Howitt who gets made fun of for saying "Let me ask my wife." After someone asks him to hang out, etc.
Howitt who lets the whole platoon and other sergeants know you're taken when you come drop off his homemade lunch.
Howitt who sends you silly pictures all the time alongside corny jokes.
Howitt who slaps your ass any chance he gets, and compliments you while doing so.
Howitt's go-to sayings, "Hey baby girl.", "Atta girl.", "That's my babygirl." But overall his favorite thing to call you is anything with "baby" in it.
Howitt who will take any chance to do a quickie, the office, storage room, restroom, parked car after a long day, or right before one, etc.
Howitt who holds you from behind while you make him breakfast.
Howitt who loves to see you walk around in his shirts with nothing else under.
Howitt who will act tough around his family and friends, but when you're alone he'll want to cuddle up and breathe in your scent.
Howitt who will use his restroom and lunch breaks to call you and tell you how much he misses you.
Howitt who you can’t get to shut up whenever he has a “natural” sniper in his platoon.
Howitt who goes in raw and cream pies every time, reminding you who you belong to before he has to leave for work.
Howitt who is the best at aftercare, always cleaning you up afterward, bringing you your favorite snacks, and putting on a series/film.
Bootcamp¡Howitt who stayed up all night reading your letters and pictures you'd sent him.
Bootcamp¡Howitt who’d run his mouth about you to his platoon mates any chance he got.
Bootcamp¡Howitt who got picked on by the other platoon mates for being a "soft lover boy."
Bootcamp¡Howitt who gave up his lunch and sleep so he'd be able to have a phone call with you. (which he kept very much the same even as a sergeant.)
Bootcamp¡Howitt who cried when he first saw you again, but totally tried to play it off. (you still make fun of him till this day.)
Highschool sweetheart¡Howitt who passed you a note the first tuesday of freshman year asking to be his quote "lady friend" with a "yes" and "no" box to check, you checked no.
Highschool sweetheart¡Howitt who on the second tuesday of freshman year passed you another note which said, "let's ditch next period, smoke a cigarette, and maybe get some subway after?" You found him to be a complete dork but accepted and since then the two of you have been inseparable.
Highschool sweetheart¡Howitt who pulled up in a sports car to meet your father before your first date. (your father did not like or trust him.)
Highschool sweetheart¡Howitt who'd buy you flowers every tuesday. (he buys you your favorite flowers and sweets every tuesday now.)
first ever head-canon, i hope i did it correctly! i loved making this. happy new years (eve)! xx
NOTES - happy holidays luvies, love you all, stay safe! also, would you guys be opposed to a howitt smut!? i keep seeing edits of him and ughh his energy is everything!! 😭 (it won’t be apart of this fic ofc lol.) so sorry for the late update, i’ve just been spending time w/ family. xx
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.
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my other account where i post short stories/smut: @kazerine x
NOTES - please lmk if you’d like a part two to this!! (& i so petition to for more santos fics!!!) also this is sooo cute, i cannot 😭😭, i got myself smiling while writing it LOL. ps. more santos&nash content coming soon!!
SEMI-REQUESTED BY - @thegigglemeister , i hope you enjoy this as much as i did making it! xx
—
Boot camp had a way of making you desperate for five minutes of peace, you were doing non-stop push ups, running, and hurdles. Well, your platoon was doing all of that, you on the other hand, you were ‘dehydrated’.
And that was how you ended up sitting on the narrow bench outside the medical office, canteen empty in your hands, trying to look convincingly miserable. You’d told your drill sergeant you were dizzy and lightheaded, you claimed you were dehydrated. Which wasn’t entirely a lie, but mostly you just needed a break.
Your legs ached, your shoulders burned, and if you heard one more whistle blow, you might’ve actually lost it. The medic inside had told you to wait a few minutes, “Just to be safe,” which was code for sit down and breathe.
You leaned your head back against the wall, closing your eyes, and then the hallway exploded with noise.
“Watch your step.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not fine, recruit.”
You cracked one eye open.
A guy was being guided down the hall by an instructor, limping noticeably, jaw clenched like he was trying not to react. His uniform was darkened with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, frustration written all over his face.
He looked annoyed and exhausted, but he also looked cute as hell for someone in pain.
Then he looked up and froze, you were probably the first girl he’d seen in a while, if not the first one he’d seen up close since boot camp started.
“Oh,” he said.
You raised a brow. “Oh?”
He blinked, clearly scrambling. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t expect company, this place is usually empty, or filled with guys.”
“Trust me,” you said dryly, lifting your empty canteen, “this wasn’t my first choice either.”
That got a laugh out of him, quick and surprised. “What are you in for?”
“Dehydration,” you replied with a straight face.
He glanced at the canteen. “Yeah?”
You wink. “Allegedly.”
He grinned. “Respect.”
Gosh, his smile is gonna make my legs go weak. You said to yourself in your head.
The medic nudged him forward. “Sit.”
Santos lowered himself onto the bench across from you, stretching his injured ankle carefully. He exhaled through his teeth, then looked back up at you like he’d forgotten where he was for a second.
“So,” he said. “You always hang out in medical, or am I just lucky?”
You laughed. “First time. You?”
“Unfortunately not,” he said. “Ankle didn’t like today’s training.”
“That makes two of us,” you said. “My brain didn’t like it either.”
“You’re not in my platoon,” he said out of the blue.
“Nope,” you replied. “Girls’ side.”
“Right,” he said quickly. “Yeah. Obviously. I just,” He stopped himself, then laughed. “Sorry. I haven’t talked to anyone new in a while.”
“I can tell,” you teased.
“Ouch,” he said, hand to his chest. “Straight for the kill.”
The medic stepped out, glanced between the two of you, and frowned. “Santos, you’re next. You,” she pointed at you, “drink this.”
She handed you a paper cup of water.
You took it obediently. “See? Dehydrated.”
Santos smirked. “Deadliest condition.”
You sipped the water slowly, eyes flicking back to him. “So, it’s Santos, right?”
He looked a little surprised you knew his name. “Yeah.”
“Santos what?” you questioned.
He slightly sighed, “Santos Santos, first and last name.”
You couldn’t help but giggle, you saw his face, a mix of slight embarrassment and curiosity. “I’m Y/n Y/l/n”
He repeated it quietly, like he was testing how it sounded. “Nice to meet you.”
“Under these circumstances?” you joked.
“Best circumstances I’ve had all week,” he said honestly.
That made your smile soften. The medic called his name again. Santos sighed dramatically and pushed himself up.
“Guess that’s me,” he said, then hesitated. “Hey, uh, don’t pass out while I’m gone, okay?”
“No promises,” you shot back. “Don’t break anything else.”
He grinned. “I’ll try.”
As he disappeared into the exam room, the hallway felt quieter. You finished your water, swinging your foot lightly, pretending you weren’t listening for his voice.
A few minutes later, he came back out, ankle wrapped, expression calmer. “They’re benching me for the rest of the day,” he said. “Worst news of my life.”
“Liar,” you said. “You’re thrilled.”
“Okay, maybe a little.”
The medic stepped out, arms crossed. “You’re cleared. Hydrate and report back.”
You nodded obediently, “Yes, ma’am.” but you didn’t move right away.
Santos noticed. “You sure you’re good?” he asked. “Wouldn’t want you collapsing dramatically in the hallway.”
“If I do,” you said, smiling, “at least you’ll know it’s fake.”
He laughed, shaking his head.
The medic made an impatient sound. “Y/l/n.”
“Going,” you said quickly, then glanced back at Santos. “Try not to enjoy your medical vacation too much.”
“I’ll do my best,” he replied. “Hard to relax when I’m stuck thinking about missed opportunities.”
Your brows lifted. “Oh?”
He shrugged, a little less smooth this time. “You know. Conversations cut short. People you meet for five minutes and don’t expect to ever see again.”
Something warm settled in your stomach.
You slung your canteen over your shoulder and took a step toward the door. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
His eyes lit up. “Really?”
You smiled. “If you’re lucky.”
His grin spread, confident again. “I’ve got pretty good odds, a fortune cookie told me so.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head.
What a sweet idiot. You thought in your head.
He hesitated, then lifted his hand, pinky extended. “Okay, then. Just in case. Promise we see each other again before boot camp ends.”
You paused, then stepped closer, “Pinky promise?” you asked.
“Pinky promise,” he confirmed.
You hooked your pinky around his, his finger was soft and warm.
“Deal,” you said quietly.
He squeezed once, gentle. “Guess that settles it.”
The medic cleared her throat loudly, again. “Recruit. Now, or your privileges will be revoked.”
You slipped your hand free, still smiling. “I should go before I get yelled at.”
“Yeah,” Santos said, watching you. “I’d hate to be the reason you suffer.”
“Too late,” you teased. “Boot camp already handles that.”
You started to walk away, then glanced back one last time. “Don’t break anything else.”
“No promises,” he replied, voice warm. “But I’ll save it for after I see you again.”
You laughed as you turned the corner, boots echoing down the hall, you knew it was a slim to none chance of seeing him again, but it was nice having a conversation with someone new.
NOTES - he’s so nyan cat coded. anyway, i love writing hicks x reader, he’s so crazy & weird i love it lol.
REQUESTED BY - @woantohae , i hope it was similar to what you had in mind. xx
—
“Careful, Y/n.”
You don’t look at him right away. You’re standing at your locker, re-lacing your boots for the third time even though they’re already tight. You know that voice, it’s the voice that’s been flirting with you all boot camp.
You find it annoying, but cute annoying. You definitely like him too, ever since you first saw him.
“If you keep tying those any tighter,” Hicks adds, leaning against the metal beside you, “you’re gonna lose circulation.”
You finally glance up at him. Just a quick look. Neutral and polite. “I think I’ll survive,” you say.
He grins just enough to let you know he’s pleased he got a response at all. “Strong attitude,” he says. “I like that.”
You pause. Then, carefully, “You say that to everyone?”
“No,” Hicks replies easily while widening his eyes. “Just you.”
That makes your stomach flip, but you don’t let it show. You finish tying your boot, stand, and step past him like your heart isn’t suddenly doing something inconvenient.
Behind you, Santos lets out a low whistle. “Oh, come on,” he mutters. “You’re not even trying to be subtle anymore.”
Hicks straightens, unfazed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure,” Nash says from across the bay, arms crossed. “Because that sounded real professional.”
“We’re recruits,” Hicks shoots back. “Nothing professional about us.”
A few laughs ripple through the group. You stay quiet, that’s your thing.
—
Out on the field, McKinnon has you running drills until your legs burn and your lungs feel like they’re full of sand. You focus on your breathing, your posture, the way you were taught.
Hicks ends up beside you during a break, hands on his hips, barely winded. “You’re holding back,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“Running,” he clarifies. “You’ve got more in you.”
You shrug. “I’m keeping pace.”
He tilts his head, studying you like he’s figured something out. “You always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Stay just under the radar.”
