The Last Night

she packs. the duffel swallows her gear piece by piece. he watches from the cot. the silence is a countdown. 'you should get some sleep.' 'so should you.' neither will. they both know this.

she stops. turns. looks at him with an expression she's never cataloged because it doesn't have a tactical name. 'the bag can wait.' 'it can't.' 'it can.' she goes to him because the bag has the rest of her life. he has tonight.

they undress each other slowly. each article is a layer peeled from the time they have left. she memorizes his collarbone. he memorizes her shoulders. the dog tags come off last and the metal is warm and the warmth is theirs.

slow. slower than they've ever been. every movement is a memory being forged. her hands on his face. his eyes in hers. the pace is grief dressed as love dressed as bodies moving together. 'I'll come back.' 'that's not a promise you can make.' 'I'm making it anyway.'

the pace breaks. slow becomes urgent because time is leaving and they can't hold it. she clings to him and the urgency is not desire — it's the attempt to outrun a clock. they can't. the climax arrives and it sounds like his name and a promise and something breaking and something being built at the same time.

they hold each other. the lamp is dim. the bag is packed by the door. 'how long?' 'I don't know.' 'then I'll check the roster every morning.' 'that's—' 'obsessive. I know.' she presses her face against his chest and listens to the heartbeat she's about to leave. she memorizes the rhythm. she'll count to it on deployment. she'll count to it until she's back.

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.