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CHAPTER - twelve, sugar pumpkin plum pie, a threesome, & a coma
POV - second person point of view
NOTES - okay so i am DEVASTATED they aren’t making another season!!! - but i enjoyed making this chapter, i do have one question, is this *too* slow burn for you guyssss, i see your comments & messages and you’all are making me think so lol. 😭 anyway, as always leave any thoughts/suggestions in the comments. stay save luvies! xx
It’s mid-day and everyone is exhausted from doing drills.
“This new Howitt guy has no chill.” you hear people mumble behind you.
You were given a ten minute break, you decide to grab a protein bar and decide to roam around the cafeteria. Nash keeps stealing glances at you while talking to Cody Bowman. You try to ignore him, but he comes up to you seconds later.
You think back to last night when you snooped through your father’s office and found Slovacek’s file. You wonder if Nash would know anything about it since they’re freakishly close. You push yourself up from the wall and walk to the courtyard waiting for your next instructions.
You see Sergeant McKinnion, who mostly everyone is on good terms with. You two make eye contact and not even a second later he calls for everyone to get into groups of two.
People are still coming outside, you wait to see if you can spot Nash and you do. You don’t waste a second, you walk quickly and say his name.
He turns around, eyeing you. “Alvar.”
“Team up?” You held your hand out for a handshake, he agreed.
“Why’re you suddenly interested in hanging out with me?” He smirks.
You roll your eyes, it’s impossible not to whenever Nash speaks. “Well, I did have a question, but who wouldn’t want to hang out with the platoons most loved.” You playfully wink.
He scoffs. “Yeah, yeah, just tell me what you want before McKinnion takes our ability to breathe away.”
You muffle out a laugh, “So, you and Slovacek, pretty close friends right?”
Nash gave me a knowing look. “Get to the point.”
“Fine, fine,” You throw your hands up in defense, “but promise you won’t tell?”
“Yep. I swear”
You furrow your brows a bit. “I don’t swear, I only promise.”
He laughs, “You’re being childish.”
You give him a look and cross your arms.
“Okay, fine, I promise.” He says in a mocking tone.
“Alright, so I was wondering if you knew why Slovacek is here?”
There’s a pause. He doesn’t say anything and neither do you.
“Why are you asking? Did he not want to tell you?” He raises an eyebrow.
You think about it for a second, your two options, tell him the truth and he probably won’t tell you, or lie to him and he might tell you.
You choose option two. “No, I didn’t ask him, but I was just wondering.”
“Well, I dunno either.” He shrugs and fixed his belt.
—
The drills start the same way they always do, too loud and too fast.
Your shoulders ache almost immediately, sweat already sticking to your spine as McKinnion barks orders like he’s trying to shake something loose from all of you. You’re paired off for most of it, moving in sync with Nash as you run, stop, drop, and sprint again. Your lings burn.
At one point, when Mckinnion’s attention is elsewhere, Nash leans closer.
“Hey,” he mutters, just loud enough for you. “You still want to find out why Slovacek joined?”
You hesitate for half a beat.
Then nod. “Yeah. Please.”
Nash lifts his brows slightly. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you say, quieter. “Just don’t use my name.”
He grins. “Relax. I’ll ask him later tonight. I’ll be cool.” He wiggles his eyebrows, causing you to laugh.
Then, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and focus back on the drill before McKinnion notices the lapse.
—
The rest of the afternoon blurs together in sweat and repetition. By the time you’re finally dismissed, your arms feel like rubber and your head’s buzzing. Everyone drifts toward dinner or the rec room, the base settling in.
You’re halfway across the floor when you spot Nash near the rec room entrance.
You start toward him, heart ticking faster. You need to remind him. Not your name. Not you. Just curiosity. Just guy talk.
But before you can get there,
“Alvar.”
Your stomach drops.
You turn.
Your father stands under the hallway arch, posture stiff, expression unreadable. The way he says your name makes every worst-case scenario flash through your mind at once.
He knows. He knows you were in his office. He knows you touched the files.
You follow him anyway.
Inside his office, the door closes with a soft click that sounds far too loud. He doesn’t yell. That somehow makes it worse.
He moves to his desk, opens a drawer, and slides something toward you.
An envelope.
You blink. “What is this?”
“Mail,” he says shortly. “From Germany.”
Your chest tightens as you open it.
Inside are letters, handwritten, familiar loops and slants you recognize instantly. Polaroids slip out with them. Two girls squished together in one frame, laughing, arms thrown around each other.
Isla and Julei.
You swallow hard.
