'I always look at you.' 'not like that. not in front of—' he kisses her mid-sentence. the sentence dies well.

shirts gone. her back finds the wall — he reversed the position and she allowed it because the wall is cold on her skin and his chest is warm against hers and the contrast is everything.

he lifts her. her legs wrap around his waist — muscle memory from combat grappling repurposed entirely. her back is against the wall and she's eye-level with him for the first time. 'don't drop me.' 'never.'

the wall takes her weight and he takes everything else. the dog tags clink between them with every movement — a rhythm that has no regulation and no precedent. her nails find his shoulders. 'harder.' the command voice. even here.

her head hits the wall. eyes closed. the command voice breaks into something wordless and honest. the commander is gone. the woman is here and the woman is loud and the wall is the only thing keeping her upright besides him.

they slide down the wall. end up on the floor. tangled. her forehead on his shoulder. both breathing like they've run a combat course. 'the wall has drywall damage.' 'I'll fix it.' 'you'll fix it?' 'I broke it.' she's laughing. the commander is laughing on the floor of her quarters with drywall dust in her hair. unprecedented.

seventy-two hours. zero casualties. mission complete. she locks the door behind her. 'dismissed.'

the vest hits the floor. twelve pounds of kevlar and ceramic plate. she doesn't flinch at the weight leaving her shoulders. she never does.

the shirt comes off in one motion. clinical. efficient. the bruise on her ribs is new. she catalogs it without comment.

she sits on the cot. one boot. then the other. the socks underneath are regulation black. everything about her is regulation. almost everything.

pants folded. placed on the chair. even exhausted, the discipline holds. the woman underneath is lean muscle and quiet damage.

'at ease.' she says it to herself. the uniform comes off one button at a time. underneath the commander is just a woman with scars.

no rank. no insignia. just skin and dog tags and the sound of her own breathing. she hasn't heard silence in three days.

she falls forward onto the cot. doesn't pull the blanket. the commander sleeps like she fights — alone, efficient, and without asking permission.

shrapnel. left side. superficial. she waves off the medic with a look that could stop arterial bleeding on its own.

'I'll handle it.' three words. the medic leaves. rei opens the jacket with steady hands because unsteady hands are not an option.

she lifts the shirt to the wound line. no further. the cut is clean. four inches. she's had worse from training.

needle in. through. pull. she counts stitches like breathing exercises. one. two. three. her hand does not shake. four.

seven stitches. field-clean. she wraps the bandage herself because letting someone that close to her body requires a security clearance she hasn't issued.

bandaged. buttoned. done. she sits for one moment with her head down. just one. then the commander stands back up and the woman disappears.