#slovacek

The bar was filled with all kind of people. Old creepy guys, girls in their earlier twenties, divorced dads, womans in their fourties and the regulars. The air outide was so hot you could feel sweat dripping on your back, the poor fan barely helping as you crossed the back door and got back in position, behind the counter. You smiled as soon you heard girls gasping when GataOnly started playing, they all gathering in groups to dance, turning all of the old men heads.

– Told you my playlist would perk up things around here. – Lisa laughed, washing spoons.

  The door opened again bringing a fresh brezee, you looked and saw a bunch of guys coming in, all in their uniformes, your favorites – marines. Not because you were a fan of the army, but because they were mostly hot and good at tips. A rather young looking boy sat in front of you, fidleting with his fingers.

– Can I get you something? – You asked with a polite smile, he smiled back.

– Yeah, do you have…– he looked around the bar – coke?

– Of course, just that? – he nodeed as you handed him the can. Another guy appeared, taller and way more buffed than him, tapping his back.

– Hey sweetheart, can you get me five shots of tequila?

– Sure. – You hold back a smile at his strong accent. – What are you boys celebrating tonight?

– Graduation, finally out of that hell of camp. – He kept his gaze on you, wandering trough your face and lingering for a second on your shirt. He smirked, licking his lips.

  You slid the glasses to him, your eyes locked with him and he smiled wider. His thumb lightly touching the back of your hand.

– Thanks.

– No problem. – he looked at you one last time before cathing the stray of cups. He stopped halfway and looked at the boy drinking coke.

– Cope, hand this over to Hicks. – he demanded, already giving the stray to the boy, who reluctant got up and walked away. Then he sat in his place and leaned in the counter. – What time you get out?

You laughed, incredolus.

– None of your bussines, sweetie. – He smiled at the nickname.

– Come on, it will be fun. I am a really good company.

– Oh, I bet.

  His hands were holding the back of your neck, you could feel his hot breath in your face as he kissed slowly a path over your ear to your cheeks. Your hands sliding into his shirt, tracing his abs and exploring the tense muscles, his breath grew ragged and uneven as you explored closer to the waist of his pants. He gripped your chin, a low moan escaping his lips, his eyes scanning your expression, focusing in the mouth.

  He could feel his heart racing, desire consuming your bodies like fire. You felt intoxicated by his fingers tracing the curve of your waist while his mouth devoured your lips with expertise and mastery. He made your mind go hazy and your eyes roll. You let your hands wander to his already hard member and caressed it calmly, almost torturing he, making him grunt. His mind wandered to all the positions he imagined you in, feeling your touch drive him to the brink of insanity.

  After so long trapped in a camp full of annoying boys and nothing but his own hand to satisfy him, he knew he wouldn't last long with your touch and sweet scent, your soft skin, and the low moans you let out every time his tongue invaded your mouth so fiercely, like a desperate and hungry man.

  He not only wanted you — he needed you. He lifted you off the wall and with a simple gesture, placed you on the bed. You breathed deeply as you watched him take off his shirt, revealing his defined chest and muscles. Your eyes drifted down to the waistband of his pants, anticipation churning within you. You noticed a trail of dark hair and moistened your lips, pulling him by the arms until he was almost lying on top of you. You captured his lips in a wet kiss, feeling his knee settle between your legs, giving you a slight sensation of satisfaction.

– You are going to kill me. – He murmured, breaking the kiss and removing your tank top, revealing a black bra. – How lucky I am.

  His hands went to your breasts, massaging them slowly until his fingers reached your back and, with a swift movement, unbuttoned it. He smiled as he lowered himself and kissed them, giving them both the proper care. You moaned and bit a finger as you felt his rough, wet tongue on your nipple. With a 'pop' he took your breast out of his mouth and returned his attention to your jeans, and in the blink of an eye you were naked.

His eyes lingered on your face and he kissed you again, this time more calmly, almost carefully. His left hand slid down to the middle of your thighs and he gently pulled your lower lip with his mouth when he felt how wet you were. He smiled and, looking at you, placed a finger inside you and your body arched with the new sensation.