You hesitate, then answer honestly. “It works.”
He smiles again, softer this time. “Yeah. It does.”
Cody Bowman snorts from nearby. “You two done having your little moment, or are we still pretending this is normal?”
“There is no moment,” you say quickly.
Nash nods. “Exactly. Because there’s no way.”
“No way what?” Ochoa asks.
Santos answers for him. “No way those two end up together.”
You feel heat creep up your neck.
Hicks just laughs. “Relax. Nobody’s planning a wedding.”
“Good,” Slovacek mumbles dryly. “Because I’d lose that bet.”
Hicks glances at you again with warm eyes. “You’d be surprised what people get wrong.”
You look away. You don’t flirt back. Not really. You keep your answers short, neutral, and safe. But every time he talks to you, every time he stands a little too close or lowers his voice just for you, your chest tightens in a way you don’t talk about.
You like him and it’s really hard not to show it.
—
Later, during evening downtime, you’re sitting on the steps, cleaning dirt from your boots. Hicks drops down beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You know,” he says, “they think I’m joking.”
You don’t look up. “About what?”
“About you.”
Your hands still. Just for a second.
“I’m not,” he continues quietly. “Joking.”
You finally meet his eyes. There’s no teasing there now. No grin, just sincerity.
You swallow. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because,” you say carefully, “people talk.”
He shrugs. “Let them.”
You shake your head, returning to your boots. “I don’t.”
He watches you for a moment, then stands. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know, that’s what I like about you.”
—
The next morning comes too easily, no one has to yell this time. No boots slam in panic. The bay wakes up slower and heavier, like everyone knows this is the last time they’ll do it this way. The last morning before everything changes.
You lace your boots carefully, hands steady. Across the room, Ochoa catches your eye.
“Last day,” he says softly while grinning.
You nod. “Last day.”
Outside, formation lines up the same way it always has. McKinnon paces. Howitt watches with Sullivan noting things down. Nothing feels different, but everything does.
Hicks stands two spots down from you. He leans over just enough for you to hear him. “You survived.”
“So did you,” you say.
He smiles. “Barely.”
It’s familiar now, this easy thing between you. The flirting never stopped. Not once. Even now, when everyone’s convinced it’s just who he is. That he flirts with everyone. That it never meant anything more. You never corrected them.
The day moves forward like it’s supposed to. Final checks. Final instructions. The long, dreadful walk, the one people warned you about. The one where exhaustion settles deep in your bones and pride sneaks in anyway.
You walk beside Hicks for part of it. Part of you feels a little bittersweet that it’s now over.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yes,” you answer, like you always do.
He believes you. By the time it’s over, by the time McKinnon dismisses you for the last time, something loosens in your chest. You did it. All of you did.
Back in the bay, everyone rushes to clean up. Uniforms adjusted. Faces washed. Nerves buzzing as families start arriving.
The room fills with noise, laughter, hugs, and familiar voices calling names.
You spot Hicks across the room, surrounded by the guys. Nash claps him on the shoulder. Cody says something you can’t hear. John laughs.
They still don’t think anything’s going to happen. You reach into your pocket and feel the folded paper there. Your heart skips a beat and before you can overthink it, you cross the room.
“Hicks.”
He turns, surprised. “Hey, Y/n.”
You don’t smile. You don’t explain. You just hold out the note. “For you,” you say.
He takes it, confused at first. Then he opens it. His expression changes, and he gives you a “this better not be a joke” look.
He looks up at you. “Is this,”
You nod once, cutting him off. “Yeah.”
Behind him, the guys catch on immediately.
“No way,” Ochoa says, grinning.
Cody laughs. “Took you long enough.”
Nash pats Hicks on the back. “Congrats, man.”
Someone whistles and Slovacek shakes his head like he lost a bet. Hicks just stands there, still holding the paper like it might disappear.
You step back. “I should..” You pause awkwardly, “My family’s here.”
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, of course, see you Y/n.”
You hesitate for half a second and nod your head. “See you Hicks.” Then you turn and walk away.
You don’t look back but you can hear all the noise behind you getting louder, voices, laughter, hands clapping Hicks on the shoulders like he just won something.
Maybe he did.
Outside, you spot your family and feel the weight finally lift. Bootcamp is over. This chapter is done. And somewhere behind you, in the middle of all that noise, Hicks is smiling because he proved everyone wrong.
That thought alone makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. You were right to wait until the end.
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.
—
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my smut account: @kazerine xx
NOTES - happy one month of this story!!! thank you soso much for all the love i cannot express how much it means to me. - i’m so sorry for a week w/ no update loves, exams have been killingggg me :’). i will definitely post another chapter soon! & also it won’t let me add another pink border at the end for some reason lol, so if you notice that change i’m sorry i can’t do anything about it. i hope you all are having an amazing week.
You wake up to screaming, but not the usual yelling. This is sharper, louder, and angrier. A voice you don’t recognize yet, slicing through the barracks like a blade.
“UP. GET UP. MOVE YOUR ASSES.”
You flinch awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Boots hit the floor all around you. Mattresses creak. Someone curses under their breath. It takes half a second for you to realize something’s wrong. There’s a warm, unmistakable weight between your legs.
Your stomach drops.
You glance under the blanket just enough to confirm it, then squeeze your eyes shut. Of course, out of all days it had to be today.
“ON YOUR FEET, NOW!”
You sit up too fast, panic buzzing through your skin. You grab the sweater folded at the foot of your bed and cross it over your waist. Your blanket stays exactly where it is. People are already in formation. You’re too slow.
“HEY.”
The voice cuts straight to you.
You freeze.
“I SEE YOU,” he roars. “YOU THINK YOU’RE SPECIAL?”
You swallow and scramble out of bed, keeping your movements tight, careful. You don’t look back at the mattress. You can’t. You step into formation, shoulders squared, heart racing. You look down at the notebook he’s holding, with his name at the top of it, Howitt. Noted.
“How long did that take you?” Sergeant Howitt barks, stalking toward you.
You don’t answer fast enough.
“I ASKED YOU A QUESTION.”
“Sir! Too long, Sir,” you say, voice steady even though your face is already burning.
He stops directly in front of you. Too close. His shadow swallows you whole.
“And what’s that?” he sneers, flicking a finger toward the sweater knotted low on your hips. “Trying to hide something, Recruit?”
A few guys snicker. You don’t look at them. Behind him, you see your father. He stands with his arms crossed, jaw set hard, eyes locked on you, not angry in the loud way. Angry in the way that means don’t mess this up.
You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. Your hands are clenched so tight your palms ache.
“Sir,” you say again, steadier now, because you don’t have a choice, “This recruit has a medical situation that requires immediate discretion, Sir.”
Howitt scoffs at first, waving a hand like you’re wasting his time. “Oh, yeah?” he snaps. “And what kind of medical situation keeps you from following a simple order?”
You hesitate for half a heartbeat.
Then you straighten your shoulders.
“Sir,” you say clearly, loudly enough for him to hear but not loud enough to echo, “This recruit is actively bleeding and cannot remove additional coverage without causing a sanitation issue, Sir.”
The words hang in the air.
For a second, Howitt just stares at you. Then his eyes flick past you to your bed. To the blanket still pulled too carefully over the mattress. The color drains from his face like something just clicked in his head that he has never dealt with before.
“You’re,” Howitt stopped. The room is dead silent now. He clears his throat once. He looks at you, then away, then back at the bed again like it might bite him.
“Oh,” he mutters. Louder, he snaps, “WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST SAY THAT?”
Because you would’ve laughed at me and because you already did, you think. Instead, you stay at attention, cheeks burning, eyes forward.
Howitt shifts his weight, suddenly very aware of the audience. “Well,” He clears his throat again. “That’s, that’s fine.”
He avoids looking at you now.
“Keep the sweater on,” he snaps quickly. “Stay in formation.”
Then, quieter, almost embarrassed, “Just next time, be faster.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” you say, voice even.
He steps back like he wants distance. Like he doesn’t want to be anywhere near this situation. And that’s when you feel it.
McAffey is staring like he’s trying to piece it together, concern written all over his face. Santos looks furious, jaw clenched so tight you think it might crack. Slovacek’s eyes flick from your face to your waist to the bed and then back to you.
Howitt turns sharply, clapping his hands once, too loud.“FORMATION DISMISSED. MOVE.”
Everyone scatters, except for you. Your legs are still shaking. Your face feels hot. Your chest is tight with humiliation and relief all tangled together.
And behind it all, one clear thought keeps repeating, You shouldn’t have had to explain that. You shouldn’t have had to bleed to be believed.
Men will be men though.
You stand there for a second longer than you should, watching the last few guys file into the showers.
Howitt is posted near the door, arms crossed, clipboard tucked under one arm, jaw still set like he’s daring the day to test him again.
Your stomach twists. You check your pockets even though you already know. Nothing. No pads. No tampons. Nothing shoved into a jacket sleeve or forgotten in a book.
Of course.
You take a breath and step forward. You stop a few feet in front of him and clear your throat.
“Sir?”
Howitt looks down at you, brows lifting slightly, like he’s bracing himself. “Yes, Recruit?”
You can feel your face heating up again. You keep your eyes fixed on his boots. The scuffed toes. The laces pulled tight.
“Sir,” you say quietly, lowering your voice so only he can hear, “This recruit needs hygiene products, Sir.”
There’s a pause.
A long one.
You risk a glance up just in time to see his expression flicker, confusion, then realization, and then the same wide-eyed panic as earlier.
“Oh,” he says again. Then, quickly, “Right. Yes. Of course.”
He clears his throat, straightens like he’s just remembered how to exist.
“Stand by,” he mutters, already turning away.
He gestures to another instructor down the hall and murmurs something you can’t hear. The instructor nods once and disappears around the corner.
Howitt turns back to you, suddenly very professional, very careful not to make this worse.
“You’ll be handled,” he says gruffly. “Discreetly.”
“Sir, thank you, sir.” You say softly.
A few minutes later, you’re handed what you need without a word, without an audience, and without commentary. You could cry from the relief alone.
By the time everyone is released for breakfast, your stomach is killing you. You don’t even bother with the line.
Instead, you stop at the vending machine, feed it a couple bills, and grab a granola bar. The wrapper crinkles too loud in the quiet hallway.
You head for your usual table. Only when you get closer do you realize something’s off. Cope isn’t there.
You spot him a few tables away, sitting with McAffey, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Cope laughs at something McAffey says, shoulders relaxing like he hasn’t been tense all morning.
That leaves just one open seat at your table across from Santos. You slow before sitting, and that’s when it hits you.
His jaw looks sharper than you remember, clean and defined like it was carved that way on purpose. His eyes are soft, and dark, and there’s something calm in them that makes your chest loosen without permission.
Then there are his arms. Thick. Strong. Veins faintly visible where his sleeves are rolled up.
You immediately look away.