“They miss you,” your father says, quieter now. “Said to tell you that.”
You nod, throat thick.
He clears his throat. “Tomorrow, some of you will be allowed to write letters. A few calls, too. You can give me whatever you want to send. I’ll make sure it goes out.”
You look up at him, surprised. “Thank you,” you say softly.
He nods once, already turning back to paperwork.
You step back into the hall, heart still racing, but this time not from fear.
You head back toward the rec room passing by the dining hall, scanning for Nash.
He’s not there and neither is Slovacek. A sinking feeling settles in your gut.
Shit.
You spot Cody Bowman leaning against a table and veer toward him. “Hey, have you seen Nash?”
Cody smirks immediately. “Yeah. He went that way with Slovacek.”
Your heart jumps. “That way” being the rec room.
Cody wiggles his eyebrows. “Why? You into one of them? Or both? I don’t judge.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, cheeks warm, already walking away.
You slow down as you near the rec room door. The voices inside stop you cold.
Nash’s voice, unmistakable. “Oh, shit. I didn’t know that was why you joined.”
You don’t move.
Slovacek exhales, slow and rough. “Yeah. That’s why.”
A pause.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Slovacek adds, sharper now. “Not a single fucking person.”
“I won’t,” Nash says quickly. “I swear. I just, I didn’t think,”
“I don’t want her thinking I’m some bad guy,” Slovacek cuts in.
Her.
Your stomach twists.
Nash sighs. “Yeah. No. I get it. I won’t say anything.”
You hear chairs shift. Footsteps. They’re coming toward the door. Panic jolts through you. You grab the handle and pull the door open just as they reach it, forcing your face into something like surprise.
“Oh,” you say. “Hey.”
Slovacek freezes for half a second.
Nash recovers faster. “Hey.”
“What are you guys doing?” you ask, casual, like you didn’t just overhear something that made your chest feel too tight.
“Talking,” Nash says, too quickly.
Slovacek watches you closely, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to read something he’s afraid he already knows.
You smile. “Cool. I was looking for you, Nash. Guess I’ll catch you later.”
“Yeah,” Nash says, glancing between you. “Later.”
He slips past you, leaving the two of you standing there. For a moment, neither of you speak.
Then Slovacek clears his throat. “You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He studies you for another long second before looking away. “Just asking.”
The air between you feels different now. Heavier. You don’t know what he told Nash. But you know one thing for sure, Whatever it was, it mattered.
And the fact that he doesn’t know how much you heard makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite understand yet.
—
You leave the rec room with your hands shoved into your sleeves, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft thud. The hallway feels quieter out here, like everything echoes just a little too much. Your boots, your breath, and your thoughts.
You’re halfway to your bunk when you hear it.
“Yoo.”
You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.
“Don’t,” you say immediately, already smiling despite yourself.
Cody Bowman catches up to you anyway, walking backward so he’s in front of you, hands lifted like he’s innocent. “What? I didn’t even say anything yet.”
“You were about to,” you reply. “I can see it on your face.”
He grins. “I was just gonna say crazy day, huh.”
You scoff. “Liar.”
“Okay, okay,” he laughs, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “I was gonna say, you gotta let me know when I can join the rotation.”
You groan. “Shut up.”
“No, seriously,” he keeps going, completely unbothered. “You got Slovacek, you got McAffey, apparently Nash now, and Santos was in the picture at one point,”
“Santos,” you start.
Cody cuts you off instantly. “I’m just saying, I thought Santos was gonna be your little man for a minute. Kinda shocked he didn’t lock it down. I would’ve.”
You shove his shoulder lightly as you walk. “You’re actually unbearable.”
“But charming,” he adds.
“No.”
“Yes.”
You reach your bunk and drop down onto it with a sigh, tugging your notebook from under your pillow. Bowman follows without asking and sits down too, way too close, like he owns the place.
“Get off my bed,” you say, already opening the notebook.
“Wow,” he says. “So aggressive.”
“Go away,” you repeat, clicking the pen. “I’m writing.”
He leans over to peek at the page. “Ooo, is this where you write about how irresistible I am?”
You kick his shin lightly. “Cody.”
“Ow,” he says dramatically, clutching his leg. “Abuse.”
You try to focus on the page, but he’s still there, still talking.
“So,” he continues, lowering his voice again. “If you ever wanna make it a real threesome,”
You kick him again, harder this time. “Stop.”
He laughs, and then, without warning, reaches out and digs his fingers into your side.
You yelp. “No! Cody, I hate tickles! Get off!”