He was a big guy – and every part of his body followed suit, including his fingers. His gaze was penetrating, overflowing with lust; he was vulgar, murmuring in your ear the things he wanted to do, and how beautiful you would look with his cock in your mouth.

  You turned your face away, feeling embarrassed. He inserted another finger, maintaining an agonizingly slow and delicious rhythm. He noticed you biting your lip to hold back and immediately cupped your cheek with his free hand, bringing your focus to him.

– Let me hear you. I want to hear everything you have to give me. I want to know how good I make you feel, sweetheart.

  You closed your eyes and unconsciously moaned at his words, his rough tone and deep accent making your legs tremble. He released your face and held your thigh, keeping it open. His rhythm quickened, and you could swear the room was spinning, unable to focus your eyes on him or anything else. Your orgasm came quickly and devastating, he chuckled softly, noticing the sticky mess on his fingers. When you opened your eyes again, you saw him bringing his fingers to his mouth and wiping them, then leaning in and kissing you like a wild animal.

The morning feels quieter than usual. Not because the place isn’t alive, there’s still boots thudding against the floor, low voices, the scrape of chairs, but because there’s a strange softness to it. A rare pocket of time before drills, before barking orders and burning muscles.

Only a handful of people get pulled aside for phone calls, names read off from a clipboard. “Points,” they call it. Good behavior. Compliance. Keeping your head down. You don’t qualify because your team-communication skills are rather poor, but it doesn’t sting as much as it usually would. Everyone else is allowed letters, and honestly, you’ve been waiting for this.

You sit on the edge of your bunk and pull the envelope from your things. The paper is already worn at the creases from how many times you’ve unfolded it. You don’t even need to reread the names to know who it’s from, but you do anyway.

Their handwriting is familiar, looping and cramped, messy in a way that feels like home. They talk about stupid little things. Inside jokes. How weird it feels without you there. How they still half-expect you to walk into the room like nothing changed. They tell you they miss you like it’s obvious, like it doesn’t need dressing up.

Your chest tightens, but it’s the good kind of ache.

You open a page in your notebook and start writing back.

You tell them you’re okay. That it’s hard, but you’re surviving. You don’t mention the screaming muscles or the way nights stretch too long sometimes. You talk about the people instead, Santos’ dumb jokes, how Cope sorta reminds you of them, the way everything feels intense all the time. You keep some things vague on purpose.

You pause, pen hovering, you glance up without really thinking about it. Slovacek is sitting on a wooden stool across from your bunk.

He’s not sitting with a letter. No notebook. No envelope. Instead his sleeves are rolled up, focused on his boots. He’s scrubbing them with force. You realize you’ve been staring when he shifts.

He straightens slightly, then turns his head just enough to catch you looking. His eyes meet yours, sharp, questioning. After a beat, he turns back to his boots.

“What?” he says rough, but not unkindly.

Your voice comes out softer than you expect. “Nothing. I just, you’re not writing to anyone.”

He pauses. The brush stills in his hand.

Then, casually, like it doesn’t matter, “Yeah, well, I don’t have anyone to write to.”

The words land heavier than he makes them sound.

You hesitate, then fold your letter carefully and set it aside. “My friends wrote me,” you say. “From Germany.”

He snorts quietly. “Good for them.”

You shoot him a look. “Do you want to write to them?”

That gets his attention.

He turns around fully this time, brows pulling together. “Why would I ever write to them? I don’t even know them.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “I just thought,” You shrug. “They like meeting new people. And it might be, I dunno, nice?”

He stares at you like you’ve suggested something mildly ridiculous. Then he shakes his head, half a laugh under his breath.

“Yeah, okay,” he says dryly. “Pen pals. Sounds thrilling.”

You grin despite yourself. “Come on. It could be kind of fun. Low stakes. You don’t even have to say much.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s something softer there now. “Yeah, whatever,” he says. “I’ll think about it.”