Absolutely not.
You shake your head once, like you can physically knock the thought loose. You’re on your period. That’s all this is. Your hormones are lying to you.
You sit down and tear open the granola bar.
“Morning miss,” Santos says gently.
“Morning,” you reply, voice a little quieter than usual.
He watches you for a second, longer than normal. “You okay?” he asks. “Earlier seemed rough.”
You pause, granola bar halfway to your mouth. You consider brushing it off. Making a joke. Pretending it didn’t happen.
Instead, you exhale. “Yeah,” you say. “I mean. Not great. But I’m okay.”
He nods, accepting that without pushing.
Then, softer, “That new guy didn’t handle it well.”
A short, humorless breath leaves you. “That’s one way to put it.”
Santos’s mouth tightens, just slightly. “For what it’s worth,” he says, eyes steady on yours, “You handled it better than most people would’ve.”
Something warm settles in your chest. “Thanks,” you say quietly.
You eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the noise of the dining hall buzzing around you. Trays clatter. Voices overlap. Someone laughs too loud at a nearby table.
You’re suddenly very aware of how close Santos is. How solid he feels across from you. How easy it is to sit here and breathe, but you try not to let yourself dwell on it.
—
The base feels looser on days like this, no drills barking down your neck, no stopwatch counting your breath. Still structured, still watched, but softer around the edges. You’re walking the track because you need the air, because your body feels heavy in that specific way that only comes with being on your period, and because sitting makes everything worse.
The wind bites harder than you expect. You fold your arms across your chest and keep moving, boots hitting the dirt in a steady rhythm.
You don’t notice him at first.
Then your pace matches someone else’s. “Skipping the dining hall?” Slovacek asks casually, like he’s been there the whole time.
You look over.
Of course it’s him.
Sleeves pushed up, dog tags catching the light, that familiar, crooked look on his face like he’s already halfway into trouble and enjoying it. He’s not looking at the track. He’s looking at you.
“Didn’t feel like pretending powdered things are food,” you say.
He hums. “Fair.”
You walk in silence for a few steps. It’s not awkward, it never is with him. He has this way of filling space without crowding it.
“You cold?” he asks.
“A little.”
That’s all it takes.
He doesn’t make a big show of it. Just shrugs his jacket off like it’s no big deal and holds it out to you. You hesitate, you know you shouldn’t, but the wind cuts through you again and that decides it.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he says. “Take it anyway.”
You slip it on.
It’s warm. It smells like him, clean, faintly smoky, familiar enough that your stomach does something stupid. The sleeves are too long, brushing past your knuckles.
He notices. His eyes flick down, then back up, slow. Intentional. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That works.”
You roll your eyes. “You say that about everything.”
“No,” he replies. “Just the things I like.”
You nearly trip on the track.
You keep walking. “You flirt like it’s a reflex.”
He grins. “Maybe it is.”
Another lap. The wind eases, just a little. You feel oddly lighter, even with the ache still there.
“So,” he says, hands swinging loosely at his sides, “you always disappear midday on days off, or am I special?”
You glance at him. “You want to be special?”
“I already am,” he says easily. “I’m walking next to you, aren’t I?”
You laugh before you can stop yourself, then clamp down on it, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, leaning just a fraction closer, “here you are.”
Your shoulder brushes his. It’s brief. Accidental. It still sends heat straight through you.
You clear your throat. “You’re awfully confident today.”
He shrugs. “You seem different.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” His eyes flick to your face, then your mouth, then back up, slow enough that you notice. “Looser. Like you’re not trying so hard to pretend you don’t notice things.”
You swallow. “Maybe I’m just tired.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe you’re finally letting yourself.”
You tilt your head. “Letting myself do what?”
He smiles, softer now. Not cocky or teasing. Just honest. “Flirt back.”
You feel your face warm. Instead of looking away, you meet his gaze. “Oh,” you say lightly. “Is that what this is?”
He raises a brow. “You tell me.”
You step closer. Just enough to feel his warmth, his presence solid and steady.
“Well,” you say, eyes dropping to his chest, then back up, deliberate, “I don’t usually borrow jackets from guys I’m not interested in.”
“Good to know,” he says. “Because I don’t usually give them to people who don’t make my day better.”
You hum. “Awe how adorable, is Slovacek being a softie?”
He leans in just enough that his voice drops. “Don’t get used to it.”
You laugh, quieter this time, and start walking again. He falls into step without hesitation.
Eventually, he says, “You know, for someone having a rough day, you’re doing alright.”
You glance at him. “How do you know it’s rough?”
He shrugs. “You don’t fake quiet like that.”
“Guess I picked the right walking partner.” You smile.
His grin softens again. “Yeah,” he says. “You did.”
You keep walking, lap after lap, wrapped in his jacket, his attention, the strange comfort of being seen without having to explain a damn thing.
“You planning on stealing that,” he asks, eyes flicking to the collar bunched under your chin, “or should I start charging rent?”
You glance sideways at him. “You’d miss it.”
He smirks. “You wearing it? Yeah. Probably.”
You bump his shoulder with yours, light but deliberate. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Only when you’re around,” he says easily. “You bring it out of me.”
Your stomach flips, again.
You’re the one flirting harder now, leaning into it, meeting his looks instead of dodging them. When you stop walking to stretch your calves, he stops too. When you tilt your head up to look at the sky, he watches you instead.
“So,” you say casually, like your pulse isn’t doing something stupid, “why are you really here?”
He arches a brow. “Here as in, walking with you, or here as in government-issued misery?”
You smile. “You know what I mean.”
He studies you for a second, expression unreadable. Then he shrugs. “Why are you?”
You scoff. “You know why I am. My father.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Hard to miss.”
“What about you?” you press. “You don’t strike me as the patriotic poster boy type.”
He laughs softly. “That obvious?”
“You don’t salute ideals,” you say. “You salute opportunities.”
His smile flickers just a fraction. “Something like that,” he says.
You stop walking. He does too.
“That wasn’t an answer,” you say.
His gaze sharpens, not angry, not defensive, just guarded. “Does it need to be?”
“I’m not asking to interrogate you,” you say. “I’m just curious.”
“Curiosity gets people in trouble,” he replies lightly.
You tilt your head. “Speaking from experience?”
That does it.
The flirtation falters. He exhales through his nose and looks away, jaw tightening. “Drop it,” he says, still calm.
That unsettles you more than if he’d snapped.
“Why?” you ask. “Because you don’t want to tell me, or because you can’t?”
He looks back at you now. Really looks at you.
“Because it’s none of your business,” he says. “And because I thought we were having a good walk.”
You cross your arms, jacket sleeves swallowing your hands. “We were.”
“Then don’t turn it into something else.”
You don’t argue, but something inside you closes, just a little. “Fine,” you say. “I won’t ask.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and awkward where it hadn’t been before. After a few steps, you shrug the jacket off and hold it out.
“Here.”
He stares at it like it’s a mistake. “You don’t have to,”
“I know,” you say. “But I’m done walking.”
You don’t wait for his response.
You turn and head back toward the buildings, pulse pounding harder with every step. You don’t look back, but you can feel his eyes on you until the moment you’re out of sight.
—
You shouldn’t be here.
You know that the second you slip into your father’s office and quietly shut the door behind you. It smells like paper, coffee, and authority, like him. The desk is immaculate. The filing cabinet is locked.
You hesitate only a second before pulling the key from the top drawer. You’ve seen him use it a hundred times.
Your hands shake as you open the cabinet. You find his name faster than you expect.
Slovacek. First name. Serial number.
You slide the folder out and sit, heart pounding in your ears. The jacket smell still clings to your clothes.
Reason for enlistment: Alternative sentencing.
Your breath stops. You skim faster.
Court-ordered service. Prison avoided. Record sealed pending completion.
Your fingers tighten on the page.
“What did you do?” you whisper.
You flip to the next section, incident summary.
The sound of boots slap against the hallway floor. Your heart leaps into your throat. You shove the folder back into the cabinet, slam it shut a little too hard, then freeze. You scramble to the desk, drop into the chair, and grab a random paper like you’ve been waiting there the whole time.
The door opens. You don’t look up. You just sit there, breathing too fast, pretending your world didn’t just tilt sideways.
Whatever Slovacek is hiding it’s real. And now you know your father was right about him, well, most of him.
—
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my smut account: @kazerine xx
tag list: @silvrrteeth , @heavenchana , @battlescarsh , @zoeyjadetice2010
NOTES - i hope you all are having a wonderful weekend so far! i’ve been super busy lately, so i’m sorry for the slow updates. :( let me know if you like this chapter & thank you soso much for the recent support, it really makes my day when i wake up to all your sweet comments! also, i re-read this like 3x so i apologize if there are any mistakes lol, i really tried. lmk if this is too long for you, stay safe luvies. xxx
You wake up to shouting. First McKinnon’s voice, sharp, slicing through the air.
“Up! Let’s go, let’s go! On your feet!”
Then your father’s voice hits right behind it, “Alvar! Move with the rest of them!”
You’re already scrambling out of bed before your brain fully catches up. Everyone around you is doing the same, boots half-tied, shirts on backwards, people elbowing each other as they rush to the restrooms.
It’s chaos, but typical morning chaos. Ten minutes later, you’re clean, dressed, hair pulled back, boots laced, everything aching but functioning.
They release you for breakfast. Which means thirty minutes of lukewarm food, crowded tables, noise, and worst of all, McAffey pretending nothing embarrassing ever happened yesterday.
You slip through the crowd and head straight for the far window, the tall one overlooking the track. You tuck yourself onto the windowsill, pull out your book, and try to disappear.
For a blissful moment, it works. Then you feel him before you see him. Boots slow down. A shadow covers your page and you look up.
Uniform half-buttoned like he didn’t bother finishing it. A smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth as he takes you in. He crosses his arms and leans against the wall right beside the window.
“Didn’t peg you as the ‘skip breakfast and avoid humanity’ type,” he jokes.
You narrow your eyes over the top of your book and mock him back. “Didn’t peg you as the type who noticed.”
He laughs low and soft. “Oh, I notice a lot, but you know that already.”
You look back at your page, pretending that doesn’t hit you right in the chest. “Shouldn’t you be eating?” you ask.
He shrugs. “Shouldn’t you?”
You press your lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
Slovacek watches you read for a moment, then tilts his head. “What’s the book?”
You show the cover for half a second. He nods like he actually cares, which is weird, because he doesn’t even seem like the type who reads.
Then he leans a little closer. “So, McAffey told me something yesterday.”
Your whole body tightens and you instantly snap the book shut. “What did he tell you?”
Slovacek’s grin grows in slow motion, smug, playful, and way too pleased with himself.
“That you’ve got a little notebook.”
You glare. He just raises his eyebrows.
“And apparently,” he continues, “you’re very protective of it.”
You clench your jaw. “He had no right to say anything.”
