AJ let out a slow whistle, low and full of something like admiration, though he masked it with a twitch of his smirk, that familiar tug at one corner of his mouth, as if trouble were just one word away from showing up on his doorstep.
“Well, damn. You come out swingin’ and you come with receipts.”
His hand finally stilled on the dog tags, like her words had cut clean through the motion. His gaze dragged from her tucked-in knees to her face, studying the space she took up, and maybe more importantly, the space she didn’t. There was something about the way she folded herself.
Neat, compact, like she was used to making herself smaller just to keep from setting off landmines no one else could see. And maybe he recognized it because he used to do the same.
He leaned forward again, slower this time, forearms bracing against his knees.
He didn’t crowd her, didn’t press in, just let the shift carry weight- like he was meeting her halfway.
“Nah,” he said, voice quieting, the usual bark behind his words softened to something worn-in and real. “No dotted lines. No tests. Hell, no sponsors either. Only thing I care about is that you showed up. Brought your paperwork? Good. Means you’re already ahead of half the bastards who wander in here lookin’ for a cause but not ready to bleed for it.”
He paused, gave her a look that was part grin, part something steadier: something almost reverent. As if he were seeing not just who she was now, but the fight it took to become her.
“You don’t need someone to vouch for you,” he added, voice like gravel under boot. “You already did that, with every goddamn word you said.”
He sat back, one boot sliding forward as if he was settling into the idea of her being here. Really here. Then, with the slightest shrug and a gleam of challenge in his eyes, he added: “Besides, I got a feeling you’d shoot your own damn foot before lettin’ someone speak for you. Am I wrong?”
His grin widened, crooked and rough-edged, but honest.
“Tell you what. You’re here, you’re ready, and if you’re half as good as your prep work? You’ll fit in just fine. Might even teach some of these hardasses a thing or two about what it really means to come prepared.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper; a form, probably blank, probably unnecessary, but the gesture was ceremonial. Old habits and old systems wrapped in new beginnings. He slid it across the table like it meant something.
“No dotted lines,” he repeated. “But if you wanna make it official? Sign your name anyway. Just for the hell of it.”
A moment of silence passed between them before he spoke again, somehow even quieter than the words left unsaid:
“Sometimes writin’ it down helps you believe it’s real.”
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