You lift your hands in surrender. “All right. Just let me know.”

He goes back to his boots, scrubbing again, but you catch the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. You return to your letter, pen moving again, feeling lighter somehow.

You hesitate for half a second, then grab your envelope and Polaroids and walk over.

Instead of sitting beside him, you lower yourself to the floor in front of him, knees bent, close enough that you’re almost tucked into his space. From where you’re sitting, you’re eye level with his thighs, and you can feel the warmth coming off him even through the fabric.

You fan the polaroids out between your fingers.

“Okay,” you murmur, keeping your voice low. “This is Isla. And this is Julei.”

He leans forward to look, forearms resting on his legs. His gaze flicks between the photos, actually paying attention.

“Huh,” he says. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You squint at him. “What’s that supposed to mean, you specimen?” You nudge his leg lightly with your finger.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “They seem like people you’d be friends with,” he says. “Same energy.”

“Oh my gosh,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “You don’t even know what that means.”

He shrugs. “I know you.”

That makes your stomach flip, it’s annoying and inevitable.

You tuck the photos back into your pocket, and for a moment you both just sit there, close enough that the silence feels deliberate rather than awkward. Around you, people are still writing, shuffling around, and sergeants pacing the room.

Then he clears his throat. His voice drops even lower, barely more than breath. “Hey. About last night,”

You look up at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly while looking away. “That I didn’t kiss you.”

Holy shit, is he serious? You think in your head

Your mouth opens slightly, then closes. You don’t know what to say, and the truth is you don’t trust your voice right now. So you don’t respond at all.

Instead, you look back down at your letter and he doesn’t push.

His hand lifts, hesitating for a fraction of a second, then settles gently into your hair. His fingers scratch lightly at your scalp, slow and absentminded, like it’s something he’s done before in another life.

You don’t move.

A moment later, he nudges your head with the heel of his palm, subtle but guiding, until your temple rests against his knee. The fabric of his pants is warm and solid.

You let yourself stay there. His thumb traces a small, thoughtless pattern near your hairline. You can feel his knee shift slightly beneath you, adjusting so you’re more comfortable. He lets out a quiet chuckle.

“You know sunshine,” he murmurs, “you should probably get back to writing before they start yelling.”

You huff softly. “Yeah.”

You pick your pen back up and lean forward just enough to write, but you don’t pull away. Your head stays where it is, resting against him, his hand still in your hair.

—

You finish the last line of your letter a few minutes later, dot the period a little harder than necessary, and lean back with a small satisfied breath. Your wrist aches just a bit, that good kind of ache that comes from writing too much.

You glance up and then an idea hits you.

“Hey,” you say quietly, tilting your head up toward him. “Do you wanna, like take a picture? Or a few? So I can send them to my friends.”

Slovacek arches a brow immediately. “A picture?” he repeats, skeptical. “What is this, summer camp?”

You grin. “You technically owe me for last night, no?”

He scoffs, looking away. “That’s not,” Then he sighs, already reaching for the Polaroid camera when you hand it to him. “Fine. But if I look stupid, I’m burning them.”

You shuffle closer, still sitting low, and angle the camera toward the two of you. The first picture is terrible, both of you slightly off-center, his chin half cut off.

“Great,” he mutters. “Amazing. Send that one.”

You take another. This one’s better, both of you leaning in, shoulders touching, you smiling soft, him pretending not to smile but failing.

Then another, sillier one. He makes a dumb face on purpose. You stick your tongue out at the last second.

You’re laughing when you lower the camera.

“Santos!” you call. “Hey, can you take one for us?”

Santos looks up from where he’s sitting, clocking the camera, then the two of you. He smirks immediately. “Oh, so that’s how it is now.”

“Please,” you say. “Before they start yelling.”

He gets up and takes the camera. You stand beside Slovacek, and without thinking about it too much, you step into his space.