Slovacek shrugs one shoulder. “Hey. I didn’t ask for the whole story.”
You stare at him. “You asked something.”
He smirks. “Maybe. I was curious.”
You groan softly and hide your face behind the book. “I hate both of you.”
He laughs and knocks his knuckles against your boot. “No you don’t.”
You peek at him through your fingers. He’s closer now. Too close. His shoulder brushes your knee.
“And anyway,” he says, voice dropping low, “I kind of like the idea that you’re scribbling secret thoughts about everyone.”
Your heart jumps.
You swallow.
“Everyone?” you echo.
He taps the window frame with one finger, slow.
“I mean,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours, “I’m hoping I’m in there.”
Your breath catches.
“But, like,” he adds, leaning down slightly, voice teasing, “in a good way.”
You look away so he doesn’t see the heat rising to your cheeks. He definitely sees it anyway.
He laughs again. “Relax,” he murmurs, nudging your boot again, gentler. “I’m not actually trying to piss you off.”
You mumble, “You’re doing a great job anyway.”
He grins.
Then, out of nowhere, his voice softens even further, “I just saw you sitting alone and figured maybe you’d want company.”
You blink at him.
For a second, he looks almost shy. Then the smirk returns like he can’t help it. “So,” he says, pushing off the wall and standing straight again, “you staying here until formation?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
He nods back. “Cool. I’ll stay too.”
Your eyebrows lift. “Why?”
His answer is immediate. “Because you look better than the food.”
Your heart stops for a full beat. “Well, considering the food is literal slop, it doesn’t seem like much of a compliment.”
He ignores your comment and steps closer, then taps your book spine with one finger. “Go on,” he says. “Read. I’ll be right here.”
Then he climbs onto the windowsill with you, but this time, he sits close.
Your knees brush and your thighs press, worst part is he pretends he didn’t choose that spot on purpose.
You raise an eyebrow. He gives you this slow, devilish smile like he already knows he’s getting away with something.
“Window’s small,” he says casually, “sorry if I crowd you.”
He is definitely crowding you.
You open your book again, and he leans back, shoulders relaxed, one knee bouncing lightly like he’s trying not to touch you but keeps doing it anyway.
After a beat, he shifts his arm reaching behind you, just barely, like he’s stretching. His arm brushes your back.
Just a quick sweep. Just long enough to guide you gently against him.
You fall into his shoulder without meaning to, and he lets his arm hover there for half a second, not fully around you, just close enough to feel it.
Then he drops it like nothing happened. But he knows exactly what he did. You can feel the heat from his body. His shoulder is warm and solid. You try to read. And he watches you “read.”
“Hey,” he whispers near your ear, low enough to make your chest tighten, “How’s the book?”
“You know you’re making it impossible to focus.”
He grins slow, pleased, and unapologetic. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “that’s kinda the point.”
You glare and his smile only grows.
After a moment, he leans in again, this time close enough that you feel his breath on your cheek as he peeks at the page.
“You’re only on chapter four?” he teases.
“I’ve been interrupted.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, voice dipping. “By who?”
You stare right at him.
He lifts his eyebrows like he’s daring you to say it. You don’t give him the satisfaction.
He laughs under his breath, low and warm, and adjusts himself just slightly enough for your head to settle better on his shoulder. He pretends it’s accidental.
You know it isn’t.
Then he does it again that slow inhale. Right against your hair. You stiffen, pulse jumping.
His voice drops, soft, playful, absolutely aware of himself, “You changed shampoo?”
You don’t answer.
He tilts his head closer. “Smells good.”
Your face burns. He laughs quietly not mean, just delighted that he’s flustering you. You try to read again. His eyes drop to your lips again.
Then he murmurs, “Relax. I’m not gonna bite.”
You whisper, “You’re acting like you might.”
“If I was,” he says, “you wouldn’t be sitting here.”
You try to shove your attention back to the book.
He nudges your knee with his. “You really not gonna tell me what part you’re on?”
“No.”
“So you’re avoiding me?”
You shake your head.
“Liar,” he says playfully pouts.
Your stomach flips as you watch his lips.
He leans back against the wall, letting you settle against him like he owns that shoulder spot now. One of his fingers taps absently against your knee close enough to feel, not close enough to be obvious.
You pretend to read. He pretends to let you. Both of you fail miserably.
“So,” he says, voice low, warm, and confident, “What’s this chapter four about, huh?”
You blink, pretending to read, even though your eyes aren’t following a single word. “Why?” you ask lightly. “You planning on stealing my book, too?”
He smirks, “Oh, definitely. But I wanna know what I’m stealing first.”
You try not to smile. You fail. You thumb the corner of the page and sigh like you’re being forced into something. “Fine. You wanna know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?” he murmurs, leaning in closer.
“It’s about a guy and a girl.”
Slovacek’s eyes flick to yours instantly.
“A guy,” he repeats. “Already sounds interesting.”
You nod, keeping a straight face. “Yeah. He’s annoying.”
“Oh, great start.”
“And cocky.”
He laughs under his breath. “Fantastic. My kind of guy already.”
“But,” you continue, pretending to read again, “he’s also kind of charming.”
Slovacek hums like he’s pleased with himself. “Only kinda? Harsh.”
“He gets worse,” you say, turning your head slightly toward him. “He flirts with the main character. A lot. And she can’t tell if he’s serious or if he’s just messing with her.”
“Oh,” he says, leaning an inch closer, “sounds very serious to me.”
“That’s the problem.” You flip the page even though you haven’t read a single line. “He also sits too close to her.”
Slovacek looks down at your legs touching. Then up at you. “Oh?” He nudges your leg. “Too close like this?”
You nod. “Exactly like that.”
“Mm.” He leans in a fraction more, on purpose. “Terrible behavior.”
You press your lips together, trying not to react.
He shifts slightly, letting one arm rest behind you, not fully but just enough that if you wanted to lean back, you’d touch him again.
You do. Your head rests against his shoulder like it’s nothing, like you didn’t even think about it. He lets you. He adjusts his posture so it fits better.
And then he lowers his head the tiniest bit, not touching your hair, but close enough to breathe you in.
“So,” he murmurs near your temple, “what’s chapter four’s guy look like?”
You pretend to consider. “Well, he’s tall.”
Slovacek glances at himself. “Check.”
“He has this stupid smirk.”
“Wow. Rude.”
“And he’s always acting like he’s not flirting. But he totally is.”
He tilts his head slightly, his mouth now just inches from your ear. “And what makes you think he’s flirting?”
You close the book slowly, look up at him, heart pounding. “Stuff like this.”
You gesture to the space between you.
He grins unapologetic, bold, and a little dangerous “Yeah,” he says softly, “that sounds like flirting to me.”
You’re about to say something, anything, when movement catches his eye. His smirk fades but only slightly.
Your father stands down the hallway. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. You freeze.
Slovacek doesn’t move his arm. He doesn’t straighten up. He doesn’t pull away from you. He just keeps his jaw clenched and his shoulder steady beneath your cheek.
Your dad’s eyes stay on you.
Then he yells to everyone, “FORMATION! NOW!”
The shout echoes across the dining hall so loud you jump.
Your book nearly slips from your hands, but Slovacek catches it quick then hands it back like he’s done it a hundred times.
“That,” he murmurs with a smug little grin, “might be chapter five.”
You want to shove him again. You don’t. He hops down from the windowsill and offers his hand to help you follow.
You ignore it.
Then he walks toward the formation line like he didn’t just get caught flirting with the sergeant’s daughter at 7 in the morning.
—
McKinnon blows the whistle like he wants someone to flinch. Your father stands beside him, arms crossed, expression sharp enough to cut through the morning fog.
“ALL OF YOU DOWN!”
Everyone drops. Push-ups. Fast. No pacing yourself. Your shoulders burn on rep five, Slovacek steals a look at you on rep six.
Not subtle either.
He’s supposed to be focused on the ground, but you feel his eyes drag over you every chance he gets. When you switch to mountain climbers, he glances again, slow, like he’s memorizing something.
McAffey notices.
You see it happen. McAffey’s head turns, brow lifts, mouth twitches like he’s about to make a comment. Then he leans toward Cope, murmuring something through his teeth.
Cope tries not to laugh, which makes it worse. Your father’s too busy yelling at Ochoa for dropping his pace to notice any of it.
“UP! ON YOUR FEET! THREE MILE RUN NOW!” McKinnon roars.
Everyone breaks into the run, gravel kicking up behind boots. Within the first lap, Cope drifts toward you, jogging just close enough to talk without getting caught.
He glances around, then mutters, “McAffey,” he snorts a breath, “said your little window-seat boyfriend’s gonna break his neck if he keeps staring at you like that.”
You almost trip.
Cope grins. “I’m just the messenger.”
Ahead of you, Slovacek turns his head just slightly, checking over his shoulder like he’s making sure you’re still behind him. When your eyes meet, he smirks small, crooked, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
And he definitely heard Cope’s comment.
He slows his pace just enough for you to catch up. Just enough to run beside you and just enough to glance down at you again, eyes dragging over your face before flicking back to the path.
Your father calls out split times, voice sharp and clipped, but Slovacek doesn’t stop looking.
—
The morning just keeps getting worse. After the three mile run, McKinnon decides everyone apparently still “looks too comfortable,” so he throws you all straight into more drills. Burpees, squat holds, flutter kicks, and everything else that burns.
Your father watches the group like he’s waiting for someone to break. His eyes sweep over everyone, sharp and suspicious, but every time they pass over Slovacek, they narrow just a little more. And Slovacek knows it.
He keeps stealing glances anyway, quick ones when you drop into a plank, slower ones when you’re getting back up. He tries to look like he’s just checking spacing, but he’s terrible at hiding it.
During jumping jacks, you catch him looking again. He smirks the second he realizes you caught him. You look away first and he looks pleased about that.
—
You’re halfway through high knees when someone slides into the space on your left, close, keeping pace with you.
McAffey. He breathes out a short laugh, like he’s been waiting for the moment.
“So,” he says between breaths, “you and Slovacek now?”
You nearly miss a step. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb.” He keeps his voice low, but not low enough. “He was practically making heart-eyes at you earlier. Guy’s got it bad.”
You glare forward. “Why do you care?”
McAffey scoffs. “Oh, I dunno maybe because” he points at himself dramatically, “I was an option. Last night, right? And now suddenly I’m not?”
You blink. “McAffey.”
“No, no, no,” he shakes his head, hands on his hips as you switch to squats. “Answer the question. Am I not an option anymore?”
The jealousy isn’t subtle. Not even close.
You feel your face heat up. “I never said you weren’t.”
He smirks. “So I’m still in the running. Good.”
You groan, squatting deeper just so you don’t have to look at him, but he leans closer.
“And hey,” he adds, “if Slovacek wants to compete, he can compete. I’d win anyway.”
You shove your shoulder into him lightly. “Shut up.”
He grins like you made his whole day.