“That’s how I know it’s working,” he says, grinning.
“Cody!” You shove at him, trying to get away, but he’s not braced for it and suddenly he loses his balance.
Then you’re half on top of him on the bunk, hands pressed to his chest, both of you frozen. The laughter dies instantly. Your heart is pounding, not because of him, but because of the sudden awareness of where you are, how it looks, how bad the timing could be.
Then you hear it.
Stomps.
Moving away. Down the aisle. You both whisper at the same time.
“Fuck.”
“Who was that?”
You scramble off him immediately, backing up like you touched a hot stove. “You need to leave. Right now.”
Bowman sits up just as fast, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s probably smart.”
“You’re gonna get us both killed,” you mutter.
He stands, backing away toward the aisle. “For the record,” he says quietly, “that was not on purpose.”
“I know,” you reply. “Just,” you pause, “go.”
He gives you a quick, crooked smile. “See ya, trouble.”
“Go,” you repeat.
He disappears down the hall, leaving you alone with the buzzing lights and the echo of your own heartbeat.
You sit back down slowly. Your hands shake a little as you pick up your notebook again. You stare at the blank page for a long moment before writing anything.
Then you start writing,
Well, i haven’t heard from mcaffey at all, sad to say i kinda miss it. I’m still mad at slovacek for how he acted yesterday. What a dick. Anyway, i need to get out of my head and talk to santos more regularly. Just me and him though, no cope.. (love you though.) I need to find a way to break this tension with mcaffey, i don’t not like him, i just don’t,
scratch that.
i like him, but i think i like slovacek more. I should call him nicholas. It’s cute. Anyway, cope has also been weirdly distant, i hope he’s okay. I feel like i haven’t wrote in a while, i’m so losing myself in this shit hole.
You finish the last sentence slowly, like you’re afraid the moment will disappear if you rush it. The pen lingers at the bottom of the page.
That’s enough for tonight.
You shut the notebook, slide it beneath your pillow, and sit there a moment longer than necessary, staring at the opposite wall. Your chest feels tight, not panicked, just heavy, like too many thoughts stacked on top of each other.
You stand, tug your sleeves down, and step into the hallway.
The lights hum overhead. Boots echo faintly against the floor. You’re headed for the rec room, everyone always ends up there, but just before you turn the corner, you stop.
Voices. Low. Serious. You recognize the voices immediately.
“I just don’t want anyone to find out.”
Cope.
Your stomach drops. You stay still, heart thudding as you press yourself closer to the wall.
“They already think I’m different,” Cope says, quieter now. “I don’t want them figuring out that I’m actually,”
“Hey,” McAffey cuts in. “You’re fine. And even if they did? You’re not alone. You’ve got me.”
A pause.
“We go out together,” McAffey adds. “Same as always. Nothing changes.”
Your throat tightens as the footsteps get closer.
You don’t hesitate and slip into the nearest supply closet, pulling the door shut just as their voices pass by. You stand in the dark, barely breathing, fingers curled around the edge of a metal handle.
After a moment, the hallway goes quiet. You step back out and head straight for the rec room.
Noise crashes over you as soon as you walk in, laughter, arcade sounds, overlapping conversations. Nash is sprawled on one of the couches with Cody, Ochoa leans against the wall talking with John. Hicks is downing a beer. Santos is there too.
Slovacek isn’t though, and you notice, even if you pretend not to.
You feel it before you see it, someone watching you, the look lingering too long. You ignore it and make your way toward Santos instead. He’s at one of the arcade machines, jaw tight with concentration. You pull up a stool beside him.
“Hey,” you say.
He looks over immediately. “Hey. You alright?”
You shrug. “Yeah. Why?”
“You just look, off.”
You hesitate. “I just kind of miss you. Feels like we haven’t really talked, y’know just us.”
He smiles faintly. “What, you sick of Cope already?”
The words land wrong. Your face gives you away.
Santos notices instantly. “Okay. That wasn’t a joke face. What happened?”
You shake your head, lying. “Nothing. I just had an annoying conversation with my dad.”
He exhales. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”
He pauses the game. “You wanna talk about it?”
“No,” you say gently. “I just want to talk. About anything.”
He nods. “Alright.”
He tells you about home. Music he misses. How awful drills have been lately. You laugh more than you expect to. It reminds you of the first few weeks when it was just you two getting to know each other, you desperately needed that back.
Then, without thinking, you rest your boots against the rung of his stool, accidentally brushing his thighs.
He looks at you, with a different look.
You pull your feet back quickly. “Sorry.”