As Santos lifts the camera, Slovacek casually rests his elbow on the top of your head, like you’re some kind of armrest. He leans into it just a little, pretending to lounge.

“Seriously?” you say, looking up at him with an exaggerated, annoyed expression.

He looks away from the camera, smirking like he’s above all of this. “Hold still.”

The shutter clicks.

You immediately reach for the camera again. “Wait, wait, take one of me and Santos now.”

Santos barely has time to react before you hop onto his back, arms looping around his shoulders and your head squishing into his with a smile, and your eyes shut tight.

“Oh, hey, what the, hold on!” he laughs, instinctively steadying you.

“Smile!” you say.

Click.

You slide back down, still grinning. The room feels lighter somehow, louder in a good way.

As you tuck the camera against your side, your eyes flick across the room and you notice Cope watching you. He’s sitting with McAffey, like usual. Cope’s expression is soft. McAffey’s is harder than usual.

You hesitate at first. Then you nudge Santos. “Come on.”

He follows without question. You stop in front of Cope and McAffey. “We’re taking pictures. You’re included whether you like it or not.”

Cope brightens immediately. “Yes. Absolutely.”

McAffey sighs like this is the most inconvenient thing in the world, but when Cope nudges him, he gives in. “Fine.”

You hand the camera to Santos again.

You drop down to sit on the floor, back leaning lightly against the lower bunk where McAffey’s sitting. He doesn’t look at you, but he doesn’t move away either.

Cope steps in behind you and drapes his arms loosely over your shoulders, chin hovering near the top of your head. He smiles wide for the camera.

Santos snaps the picture. You take the camera back, glance down at the remaining Polaroids, then tuck it away carefully. “I’m saving the rest for later,” you say. “These are special.”

Santos snorts. “Wow. Honored.”

You just smile, sliding the camera into your pocket, the moments already starting to feel like something you’ll miss someday even though they just happened.

You stuff the Polaroids carefully into the envelope, stacking them so the corners don’t bend. For a second, you hesitate, this is it. No copies. The first pictures you’ve taken since boot camp started. Proof that you’re here, that you’re real, that you didn’t disappear into uniforms and shouting and concrete floors.

You slip a bright sticky note on top, write on it with a bright red pen, and press it flat with your thumb.

SEND ALL OF THESE POLAROIDS BACK

(all caps, because this is important)

You lick the envelope, wrinkle your nose at the taste, then smooth it shut. A stamp goes on, a German flag, and then, because you can’t help yourself, you grab a pen and draw little doodles on the corner, a loaf of bread, a foamy beer mug, and another loaf because why not.

You hand it to your dad. He’s already holding a stack of other envelopes, all different handwriting, all different lives.

He glances down at yours, then back at you. “I’ll send these out soon.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He nods once, soft, not-sergeant-like, and adds it to the pile.

Once letters are turned in, you’re waved toward a stretch of free time while others finish up. The room loosens. People lean against bunks, talk in low voices, stretch sore legs.

You drift back toward your bunk, absently straightening something that doesn’t need straightening. You can feel it before you see it, that awareness, like someone’s been looking at you for a while.

McAffey.

He’s leaning against a support beam near the window, arms crossed, jaw set. He watches you for a second too long before finally pushing off and walking over.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you answer, matching his volume.

There’s an awkward pause. The kind that didn’t used to be there.

“You done with your letter?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just turned it in.”

He nods. Silence again. His eyes flick briefly toward where Slovacek is laughing with someone across the room then back to you.

“So,” he says slowly, “you and him are pretty tight lately.”

You blink. “Him?”

He exhales through his nose, like he doesn’t want to say the name. “Slovacek.”

“Oh.” You shrug lightly. “I guess.”

“That wasn’t really an answer.”

“We’re friends,” you say. “Why?”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Nothing. Just feels like you disappeared.”

That lands harder than you expect. “I didn’t disappear,” you say. “I’m right here.”

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Physically.”

You don’t respond right away. You’re not sure what the right response even is.