—
When drills switch to partner-resistance sprints, you move to the sidelines. Slovacek backs up, hands on his hips, pretending he’s stretching.
He glances at you.
Not a single ounce of shame.
When your eyes meet, he lifts his brows like, ‘What? Keep going’. Then gives you that stupid, slow, smug smile.
McAffey notices. Your father notices. Literally everyone notices. McKinnon blows his whistle in frustration even though no one did anything wrong.
—
“PAIR UP!” your father barks.
The line swirls with movement. Slovacek is heading straight toward you, already smirking like he’s got the spot locked in. But Santos beats him there, hand already on your arm, grin wide.
“You’re with me, princess.” He winks at Slovacek on purpose.
Slovacek stops mid-step. He looks like he just got robbed. McAffey snorts so hard he pretends it was a cough. You follow Santos to an open space for medicine-ball throws. He tosses you the ball lightly.
“So,” Santos says casually, “you wanna explain why McAffey looked like someone stole his girl, and Slovacek looked like he was ready to start a war?”
You groan. “It’s complicated.”
“Yeah, no shit. Start talking.”
You toss the ball back. Harder.
“Fine. Slovacek helped me read this morning,” you start.
“Ohhh, that already sounds like trouble.”
You keep going, “And he was flirting. A lot. Like, a lot, a lot.”
“No shock there,” Santos mutters. “Dude can’t look at you without losing brain cells.”
You laugh, “He put his arm around me for a second.”
Santos drops the medicine ball. “OH WE’RE JUST, OKAY, THAT’S, okay. HOLY, okay.”
You snort. “Pick it up.”
“And McAffey?” Santos asks, breathless.
“He asked if he’s still ‘an option’.”
Santos straightens slowly, holding the ball against his chest. His eyes are huge.
“I’m sorry.” He pauses. “Is this a military base or a reality TV show?”
You laugh, nearly missing the catch.
Santos shakes his head, tossing it back. “I swear, you could sneeze and half this platoon would fall in love.”
He glances over to where Slovacek is glaring actual daggers at him for stealing the partner spot.
“Especially that one,” he adds.
You bite back a smile.
“Is it really that obvious?” you ask quietly.
Santos gives you a look.
“Oh, sweetheart. If he checked you out any harder, he’d need a permission slip.”
You turn bright red and Santos cackles.
Across the field, Slovacek lifts his shirt to wipe sweat off his forehead specifically while looking straight at you. McAffey elbows him. Slovacek ignores it.
Your father eyes all of them like he’s about to smoke half the platoon because of you.
Santos just whistles. “Yeah,” he says, “this is gonna get messy real fast.”
“Well, I dunno what to do. I really like McAffey, but he’s like the kind of guy you’d stuff in a locker, y’know?” You toss the ball back, hard.
Santos laughs. “Nah, that’s definitely cope.”
You look at him with ‘shut up’ eyes.
“C’mon that was funny.” he throws his hands up in defense. “Anyway, you’re basically saying you like the bad boys?” He jokes.
“Please, Slovacek is not a bad boy.”
Santos just widens his eyes and shrugs, you furrow your eyebrows. “Why are you making that face?”
“I’m not making any face.”
“Tell me.” you demand while hogging the ball.
“I just, heard stuff.” he pauses, “Like he’s a criminal or something, maybe it’s a rumor. Ask him yourself.” he shrugs as you toss the ball back, your mind running.
—
By the time 1 pm finally hits, everyone looks wrecked. Sweat, dirt, bruised elbows the whole platoon is wobbling like newborn deer.
McKinnon finally blows the whistle. Your father gives one sharp nod.
“DISMISSED FOR LUNCH. MOVE!”
Everyone bolts.
You’re walking toward the cafeteria, head down, still trying to catch your breath when bootsteps fall into rhythm right beside yours.
Slow. Deliberate. Slovacek.
He bumps your arm with his just slightly, like he’s testing if you’ll move away. You don’t.
He grins at that one of those small, knowing smiles that feels like it carries a full paragraph of things he’s not allowed to say out loud.
“Rough day so far, huh sunshine?” he asks.
You laugh under your breath, your stomach fluttering from the nickname. “Pretty much felt like dying. Multiple times.”
“Same.” He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Pretty sure McKinnon’s goal today was to send at least two of us to heaven.”
“You complained the most,” you tease.
“Only because you weren’t doing enough complaining for the both of us.” He nudges you again, playful, his eyes dipping to your lips just for a second before he looks forward.
Your stomach turns even warmer.
You enter the cafeteria together, and the noise hits instantly trays slamming, boots scraping, voices echoing. But through all of that, Slovacek stays right beside you, close enough that your arm brushes his every few steps.
—
The lunch line crawls forward. Your stomach growls. Slovacek leans in a little, lowering his voice. “So, still reading that book you were glued to this morning?”
You blink. “You remember what chapter I was on?”
He shrugs, smirking. “I remember anything that makes you smile.”
Your brain short-circuits a tiny bit.
“So?” he prompts. “What’s it actually about?”
You lift your tray, step forward. “It’s kinda complicated.”
He tilts his head. “Try me.”
You inhale slowly. “It’s about this girl that’s wakes up from a coma, she was there for like ten years and by the time she wakes up the world is destroyed or whatever.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, grin widening. “And then what?”
“She kinda just has to figure out everything by herself, I’m only on chapter four, so I dunno much yet.” You shrug.
“Sounds interesting.” He says nodding.
And then, you feel a hand caress on your bottom, only for a split second. So quick anyone looking would think it was an accident.
You whip your head toward him with wide eyes and a red face. Slovacek is looking forward. Innocent. Like he’s never done anything wrong in his life. a Except the corner of his mouth is twitching. Trying not to smile.
“Did you?” you whisper.
“Hmm?” he says like he didn’t hear a thing.
“You touched me.”
He finally glances at you, eyes dark with mischief. “Accident.”
Not even pretending to sell it. Your face heats even more. He notices. He likes that he notices.
He steps closer again, voice soft and husky at the edge.“You should hold on tighter to your tray,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you dropping it.”
—
You start toward your usual table, but he falls into step with you, bumping your shoulder with his again.
“You sitting with your friends?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He nods, expression unreadable for a moment but his eyes still skim over you, slow and appreciative.
“Well,” he says, backing up a step but still looking at you, “save some time for me later.”
You blink. “Why?”
He grins. “Because I’m not done hearing about that guy.”
You open your mouth to answer, but your father’s voice bellows across the cafeteria:
“FORMATION IN FIFTEEN! EAT QUICK!”
Slovacek winces. “There goes that.”
He gives you one last slow look, the kind that crawls down your spine and then heads off toward his table, still smiling to himself like he just got away with something. And he absolutely did.
—
Lunch ends fast, way too fast. You barely get halfway through your food before your father’s voice slices through the cafeteria.
“Alvar! With me.”
Your whole body goes cold. A few people look over. Slovacek does too subtle, but you catch it. He straightens in his seat like he might stand, but he doesn’t. He just watches.
You swallow hard and follow your father out into the hallway, boots echoing on the tile. He stops once the door closes behind you, arms folded, jaw tight.
For a second he doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, that look he gets when he’s trying to decide between being a dad or being a Sergeant.
Then, “Explain,” he snaps.
Your eyebrows pull together. “Explain what, sir?”
He stares harder. Not sir type, this is Dad trying to stay “sergeant” about it.
“This morning,” he says. “At the window. With Slovacek.”
Your stomach flips. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first.
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Do not play dumb with me.”
You shift on your feet. “It wasn’t anything,” you say softly. “Just reading.”
“Reading,” he repeats like it’s code for something filthy. “You were on his shoulder.”
You blink. “Sir,”
He cuts you off with a raised hand. “No. You’re going to listen.”
You tense up. He steps closer.
“I do not like him,” he says quietly, voice low. “Not even a little. And I don’t want you anywhere near him.”
Your chest tightens. You look away.
“I’m serious,” he adds. “Slovacek is the type who flirts with anything that walks. He’s smooth. He’s polite. He knows how to look charming.”
You squeeze your hands into fists, marking crescents on your palms.
“It wasn’t,”
He cuts you off again. “I don’t care what it was.” His tone sharpens. “I saw him touch you just now.”
Your eyes widen. You didn’t even know that was noticeable.
“He put his hands on you,” he says, jaw clenching. “And that alone tells me he’s testing boundaries.”
You feel your cheeks heat not from embarrassment, but from how painfully wrong and right he is at the same time.
Your father continues, “He is not good for you. He is not good for anyone. He looks at you like you’re some game to win. And you’re not.”
You swallow, throat dry.
“And if I see him so much as breathe too close to you again,” he says quietly, “I’ll transfer him to a different platoon. Do you understand?”
Your heart drops.
You don’t trust your voice, so you nod.
But he steps closer, eyes narrowing. “I said,” he snaps, “do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” you whisper.
He nods once, curt and final. Then he jerks his chin toward the door.
“Get back to lunch.”
You turn to go.
Before the door swings shut, you glance back just once and your father is still watching you with that same hard stare like he sees something coming and he’s trying desperately to stop it before it starts.
—
Drills run you ragged for another hour, sand still sticking to the back of your neck, sweat burning your eyes, legs trembling every time you have to drop and pop back up. You keep your head down the whole time. You don’t look at Slovacek once. Not even a glance. Not even when you feel his eyes crawl over you like he’s trying to map you from memory.
You just keep running. Keep pushing. Keep pretending you don’t feel him looking.
Finally, McKinnon blows the whistle, dismisses everyone, and you all stumble inside for cleaning duty. Your shirt’s stuck to your back, hair plastered to your temples, lungs still burning.
You grab a broom, sweep without thinking, replaying your dad’s words from earlier over and over like someone pressed repeat inside your skull.
“He’s not a good guy.”
“He does this to every girl.”
“Stay away from him.”
You swallow hard.
You don’t know if he’s wrong.
You don’t know if he’s right.
But you know you need to talk to him.
So you set the broom down, wipe your hands on your pants, and walk toward his office. The hallway feels colder than usual and too quiet.
You knock. Three soft taps.
“Come in.”
You step inside, shutting the door behind you.
Your dad’s still in uniform, sleeves rolled, seated behind his desk like he hasn’t moved in hours. His posture straight, jaw locked, eyes immediately narrowing the second he sees your face.
“Yeah?” he asks, like you’re another recruit. Not his kid.
You breathe in slow. “I wanted to talk about Slovacek.”
His expression ices over instantly.
You force yourself to keep going. “You’re wrong about him. What you saw this morning and afternoon that wasn’t, I didn’t want him, or anything like that. And he’s not like,”
“What part of ‘stay away from him’ was unclear?” he snaps.
Your stomach twists. That was fast. Even for him. “He’s not a bad guy,” you say, voice tightening. “You don’t know him. You don’t even,”
“I know exactly what he is and why he’s here,” your dad fires back, pointing toward the door like he’s lecturing a stranger. “A jarhead with nothing but hormones and impulse controlling him. He’s not special. None of these guys are special.”