He doesn’t comment, just turns back to the game.
After a moment, you stand. “Good talk. I’ll catch you later.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Later.”
You drift away, scanning the room, and that’s when you see Nash heading toward the cooler near the wall.
Your chest tightens.
Now or never.
You catch up to him and lightly grab his arm. “Hey, can we talk outside for a second?”
He blinks, surprised. “Uh. Yeah.”
Outside, the air is cool and quiet. You walk a few steps away from the building before stopping.
“What did Slovacek tell you?” you ask.
Nash stiffens. “He didn’t really say much.”
You give him a look. “Don’t lie to me.”
He exhales slowly. “He didn’t say anything important.”
“I heard you,” you say quietly.
Silence.
“Okay,” Nash admits. “Fine.”
You wait.
“He’s not here because he wanted to be,” Nash finally says.
Well, I know that much, dumbass, you think in your head.
“He had a choice,” Nash continues. “Military or prison.”
“For what?” you ask softly.
He shakes his head. “He didn’t say. Just that it was serious enough that it wasn’t optional.”
You stare back toward the building, the laughter inside suddenly sounding far away.
“He doesn’t want you thinking he’s a bad guy,” Nash adds.
You swallow. “Too late to not think that.”
“You’re not letting this go, are you?” he says.
You look at him. Really look. “You already told me half of it. Don’t make me fill in the rest myself.”
He exhales through his nose, glances toward the track like he’s checking for witnesses, then back at you. His jaw tightens.
“He put a guy in a coma,” Nash says.
You don’t react right away, and that somehow feels worse than gasping would have. Your body stiffens instead, shoulders pulling back like you’re bracing for a hit you didn’t see coming.
“In a fight?” you ask quietly.
Nash shakes his head. “Not really. More like he didn’t stop when he should’ve.”
Your throat goes dry.
“He didn’t mean to kill him and technically he’s not dead, he’s just in a coma,” Nash adds quickly. “But it got bad. Bad enough that the judge gave him a choice.”
Military or prison.
You nod, slow. Your mind starts rearranging memories. The cocky smirk. The way Slovacek moves like he’s always ready. The heat behind his eyes when he looks at people.
You hug your arms closer to yourself.
“That’s why he doesn’t talk about it,” Nash continues. “That’s why he hates when people ask.”
You swallow. “Does he regret it?”
Nash doesn’t answer right away. “I think he regrets that it happened. I don’t know if he regrets doing it.”
That somehow made it worse.
Silence stretches between you. You stare at the ground, at the scuffed concrete, at a crack running like a fault line between your feet. You don’t know what to do with this information.
Distance yourself? Protect yourself? Or accept that people can be more than the worst thing they’ve done? You don’t say any of it out loud.
Your eyes drift without meaning to and that’s when you see them. McAffey and Cope, sitting together near a tree. Close, but not obviously. McAffey’s shoulders are angled protectively, Cope’s posture smaller than usual. They’re talking quietly, heads tipped toward each other.
Nash follows your gaze.
“Huh,” he says. “What do you think they’re doing together?”
You force your voice to stay even. “Probably nothing.”
Nash hums, unconvinced. Then, casually, too casually, he says, “You’re pretty close with Cope, right?”
Your heart stutters. “I guess,” you reply. “He kind of just started talking to me and Santos.”
Nash nods slowly. “Yeah. I heard something about him.”
Here it comes.
“What?” you ask, careful.
He lowers his voice. “I heard he’s a man’s man. That true?”
It’s like the air drops out of your lungs. You keep your face neutral through sheer willpower. No pause. No reaction. You learned early how to do this; how to lie with your body as well as your mouth.
“What?” You scoff lightly. “Why would you even think that?”
Nash shrugs. “People talk.”
“Well, people are stupid,” you say. Too fast. You soften it immediately. “I mean, this place runs on rumors.”
“So you don’t think he is?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. And I don’t really care.”
That part is true.
Nash accepts it with a nod. “Fair.”
—
The hallway feels quieter than the rec room, cooler, too. Your boots echo softly as you head toward the bunks, the hum of the building settling back into your bones. You pass one of the long windows without thinking, then stop. Outside, on the track, Slovacek is jogging.
Easy pace. Controlled. Shirt darkened with sweat at the collar, sleeves pushed up just enough to show forearms that flex with every swing. He looks like he belongs out there.
Your stomach tightens.
You don’t think. You just turn back into the bunks. You put your sneakers on instead of boots. You grab your water bottle, then hesitate before veering toward the vending machine. Two protein bars drop with dull thuds. You tuck them into your pocket like you’re stalling, like the extra ten seconds might change your mind.