McAffey shifts his weight, uncrosses his arms, then crosses them again. “We used to talk. Like, actually talk.”

“We still can.”

“But do you want to?” he asks, finally meeting your eyes.

The question hangs there, too honest, too exposed for a room full of people pretending not to listen.

“I didn’t mean to push you out,” you say carefully. “Things just changed.”

His jaw tightens. “Funny how that happens.”

Another pause. Then his voice drops. “You gonna tell me what I’m doing something wrong? Or am I just supposed to guess?”

You soften a little. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Then what am I?” he asks.

You hesitate and that hesitation is answer enough. He notices. Of course he does.

“Right,” he says, straightening. “Got it.”

“That’s not,”

He cuts you off with a small shake of his head. “It’s fine. Really.”

He steps back, creating distance that wasn’t there before. “Enjoy your free time.”

And then he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there with the strange feeling and you scoff quietly to yourself.

—

“FORMATION IN FIVE!” The voice cuts through the room.

You sigh, already standing, already moving. Boots on. Shirt straight. Hair fixed back without looking. Your body knows the routine better than your brain does at this point.

Outside, the air feels sharp. The sun’s out, but there’s no warmth in it, just glare. Everyone lines up fast, shoulders squared, faces blank.

Sergeant Howitt stalks in front of you like a predator, hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning for weakness.

“Today,” he says, voice loud and flat, “you’ll be running partner drills. Two-man teams. You mess up, your partner pays for it too. Understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Voices echo throughout the yard.

Your stomach drops just a little as Howitt starts calling names. You try not to think about who you’ll end up with.

Then, “HICKS AND ALVAR.”

Your head snaps up before you can stop it. Hicks turns at the same time and grins. Not a friendly grin. Not a normal one. It’s odd and unhinged, like he finds this deeply entertaining.

“Well,” he mutters as he steps into position beside you, “this’ll be fun.”

You don’t answer.

You already know better.

—

The first exercise is simple on paper, synchronized push-ups. Counted. Timed. Perfect form.

Hicks drops to the ground immediately, too fast, too hard, slamming his palms down like he’s trying to crack the concrete.

“One,” he says before you’ve even fully positioned yourself.

“Wait,” you start.

“Two.”

You scramble to match his pace, arms already burning.

“Three.”

He’s going too fast. Way too fast. This isn’t about strength, it’s about control.

“Hicks,” you hiss under your breath, “slow down.”

He laughs. “Can’t keep up?” he asks, not even looking at you.

Your arms shake. You grit your teeth and push harder, forcing your body to obey.

By ten, your shoulders are screaming and fifteen, your breathing is ragged.

“STOP.” Howitt’s voice explodes across the field.

He’s standing right in front of you.

“Hicks,” he says coldly, “did I say this was a race?”

“Sir, no, sir!”

“Then why does your partner look like she’s about to collapse?”

Hicks shrugs. “Sir, I guess she’s just weak, sir!”

Your jaw tightens.

Howitt’s eyes flick to you. “Is that true, recruit?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

“Good,” he says. “Then you won’t mind doing it again.”

Your heart sinks.

“From the top. Perfect synchronization. If one of you breaks form, you both start over.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” You both yell.

Hicks looks at you now, eyes gleaming with something between challenge and chaos. “Try not to die this time,” he murmurs.

—

The drills escalate. Fireman carries, Hicks throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, then drops you too fast on the other end.

“You trying to break my spine?” you snap quietly.

He smirks. “You still walking?”

Partner sprints, he takes off without warning, forcing you to lunge forward or get yanked off balance.

“Signal first,” you say between breaths.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Obstacle work, you boost him up, steady, controlled. When it’s your turn, he grips your arm too hard, hauls you up too fast.

You land wrong. Not injured, but close enough that fear spikes sharp and hot in your chest.

Howitt notices the stumble. “Problem?”

“Sir, no, sir,” you say quickly, forcing your posture straight.

Hicks doesn’t say a word. He just grins again, sweat streaking down his face, eyes wild.