Your brows knit. “You’re wrong.”
“No, I’m right,” he barks. “And if you’re stupid enough to think you’re an exception to the way these boys think, then you’re proving my point.”
You clench your fingers. Your throat feels hot. “He’s not like that,” you say again, firmer this time. “You don’t know him. You don’t even try to know him or anyone!”
“Oh my goodness Y/n,” he interrupts, throwing his hands up. “If anything, you should be looking at Santos. The kid bends over backwards for you. That’s a decent one. That’s someone with a future that isn’t gonna run straight into a wall.”
Your jaw drops. You laugh, but it’s sharp, disbelieving. “It’s not the same,” you tell him. “You don’t get it.”
“And you don’t get how this place works,” he shoots back, leaning forward over his desk. “You don’t date here. You don’t flirt here. You don’t even look at these boys, you hear me? Every single one of them is the same.”
“No,” you say, voice cracking. “You’re wrong. And you don’t know anything about how I feel,”
“I know enough!” he shouts.
You flinch, even though you try not to.
And then the worst part, “Well, maybe you’d understand if you actually acted like a dad sometimes,” you spit out before you can stop yourself.
His face changes slowly, like a storm cloud building “What did you just call me?” he says quietly dangerously.
You swallow. You didn’t mean to say it. But it’s out.“Dad,” you repeat. “Because that’s what you are, right? Except you never act like it.”
His voice goes off like a grenade. “You don’t call me that. Ever. You will address me as Sir, and Sir only.”
You rush out the door before you can make another bad decision.
—
You’re now by the window, you bite the inside of your cheeks and your lip, your fingers stabbing your palms once again.
Outside, the yard is quiet and empty except for a few stragglers hauling water jugs back to storage. The sun isn’t as harsh now, but everything still feels too bright. You press your forehead to the cold glass and close your eyes.
You don’t know how long you sit there. Two minutes or two hours, you can’t tell.
But eventually, bootsteps echo down the hall slow, cautious, almost unsure. They don’t thunder like your father’s. And they don’t hit the ground with command like McKinnons.
You hear the steps stop right beside you. “You okay, sunshine?”
Your eyes stay forward, glued to the window. You don’t answer. If you turn to look at him right now, you’ll break again.
He shifts his weight, like he’s trying to see your face without making it obvious. “You look like someone just chewed you up and spit you out,” he mutters softly. “Who pissed you off?”
You inhale through your nose, shaky.
He steps closer, not touching, but close enough you feel the warmth of him. “Hey,” he says quietly, voice dropping. “Look at me.”
You don’t because you can’t, not because you don’t want to.
His tone changes that lazy flirtiness replaced with something way more serious. “Did someone hurt you?” he asks. “You tell me who.”
A quiet laugh bubbles up “Yeah,” you whisper. “Actually, yeah.”
He stiffens. “Who.”
“My father.”
Slovacek goes still, like he wasn’t expecting that answer at all.
You wipe your cheek with the heel of your hand, trying to clean up the evidence, but he sees anyway. His jaw tenses, sharp, protective, before he softens it again, controlled.
“What happened?” he says, voice lower, gentler.
You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Those words nearly undo you.
You swallow hard, staring so intensely at the yard that your vision goes double. “He thinks you’re bad news,” you murmur. “He thinks you’re like every other guy here.”
You feel him lean a little closer. “And what do you think?”
You force out a breath. “I think he’s wrong.”
The corner of his mouth lifts not cocky, not flirty just soft and it’s the worst thing, because it makes you want to cry again.
He reaches out like he’s about to touch your shoulder then pulls back at the last second, knowing where you are and who might walk by.
Instead, he slips his hand into his own pocket and stands beside you, looking out the window like he’s trying to see things the way you do.
“Your dad doesn’t like me,” he says, half a sigh, half a smirk. “And I don’t really blame him, I got that vibe.”
You let out a small dry laugh. He bumps his elbow gently into your arm.
“For what it’s worth,” he murmurs, “I’m not trying to make your life harder.”
You swallow. Your throat hurts. “I know.”
“And I’m not playing you.”
That makes your chest tighten. You look at him just a little your eyes swollen, lashes still wet. He looks back, and there’s no teasing in his face. No smirk. No games. Just him.
“You can be mad at me later,” he says softly. “Or tell me to screw off. Or ignore me for a week. Whatever.” He shrugs gently. “But don’t sit here thinking I don’t care.”
Before you can answer, someone shouts from the far end of the hall:
“FORMATION IN FIVE!”
You both stiffen.
Slovák steps back, hands behind his back like nothing happened.
But before he leaves, he leans close, close enough for you to feel his breath near your ear.
“You don’t have to face everything alone,” he murmurs. “Even if you think you do.” Then he walks off, boots echoing away.
You sit there sighing to yourself. An hour or so later you finally make your way back to your bunk, sneaking under your covers. You curl up into a ball and close your eyes tightly.
At least tomorrow is an off day, you say to yourself.
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my smut account: @kazerine xx
NOTES - this one is loooooong, please lmk if you guys prefer longer or shorter chapters! also i’m feeling better, so that’s good, i hope your guys’ week is going well! thank you soso much for the support. xx
You wake up wrong. Too warm, too tucked in, and straight on your back. Your eyes open slowly, the ceiling coming into focus. For a moment you lie there, trying to retrace the night, the window, quiet, writing, drifting, and the moment you can’t remember climbing into your bunk, something uneasy stirs in your stomach.
Someone moved you.
You sit up quickly, covers falling away. The dorm is dim in the pale morning light, boots scraping somewhere in the hall, soft curses from people waking up too early.
Your hand moves automatically beneath your pillow.
Nothing.
Your chest tightens. You search again, harder, but still nothing.
You check under your mattress, your backup hiding place. Again, nothing.
Your notebook is gone.
Your pulse picks up, shallow breaths slipping in too fast. You crouch, check under the bed frame, between the wall and mattress, even the floor around your bunk.
It’s nowhere.
It’s just gone.
You stand, scanning the room until your eyes land on McAffey, still half-asleep in his bunk, hair messy, one arm thrown over his chest like he’s protecting himself from the morning.
You walk to him before you can think.
“McAffey,” you whisper, nudging the edge of his mattress. “Hey, McAffey.”
His eyes flutter open, slow at first and then sharper when he realizes it’s you. “Alvar?” His voice is rough from sleep, surprisingly still soft. “Yeah?”
You swallow. “Did you, uh, did you see my notebook? The pale yellow one, with a,” You pause for a second, embarrassed, “with a Curious George sticker on the spine?”
He smiles a bit, processing. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice shifts into something smoother, something just a little too warm. “Yeah, I grabbed it last night.”
He pushes himself up on his elbows, looking at you through sleep-heavy eyes and a half-smile that feels too gentle for this place.
“You were passed out by the window after our conversation,” he says. “Like, really out. I didn’t want to leave your stuff there.”
You try to breathe normally, but it doesn’t work.
“So I put it under your jacket,” he continues, nodding toward your bunk. “The one you left on your ‘keepers’ box. Figured you’d see it in the morning.”
He sits up a little more, watching your face closely, his lips pulling into something like a smirk, soft, amused, and almost flirty in that lazy-morning kind of way.
“You’re cute when you’re panicking,” he murmurs, teasing but quiet enough that only you hear.
Heat rises in your chest, embarrassment, and something else you refuse to name. You don’t answer him because you can’t shake the question chewing at your ribs,
Did he read it?
He sees your expression shift and tilts his head.
“Hey.” His voice dips low. “Relax. It’s safe.”
You force your voice out. “You didn’t move it back to my bed?”
He shakes his head with a shrug. “Didn’t want to wake you. You looked comfortable.”
That tone again, light, warm, and still border on flirting. The kind that makes you more suspicious.
Your fingers curl into your palm until you feel the faint sting of crescent marks. Because he’s being calm. Too calm. Too smooth. Like he’s hiding something. Or like he knows exactly what kind of secrets you keep in that notebook.
You swallow hard.
Because in that notebook is everything, your thoughts about McAffey, your thoughts about Slovacek. The things you don’t say and the things you don’t admit. Years of you and your life drawn in led and graphite.
If he opened it, even just a page,
You’d rather not finish that thought.
He notices your silence and his smile softens, turning into something almost sincere. “Alvar,” he says quietly, “I didn’t mess with it. I just kept it from getting lost.”
You want to believe him, but you don’t.
Because you can’t tell, you can’t read his eyes, you can’t tell if he’s being sweet or if he’s being clever. And not knowing is worse than anything written in your notebook.
You walk back to your bunk with your pulse still too high, McAffey’s voice still brushing at the back of your mind.
Under your jacket.
He put it under your jacket.
You lift the jacket carefully, hands tense. And sure enough, there it is. Your notebook. Right where he said.
You snatch it up immediately, fingers running along the familiar worn edges. It looks untouched at first glance. Same weight, same feel, same smudged corner where a pen once leaked on the cover.
But you still open it.
You flip through page by page, fast but careful, checking everything even though your hands tremble. Words, drawings, fold lines that were never meant to be folded because you never bend your pages, and then you see it.
One page. The page where you wrote about Slovacek and McAffey. How different they make you feel, How one steadies you and the other confuses you.
The corner of that page is slightly dented. Barely enough for anyone else to notice.
But you?
You treat this notebook like a spine. You know every angle, every scrape, every crease it should have. And this crease shouldn’t be there. Your fingers pause on the dent like touching a bruise.
You fix it with one smooth stroke, trying to press the paper flat again, as if you can erase the possibility of someone else’s fingerprints on it.
It doesn’t work.
But you put the notebook back under your pillow anyway, it’s normal place and crawl into bed even though the sun is already starting to rise outside. You lie down stiffly, staring at the slats of the bunk above you, where Slovacek is.
You close your eyes.
You don’t fall fully asleep, your mind won’t let you, but you drift just enough that the next thing you hear is,
“Up! Everybody up!”
Boots thunder on the floor.
You jolt upright.
A new drill instructor’s voice cuts through the room. “On the ground! Let’s go! Morning drills before hygiene!”
You slide out of bed with everyone else, muscles still stiff, body still not caught up to your mind. You drop to the floor, palms flat, and start the push-ups they count off.
Your pulse hammers with each one.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Next are crunches. Then planks and running in place. Then they make you stand at attention at the end of your bunks, breathing heavy, sweat sticking your shirt to your back.
“Showers!” someone yells.
Chaos erupts.
Everyone rushes toward the showers, shoving, swearing, sliding on the tile. You grab your towel, your toiletries, move with the crowd before someone calls your name and asks why you’re moving slow.
You hurry and turn on the water, letting the heat hit your shoulders while everyone is yelling at you to hurry up.
