Late Strategy Session

2300. the map is wrong. she can feel it. he can feel it too. they lean over the desk and their shoulders touch and the map blurs because she's looking at his hands instead of the terrain.

'the approach from the east is suicide.' 'the approach from the east is bold.' 'bold is a synonym for suicide when you're wrong.' 'and when I'm right?' they're six inches apart. the argument is foreplay. both of them know it. neither stops.

his hand covers hers on the map. she freezes. the eastern approach becomes the least important thing on this desk. 'you're on my position.' 'I know.' neither hand moves. the map has become something else.

she sweeps the maps aside. operational materials treated with disrespect for the first time in her career. she sits on the desk where the eastern approach was. he stands between her knees. 'the strategy has changed.' 'noted, commander.'

they kiss over crumpled maps and fallen markers. the red marker rolls off the desk and she doesn't care. she's never not cared about a marker. first time for everything. his hands are in her hair and the eastern approach can wait until morning.

'we still need a plan for the east.' 'later.' 'it's urgent.' 'this is more urgent.' she's never ranked anything above operations. his mouth on her neck outranks everything. 'the east can wait,' she concedes. the commander has never conceded. the woman is learning to.

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.