—

By the time you reach the final drill, plank holds, back to back, you’re shaking with exhaustion. Your spine presses against his. His breathing is steady, yours is the opposite.

“How long?” someone mutters.

Howitt checks his watch. “Until I say stop.”

Your arms burn. Your core feels like it’s tearing itself apart. You focus on breathing in and out.

“Twenty burpees. Together.”

Your vision blurs for a moment. You force yourself upright. Hicks leans close as you start the first rep.

“You’re stubborn,” he mutters. “I like that.”

You glare at him. “You’re insane.”

He laughs again. “I’ve been told.”

—

When it’s finally over, you’re drenched in sweat, legs trembling, lungs burning.

As everyone starts breaking formation, he glances at you sideways.

“Didn’t quit,” he says, almost impressed. “Most people do.”

You wipe your face with the back of your sleeve. “You don’t make it easy.”

“That’s the point.”

He pauses, then adds quietly, “For a girl you did good, though.”

It’s the closest thing to respect you’ve heard from him all day. You walk away exhausted, sore, and painfully aware of one thing,

being paired with Hicks is so hard.

—

Dinner starts normal enough. You’re sitting with Cope, Santos, and Ochoa, trays half-eaten, cards spread out evenly between you because Ochoa refused to let the night be boring, and also because no one else wanted to play with him.

“Last hand,” Ochoa insists.

“You said that two hands ago,” Santos says, flicking a card down anyway.

You’re about to laugh when the air shifts.

It’s subtle at first, voices cutting off mid-sentence, a ripple of attention moving through the dining hall like a wave. You glance up automatically.

Across the room, McAffey is on his feet. That alone is enough to set your nerves on edge.

Slovacek stands too, slower, more deliberate. His posture is loose, but his shoulders are tense. They’re saying something to each other, but you’re too far away to hear and McAffey’s hands are already clenched into fists.

“Oh no,” Cope murmurs. “This is bad.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Santos blurts back.

McAffey shoves Slovacek. Not a warning shove either, it’s real one. Slovacek stumbles back, hits the edge of the table behind him. His tray flips, food crashing to the floor in a sharp, echoing mess that silences the room.

Then Slovacek steps forward and McAffey swings. Slovacek blocks it, barely, and drives his shoulder into McAffey’s chest, sending them both crashing into another table. Trays scatter. Someone yells. A chair tips over.

Your cards slide from your hands, off the table and hit the floor.

McAffey ends up on top at first, landing a punch to Slovacek’s jaw. Slovacek grunts but twists, hooking a leg, rolling them so suddenly McAffey’s back slams against the tile.

Yells ripple through the hall, some cheering for Slovacek, and others cheering for Mcaffey, but honestly most people were cheering for Slovacek. Probably to get on his good side.

“GO SLO,” Ochoa got halfway through, before you nudged your elbow into his ribs.

“Shut your trap.”

He makes a ‘it’s strict around here’ face to Cope and Santos, then he says, “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

Slovacek straddles him, fists flying, controlled but furious. McAffey bucks underneath him, catching Slovacek in the ribs, then grabs his collar and yanks him down so their foreheads nearly collide. They’re breathing hard, faces inches apart, rage written all over both of them.

Someone screams, “BREAK IT UP!”

No one moves.

Another punch lands. Then another.

“Holy fuck,” Santos whispers.

Boots thunder.

“STAND DOWN!”

The command cuts through the chaos like a blade. They don’t stop fast enough. Sergeants rush in, grabbing arms, hauling bodies apart. McAffey is dragged backward, still trying to lunge forward. Slovacek struggles once, just once, before control snaps back into place and he freezes.

The room goes dead quiet.

“ATTENTION!”

Everyone, including you, snaps upright instantly, heart pounding so hard it hurts. Your hands tremble at your sides, but you lock them still.

McAffey is hauled to his feet, blood at the corner of his mouth, chest heaving. Slovacek stands across from him, jaw clenched, a split lip, eyes burning.