The dent comes back to your mind. Every time you blink, you see it. You hurry showering and dress fast, pulling on your uniform with hands that won’t stop tapping a leftover tremor from not knowing who looked, if someone looked, or if you’re losing your mind enough to doubt your own memory.
—
The dining hall is loud already. Metal trays, slamming chairs, morning voices bouncing off the walls. The line moves fast.
You grab a tray, try to breathe, and try to act normal. But your notebook feels heavier than ever under your pillow, like every word inside it suddenly matters in a way it never has before.
You sit down with Santos and Cope the way you have been lately, same table, same corner, same half-routine that formed so quietly you didn’t notice it until now.
Cope yawns into his orange juice and Santos pokes at his eggs.
“Morning, Alvar,” Cope mumbles, still blinking himself awake.
You crack a small smile. “Morning.”
Santos lifts his chin at you in greeting. “You look wiped.”
“I woke up weird,” you say. It’s the safest truth.
Santos snorts. “Everyone does. They don’t give us enough hours to look human.”
You force a breath that almost counts as a laugh.
Across the dining hall, you notice McAffey.
He’s sitting at the far table with people you don’t know well, some support guys. He’s laughing at something someone said, leaning back casually like nothing in the world is wrong.
He doesn’t look at you.
Not once.
You feel the tiniest pinch in your chest, and you push your spoon through your food just so you have something to do with your hands.
Cope follows your gaze for a second, but thankfully doesn’t say anything.
The conversation drifts, Santos complaining about laundry duty, Cope telling a story about someone dropping their rifle on their own foot last week. You nod when you need to, speak when you should, but your mind keeps circling the dented notebook page under your pillow.
Eventually you stand up.
“I’m gonna refill my water,” you say, holding your bottle.
Cope nods. “Bring me back with you. For moral support.”
“No,” Santos says. “She’s fine. She’s a grown adult going to a water dispenser.”
Cope flips him off.
You laugh and walk off.
The refill station is tucked near the corner of the room, where the tables shift from quiet clusters to louder, more jock-type groups. Sitting right there, at the end of one of those tables, are the Bowman brothers, Cody and John, also Nash with Slovacek.
Great.
You keep your eyes down and start filling your bottle, the machine humming.
“Morning, Alvar.”
Slovacek’s voice is low, calm, like he’s been waiting for you to walk by.
You look up just long enough to meet his eyes. He’s leaning forward on the table, forearms crossed, watching you in that measured, unreadable way he always does. Nash gives you a small nod.
“Good morning,” you reply, keeping it simple.
You twist the cap back on your bottle.
Slovacek’s eyes flick down to it, then back up to you. “Hydrate,” he says mildly. “It’s gonna be a long day.”
You don’t know why that comment hits differently, but it does, your pulse ticks higher, and you clear your throat.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “See you guys later.”
You don’t linger.
You don’t trust yourself to.
You turn and head back toward your table, the stare between your shoulder blades fading only after you’re halfway across the room.
As soon as you sit, Santos lifts a brow. “What took so long?”
“Nothing,” you say, picking up your fork again. “Slovacek and Nash were sitting by the water station.”
Cope’s whole expression changes. “Ohhh. And?”
“Nothing,” you repeat. “He just said good morning.”
Santos leans back like he’s watching a movie. “Mhm.”
“Seriously,” you insist. “It wasn’t anything.”
But they’re already exchanging looks, the kind that say they don’t believe a word you’ve just said.
Cope leans his elbows on the table. “Was he staring? He’s always staring.”
“He wasn’t staring.”
“He was staring,” Santos says confidently.
You huff, trying not to smile at how annoying they are. “I hate you both.”
“Love you too,” Cope chirps.
The conversation drifts again, but the air between you feels different, charged, curious, and nosy in the way only friends can be.
Eventually you finish eating.
You stand and grab your tray. Cope stands too, bringing his with him. The trash cans are near the entrance, where foot traffic gets messy. You’re scraping your leftovers into the bin when you notice someone to your right.
Ochoa.
He’s usually quiet, unless he’s hanging around Bowman or Nash, but today he looks like he’s been waiting for a moment to talk to you.
“Hey, Alvar,” Ochoa says, stepping a little closer. “Can I ask you something?”
You blink. “Uh, yeah?”
He scratches the back of his neck, awkward but trying. “So, uh, someone said something about you and, I dunno, McAffey? And Slovacek? Like,” He shrugs. “Like you had something going on with both of them?”
Your chest goes cold.
“Who told you that?” you ask way too fast.
Ochoa raises his palms a little. “I don’t know. I just heard stuff floating around. Maybe someone’s messing with you. I just thought maybe you’d want to know.”
You stare at him.
Because Ochoa doesn’t know you. Not well enough to bring something like this up or well enough to care.
Which means someone told him something.
Something specific.
Something from somewhere he shouldn’t know.
Ochoa frowns a little. “You good?”
You force your expression smooth. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“Okay.” He nods. “If you need someone to tell people to knock it off, I can do that.”
You smile softly. “Thanks.”
He shrugs and tosses his tray. “See you.”
You watch him walk away and you feel your heartbeat in your throat.
Cope had stepped back to give you privacy. “You good?”
You nod and walk back to the table in silence.
—
Mid-day drills always suck. You’re already tired, already sweaty, and already regretting every choice that led you here when the platoon gets sent out for a few miles. You fall into your usual pace, not slow, not fast, just “I won’t die if I keep this up.”
You’re zoning out when footsteps approach from behind, steady and confident. You know that cadence, it’s Slovacek.
He edges up beside you with that easy, effortless stride, looking annoyingly perfect for someone who’s also running in the heat.
He glances over at you, eyes flicking up and down like he’s checking your form, but there’s definitely a silent “Hi” in the look.
“You always run like you’re late to something,” he says lightly teasing.
You scoff, in a nice way. “And you run like you’re trying to win a medal nobody asked for.”
“Ouch.” He pretend pouts, and it’s adorable. “You hurt me.”
“Good,” you say, but you’re smiling, and he sees it.
For a minute you just run together, and it’s nice. His shoulder stays a comfortable distance from yours, but every so often your steps line up perfectly, and the rhythm makes your heartbeat feel louder than it should.
He looks over again, this time a little longer. “You always this serious when you run?”
“I’m trying to survive,” you say. “Kind of important.”
He laughs, a low warm sound that makes you lose your breath for a second. “Relax, sunshine. I got you.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, you’ve got me?”
“Obviously.” He grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
It’s flirting, like actual flirting. And it feels fun. Until he ruins your entire life three minutes later.
He wipes his forehead with his sleeve, sniffing lightly. “Hey, do I smell weird to you?”
You frown. “No? Why?”
He shrugs, casual, but there’s a spark in his eye. “I don’t know. Thought maybe I smelled like Marlboro Reds or something.”
Your stomach drops, and your feet almost stop. Because that’s word-for-word what you wrote in the one page with the dented corner.
He watches your reaction just long enough long enough to know he hit something. Then he smirks, slow and sharp, like he’s savoring the chaos he just planted in your head.
“Well,” he says, voice smooth as he picks up his pace, “guess not.”
And then he speeds up. Just like that. Leaves you behind with that smirk still burning in your mind. You hate how flustered you feel. How obvious it probably was. You finish mile three with your heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with running.
At the water station, you grab a cup and lean your head against the fence for a second, trying to cool your face down. That’s when Cope jogs over, wiping sweat off his forehead.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” he says.
You force a breath out. “I almost did.”
“Was it Slovacek?” he guesses immediately.
You stare at him. “How did you,”
He cuts you off. “He jogged past us wearing that stupid smirk he gets when he’s messing with someone. Figured you were the victim.”
You bury your face deeper into the fence. Before you can even begin to process any of it, Drill Sergeant McKinnon blows the whistle again.
“Back up, let’s move! Two more miles!”
Cope groans next to you. “Yeah. Definitely a disaster.”
—
Dinner smells questionable. The whole cafeteria is split between two options, neither of which should legally be called food.
Option one, A hot dog that looks like it was boiled in dishwater, green beans that squeak when you chew them, a carton of milk, and beans. More beans. Bean redundancy.
Option two, A grilled cheese rumored to be made of plastic, mashed potatoes with the consistency of spackle, tomato soup that looks like someone whispered “tomato” near warm water, and your holy grail, apple sauce.
You don’t even hesitate to pick the grilled cheese tray solely for the apple sauce. Survival instincts. You turn toward your usual table, holding the tray carefully, when you have to pass by their table, this time with Ochoa.
Nash spots your tray immediately, eyes widening like he just found treasure. “Hey, HEY! Y/N, PLEASE” He practically jumps out of his seat. “I will literally give you my next three desserts, my pillow, and my firstborn if you give me that grilled cheese.”
You blink. “It’s plastic.”
“I don’t care.” He gestures desperately. “Please. Please. PLEASE.”
You sigh because he looks like he hasn’t eaten in four days. “Fine, but only if I get to use your pillow for a whenever I want and your next three desserts.”
Nash snatches the grilled cheese and most of your tray like he’s been rescued from starvation. The Bowmans laugh. Slovacek just leans back, arms folded, and he’s chuckling softly.
You grab the one thing you actually cared about, the apple sauce and hold it to your chest like it’s priceless.
Ochoa points at the empty spot beside him. “Sit with us,” he says, friendly, casual, but not casual enough that it doesn’t make your nerves twitch. “We’ve got space.”
Your fingers tighten around the applesauce cup. “Let me, uh, talk to my friends first.”
“Yeah,” he says with a nod, “go ahead.”
You quickly walk to your tiny four-person table where Santos is stabbing his mashed potatoes, and Cope is pulling the crusts off his hot dog bun for reasons unknown.
“Okay guys,” you say, sitting hard. “Why do you think Ochoa wants me to sit with them?”
Santos immediately leans in, grinning. “Because he likes you.”
Cope shakes his head. “No. Because Slovacek told him something.”
You stare at them. “That somehow does not make me feel better.”
Santos shrugs. “Or maybe they just want more of your food.”
“Or maybe,” Cope adds, nudging your arm with a smirk, “they just like having you around.”
You groan and drop your forehead to the table.
Santos taps your shoulder. “Go.”
You lift your head. “What?”
“Go sit with them,” he repeats. “You wanna know, don’t you?”
Cope nods. “Yeah. Go. It’s not like they’re gonna bite you.”
You stare. “That’s exactly the kind of thing someone says right before something terrible happens.”
“Still,” Santos says, pointing toward their table, “go.”
You take a breath and walk back toward their table with your single precious cup of applesauce. Nash looks up first, with your grilled cheese hanging out of his mouth like a reward he personally earned.
Ochoa grins and scoots over, patting the space beside him. “C’mon. Sit.”
You do.
It’s weirdly quiet for half a second not awkward, just the kind of pause where everyone shifts to make room for you like it’s normal.
You set your applesauce down. Then realize you don’t have a spoon.
Of course.