You push back outside, the air sharper now, wind cutting across the track. You spot him a little farther down, pick up your pace, almost jogging to catch up.
“Hey,” you call, then, without giving yourself time to overthink it you add, “Hey, my sugar pumpkin plum pie.”
It comes out teasing and ridiculous on purpose.
Slovacek turns his head, surprise flashing across his face before it breaks into a crooked grin. He laughs under his breath and slows down, falling into a walk so you can catch up.
“Jesus,” he says. “You gonna keep calling me that, I might actually stop talking to you.”
You fall into step beside him, slightly breathless. “Good. That’s the goal.”
He eyes you, amused, then notices what you’re holding. You pull one of the protein bars out and hold it toward him.
“For you.”
He takes it without hesitation. “Thanks.” He tears it open with his teeth, glances at you sideways. “You bribing me, or is this just charity?”
You shrug. “Maybe both.”
You walk together for a few steps in silence, shoes crunching softly against the track. You can feel the moment stretching, the thing you came out here to say pressing against your ribs.
“So,” you start. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
He looks at you more seriously now. “What’s up?”
You keep your eyes forward. “I just want you to be honest with me. About why you joined the Marines.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
You can almost hear him deciding.
Finally, he exhales. “You really wanna know?”
“Yes.”
Another beat. Then, quieter, “Yeah. Okay.”
He slows again, almost stopping this time. “It wasn’t some big patriotic thing. And it wasn’t because I needed structure or whatever bullshit they put on the posters.”
You brace yourself, hoping what you overheard and read wasn’t true.
“I hurt someone,” he says. “Bad.”
Your chest tightens, even though you already know.
“A fight got out of hand. He didn’t get back up. Judge gave me a choice.”
Military or prison, you repeat in your head.
You stop walking. He doesn’t look at you, like he’s giving you space to react however you need to.
You force yourself to move again, matching his pace. “Oh.” It comes out small, useless.
You swallow. “Why did you do it?”
He finally looks at you then. His expression doesn’t soften. “He deserved it.”
The certainty in his voice hits harder than the words themselves.
Your breath stops for a second. You should be scared. You know that. Some part of your brain is screaming that this is a red flag, that this is exactly the kind of thing your father warned you about.
But instead, you bite your lip. You hate that the thought flashes through you and you hate even more that he notices.
His eyes drop to your mouth, then lift back to your face. “What?” he asks, half-smirking. “You into that or something?”
You scoff, heat flooding your cheeks. “Shut up.”
He chuckles, low and pleased.
You recover enough to say, “But he’s, he’s gonna be okay, right?”
“Of course he is, sunshine.” He says your nickname that makes you feel special.
Slovacek lifts his hand slowly, like he’s giving you time to pull away and you don’t. His fingers brush your temple, gentle in a way that feels wrong for someone who just admitted what he did. He tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, knuckles barely grazing your cheek.
For a second, you forget where you are. Forget the Marines. Forget your father. Forget the rules that feel like they’re always hovering just inches from your skin and you take a look at him, a really good look.
The scar on his nose and another faint scar near his eyebrow you hadn’t noticed before. The way his mouth is set confident, but not smug.
Your eyes drop to his lips. You realize what you’re doing and look back up too fast, but the damage is done. He saw it. You know he did. Your heart is pounding so hard it feels loud.
You step closer first. Not much, but just enough to change the air between you.
Slovacek notices immediately. His hand is still near your face from where he tucked your hair back, and for a moment he doesn’t pull it away. Instead, it drifts, slow, unintentional, down from your temple, along your cheek. His thumb brushes the corner of your jaw, barely there, like he’s catching himself mid-motion.
You tilt your head without meaning to, just a fraction, and suddenly everything feels too quiet and too close. The moonlight catches his eyes, makes them look lighter. His gaze flicks down to your mouth this time and stays there a second longer than it should.
You lean in ever so slightly, then he freezes. His hand drops away like he’s burned himself. He clears his throat, the sound rough, and takes a step back, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I think we should head back inside,” he says. “They’re probably looking for us. I don’t want anyone, you know. Finding us.”
“Oh,” you say quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.”
You laugh, short and awkward, even though nothing about this feels funny. Heat rushes up your neck, your face, your ears. You suddenly don’t know where to put your hands, so you curl them into small fists at your sides and your nails press into your palms.
“Come on,” he says gently, already turning toward the building.
You follow a step behind, fists still clenched, heart pounding way too fast for a walk back inside.
—
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