They don’t look at each other.

A sergeant grips McAffey’s arm. “Escort him out.”

Another grabs Slovacek. “You too.”

As they’re dragged toward opposite exits, McAffey twists his head and his eyes meet yours just for a split second. Then the doors slam behind them. The echo hangs in the air.

“Remain at attention,” Sergeant Howitt snaps.

You stay frozen, pulse roaring in your ears, knowing this isn’t just them getting trouble, it’s all of you now. You bite the inside of your lip making it bleed.

—

The rest of dinner came and went without them and people start to whisper.

“They’re gone.”

“Both of them.”

“Heard McAffey swung first.”

“Apparently Slovacek broke his nose.”

“I hope they both get discharged.”

You keep your head down, but the rumors crawl under your skin. Every time boots echo down the hall, part of you expects one of them to appear, bruised, pissed, breathing hard like nothing could touch them.

They don’t. The silence is worse than the fight. You finally give up pretending you’re fine and head toward your dad’s office.

The door is cracked open. Light spills into the hallway. You knock once, soft, then step inside.

He’s at his desk, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, paperwork stacked like a wall between him and the world. He doesn’t look up at first.

“What is it,” he says. Not a question.

You stand there a second too long. “Sir,” you start, then stop. Your throat tightens. “I, I just wanted to ask something.”

That gets his attention. He looks up slowly, eyes sharp, already irritated. “About what.”

You hesitate. “Is Slovacek okay?”

The room goes cold.

His expression hardens instantly. “That,” he says flatly, “is not your concern.”

You swallow. “I know, I just, I was there. Everyone saw it. I just wanted to know if he’s,”

He pushes back from the desk. The chair legs scrape loudly against the floor. “I cannot give out personal or disciplinary information,” he snaps. “Especially not to you.”

“I’m not asking for details,” you say quickly. “Just if he’s,”

“Enough.” He stands now, towering the way he does when he slips fully into sergeant mode.

“You should not be worried about recruits who can’t control themselves,” he says. “Both of them made choices. And choices have consequences.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “He didn’t start it,” you say before you can stop yourself.

His eyes narrow. “You weren’t there.”

“I was,” you say. Your voice is quiet but steady. “I saw it.”

That makes him angrier. “Then you should know better than to get emotionally involved,” he says. “This place is not for distractions.”

You nod, even though your chest hurts. “I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t,” Your voice cracks and you hate it. “I don’t know. Hurt worse than,”

He exhales sharply through his nose, clearly trying not to lose his temper completely. “Go,” he says. “Back to your bunk.”

You linger a second longer. “And McAffey?” you ask, softer now. “Is he,”

His stare stops you cold. “That is your final warning,” he says. “Drop it.”

You turn and walk out of your father’s office, the door closing behind you with a quiet click that feels heavier than all the yelling before it.

—

Later that night, when the watch list goes up, you step forward before you can talk yourself out of it.

“I’ll take it.”

Cody Bowman looks up from where he’s already pulling off his boots. “Take mine?”

You nod.

He squints at you for a second, then that familiar grin spreads across his face. “What’s in it for you?” he says. “A nice ass spanking from me?”

You let out a sharp breath, annoyance flashing hot and fast. “Go to sleep, Bowman,” you say flatly. “If I wanted punishment, I’d run my mouth to a sergeant.”

He laughs, hands raised. “Damn, alright. Didn’t know you were that moody.”

He stretches out on his bunk, hands laced behind his head, eyes half-lidded as he looks at you. “C’mon,” he says, voice low and lazy. “You volunteering for my watch? Makes a guy feel special. Almost like you want something from me.”

You don’t even look at him at first. You just tighten your grip on the strap slung over your shoulder. “You’re lucky I’m even doing this for you,” you snap. “Shut your yap and go to sleep.”

He laughs under his breath, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “Hey,” he says. “I do like my bitches feisty.”

That’s when you finally turn your head. You don’t say a word. You just look at him. A ‘shut the fuck up before I kill you’ look so clear it doesn’t need translating.

Bowman immediately lifts his hands. “Okay, okay,” he says, still smirking but already backing down. “Goodnight, sweetie. Don’t be a bad girl. Unless, you do want that spanking.”

As you turn away, you mutter under your breath, “Men.”

Within minutes, his breathing evens out. Out cold. The barracks settle again. You start your rounds, boots quiet against the floor. Every pass down the aisle feels longer than the last. Shadows stretch and shrink as you move. Someone coughs in their sleep. A bunk creaks when someone shifts.

You pause by the window. Outside, the compound is dark, washed in weak yellow light. Your thoughts won’t shut up. McAffey’s jaw clenched in the dining hall. Slovacek on the ground, bleeding but still swinging. The way both of them were dragged out in opposite directions like it didn’t matter which one won.

You swallow, throat tight, and keep walking. Time drags. Your feet ache. Your eyes burn. You pace, stop, scan, pace again. Every sound in the hallway makes your heart kick, you hope it’s footsteps, dreading that it might be.

It never is.

At one point you lean against a support beam, arms crossed, staring at nothing. You tell yourself this is what you wanted, to be useful, to stay awake, to have something to do instead of thinking.

You’re pacing the edge of the bunk area when you hear it. Footsteps, soft, too close. Your head snaps up.

Every instinct tells you it’s wrong. You’re on watch. You’re not supposed to leave your post, not even for a second. But your chest tightens anyway, that same awful feeling crawling up your spine.

You take quiet and careful steps down the aisle between bunks, past sleeping bodies and low breathing, until the shadows thin near the far end. The hallway light bleeds in just enough for you to make out a figure standing there.

Sergeant Howitt.

He turns as soon as he senses you, eyes sharp and already irritated. “What are you doing out of position?”

You straighten automatically. “Sir,”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“I, I heard footsteps, sir.” Your voice is steady. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

He studies you for a long second, like he’s deciding how much trouble you’re worth. “You should be at your post,” he says flatly. “Before I decide to mention this to your father.”

Your throat tightens.

You swallow and step closer before you can stop yourself. “Sir, please. I just,” Your voice drops despite yourself. “Do you know anything about them?”

His jaw flexes. “You’re walking on thin ice,” he warns.

You nod quickly, eyes burning. “I know, sir. I just, please.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He looks at you and your tired eyes, the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands are clenched like you’re holding yourself together by force alone.

“They’re being held overnight,” he says quietly. “Both of them.”

Your breath rushes out of you before you can stop it. “So they’re okay?”

“For now.”

Your heart is still pounding, but you push anyway. “What about Slovacek, sir?”

That does it. Howitt’s expression hardens again, and this time there’s no softness behind it. “That one’s.. complicated.”

Your stomach sinks.

“He’s here under certain circumstances,” he continues. “Which means command hasn’t decided what to do with him yet.”

The words land like a punch to the face. “Oh,” you whisper.

Your heart drops straight into your gut. “Where is he?” you ask, the question tumbling out before you can think. “Can I, can I see him? Just for a minute?”

“No.” Immediate. “You can’t see him.”

You nod, blinking fast, but the panic is already spreading. “Is he,” You stop yourself, jaw tightening. “Is he going to be discharged?”

Howitt exhales slowly, like he’s tired of this whole situation. “I don’t know.”

That’s worse than a yes.

“If he is discharged,” he says, more measured now, “he won’t be back tomorrow morning. If he isn’t, he’ll be back with the rest of the platoon.”

Tomorrow.

You nod again, forcing your face back into something neutral, something acceptable. “Thank you, sir.”

He steps past you, already done with the conversation. “Get back to your post.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

You wait until his footsteps fade before you move again. Back at your post, the room feels heavier. Every creak of the building makes your chest tighten, every breath sounds too loud in your ears.

You stare at the bunks, at the empty spaces where two people should be and suddenly tomorrow feels very far away.

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