You glance at Nash. “Hey, do you have an extra spoon?”
He holds up his only one, it’s already halfway in a bowl of tomato soup that looks like it’s eating him back.
“Nope. This one’s taken, sorry sweetheart.”
You blink at the nickname, but Nash is too busy inhaling your grilled cheese to notice what he even said. Before you can think of a plan, Slovacek moves beside you.
He finishes the last bite of his mashed potatoes, spoon dragging slow across the bottom of his tray. Then he brings the spoon to his mouth, flicking his eyes up just enough that the motion feels deliberate, and licks it clean, slow, thorough, and lazy.
You freeze, wishing you avoided eye contact earlier. Then he casually holds it out to you by the handle, the slightest smirk ghosting across his mouth.
“Here,” he says, like it’s nothing.
Like it isn’t weird or intimate. Your fingers brush his when you take it, making it feel even more intimate.
You look down quickly, peeling back the foil lid of your applesauce, trying to act like this is fine and normal and not melting your brain.
You scoop the first spoonful.
And you can feel him watching you.
There’s a weight to it, enough that it makes you eat slower, like he’s tracking every tiny movement of your hand, every lift of the spoon, every quiet little breath you take.
Slovacek still hasn’t looked away.
You’re trying your hardest to pretend he isn’t watching you eat applesauce with his spoon, the one he’d just licked clean, but every slow scrape of the spoon against the cup pulls his eyes back to your mouth like gravity.
Everyone else eventually drifts back into their own conversations. It’s almost a relief.
Almost.
Cody Bowman leans forward, elbows on the table. “So, Alvar,” he says, curious but gentle, “what’s it like having the head sergeant as your dad? Is he the same off-duty as he is on?”
Nash snorts. “Bro, please. Her dad looks like he sleeps standing at attention.”
Ochoa laughs. “Bet the guy does room inspections at home too.”
They laugh, thinking they’re being funny. They don’t know they’re poking bruises. Your grip tightens on the applesauce cup, not enough to show, but enough to feel that quiet pinch in your palm.
You force a small shrug. “He’s always been strict. That’s just how he is.”
Nash keeps going, oblivious. “Strict? Man, he looks like the type who’d ground you for breathing wrong.”
Cody winces at Nash’s bluntness. “Nash, dude,”
“No, I mean it,” Nash insists, laughing. “Like, I’d be scared to even look at him the wrong way.”
Ochoa joins in. “I’m scared to look at him now.”
A soft, uncomfortable heat creeps up your neck. You keep your eyes down, pushing a little applesauce around with the spoon.
And that’s when he speaks. “Hey.” He says softly, “You don’t have to sit here listening to dudes who don’t know shit about him or you.”
Your head lifts a little. You take another bite of applesauce just to do something with your hands. His smirk curling back up, slow and crooked.
—
They dismiss everyone for an hour of free time, and the whole platoon scatters, some to shower, some to nap, some to hover around the common room pretending they’re not exhausted.
You slip back into the barracks, the lights dimmed to that bluish evening glow. A couple guys are already there. Cope sitting on his bunk tying clean boots, Cody Bowman writing a letter at his desk, and McAffey leaning back against the wall near your bed.
You don’t think anything of it at first. You head straight for your pillow, reaching underneath for your notebook.
“Hey. Wait.” McAffey’s voice stops you cold.
You turn slowly.
He’s still leaning against the wall, arms folded now, foot pressed against the metal frame of his bunk. He looks weirdly nervous. And somehow smug. A mix you’ve never seen on him before.
“What?” you ask, guarded.
He pushes off the wall, taking a step closer. “I wanted to ask you something.”
Your stomach drops.
“What is it?”
He hesitates, for half a second, “I saw what you wrote about me.”
Everything inside you freezes. Your breath. Your hands. Your pulse. “What?” It barely comes out.
He nods once, jaw shifting like he’s trying to read your face. “Last night. When you fell asleep by the window.” He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish but not ashamed. “I carried you back. And your notebook was just there so, I picked it up.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “And you opened it?” Your voice comes out sharp, even though you don’t mean it to be.
McAffey’s eyes widen a little at your tone. “I, look, I didn’t mean to,”
“You didn’t mean to? But you still looked.” You can feel heat rising up your neck, panic mixed with humiliation boiling beneath your skin.
He steps forward again, lowering his voice. “I only saw one page.”
“That’s one page too many,” you snap before you can stop yourself.
The room goes quiet. Cope looks up for a second but immediately pretends to go back to tying his boots, clearly picking up on the tension.
McAffey lifts both hands slightly. “I wasn’t trying to snoop, okay? It fell open. And,” he swallows “my name was right there.”
That does not make you feel better. “Doesn’t matter,” you mutter.
“Yes, it does.” He says it softly, but it lands hard.
You turn away from him, grab your notebook from under the pillow, hold it tight to your chest like a shield.“Do you have any idea how personal this is?” Your voice cracks, not with tears, but with the effort of holding everything together.
McAffey’s face changes, guilt replacing whatever teasing edge he might’ve walked in with.
“No,” he admits. “I didn’t. Not until I saw how much you freaked out.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry. Really.”
You don’t answer. He steps closer anyway, not touching you. “I didn’t tell anyone,” he adds quietly. “I swear.”
Your eyes flick up to his, searching for any hint of a lie. You know he’s lying because there’s no way Slovacek said what he said earlier without not knowing about your notebook.
“I’m mad,” you whisper, jaw tight.
“I know,” he says. “You should be.”
That surprises you.
McAffey hesitates then steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to confess something he shouldn’t. He rubs the back of his neck, looking everywhere but your face, like he’s replaying the page in his head.
“You wrote,” He swallows. “You wrote that I’m ‘surprisingly cute for how smart he is, the dumb ones are usually cuter.’”
You curl your fingers into your palms.
“And that I’m ‘accidentally nice in a way that makes it worse.’” His lips twitch, like he’s resisting a smile. “Whatever that means.”
You cover your face with your hand. He keeps going, because apparently he has no mercy,
“You said I confuse you. That you can’t tell if I’m flirting or just nice. And that you hate how you think about it after. And how you check for me when you walk into a room.”
Your entire soul leaves your body.
But then he glances at your notebook again, and his tone shifts, lighter, almost amused.
“And uh, you didn’t exactly stop there.” He raises an eyebrow. “You wrote that I have a good smile. And nice hands,”
“Okay, stop.”
He doesn’t.
“And that you think I’d be a good kisser.”
You practically choke on air.
He lifts both hands like he’s surrendering. “Hey. Your words, not mine.”
You want to die.
But then he saves himself. He gestures vaguely toward the notebook and adds with a shrug, “And just so you know I saw the things you said about Slovacek too.”
You blink. “What?”
He nods way too innocently. “Oh yeah. He had, like half a paragraph.”
Your stomach drops.
Did he read that part too?
“What did it say?” you whisper, terrified.
McAffey presses his lips together, trying not to smile.
“Uh let’s see.” He acts like he’s thinking. “Something like ‘Slovacek is always teasing me, but it’s not mean. And he’s protective in a weird way. And he’s pretty, like pretty-hot.’”
You groan. He absolutely made up the “pretty” part.
“And here I was thinking I was special,” he adds dramatically, hand over his heart.
You glare at him. “You’re lying.”
He gasps. “Me? Never.”
“So you didn’t read the Slovacek part?”
“Oh, I definitely saw his name.” He smirks as he walks away.
“Shit” you mutter to yourself.
—
You spend the rest of your day re-reading your whole notebook and dying of embarrassment until lights out starts. You start your usual stretch routine before bed and Slovacek joins.
“Y’know, this honestly feels good, I understand why you do it now.” He says while stretching and with his back turned to you. “Tomorrow’s a tough day, let’s pair up.”
He climbs up to his bunk before you can answer.
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my smut account: @kazerine xx
NOTES - very short & quick chapter i wrote because i feel like my last one sucked and you guys deserve more! - don’t worry the next chapter will be long & more flirting w/ slovacek. 😛 thank you for being so patient with me. xx
You’re still sitting by the window, body curled inward, breath shallow. Your nails dig into your palms hard enough to bleed and your teeth are pressing into your lip until you taste metal, but your eyes stay locked on the glass, unfocused, staring at the warped reflection of yourself instead of the night outside.
You don’t even realize how long you’ve been sitting that way. You don’t hear the footsteps. Not until they stop right beside you.
“Hey.”
It’s soft, and it’s McAffey. You don’t look at him, you can’t. You keep your gaze on the window, fingers curling tighter until your knuckles ache.
“Alvar?” he tries again, quieter this time, like he’s afraid to make you flinch.
You still don’t turn. The room is dim, shadows pooling around the corners, and all you can see is your own faint silhouette hunched over, rigid, and trembling just enough that someone paying attention would notice.
And he is noticing.
McAffey steps a little closer, slow and steady, like approaching a spooked animal.
“What happened?” he asks, voice low, warm, not pushing, but not leaving either.
Your breath shakes in your chest. You don’t answer, you only feel your palms throbbing under your nails.
He notices that too.
He kneels down, not touching or crowding you, just settling into your line of sight, still giving you the window if you need it.
“Hey,” he says gently. “You’re hurting yourself.”
You swallow but don’t unclench your hands.
McAffey hesitates then extends his hand, palm up, between your knees and your chest, not forcing you, but instead just offering.
“Let go,” he murmurs. “At least a little. Please.”
You still can’t look at him, but your fingers twitch and very slowly, you loosen your grip. Your nails lift from your palms, leaving small crescent marks with little blood coming out of some.
You exhale shakily, the sound almost a choke and McAffey’s eyes soften.
“Whatever happened,” he murmurs, reading more than you told him, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”
You shake your head quickly, too quickly, staring even harder at the glass, lip caught between your teeth again.
McAffey reaches up slow, cautious, and with just the side of one finger, gently nudges your chin so you stop biting down on your lip.
“Don’t do that,” he whispers. “It’s gonna bleed.”
He pulls his hand back immediately, like he’s terrified of crossing a line, but the worry stays in his eyes. You finally look at him, just for a second. He freezes, like the sight of your eyes does something to him.
Then he hops on the window ledge and sits across from you, his legs stretched out in front of you
“I’ll sit here,” he says quietly. “No talking needed. Just don’t hurt yourself, yeah?”
You stare at him confused and overwhelmed. And you finally breathe and speak. Your voice is thin, barely there. “I’m not hurting myself.”
He turns his head a little, brows pulling together. He takes your left hand and opens it up, seeing the dried up blood and crescent marks. You take your hand back and curl it.
“It’s not,” you start, then stop. You shake your head. “It’s not hurting. I just do that sometimes.”
And it’s true, the pressure calms you, or at least it used to.
No one has ever caught you doing it, not like this. You’re embarrassed and the thought of McAffey telling someone else about this makes something twist in your chest.
And then suddenly,
you miss Slovacek.
The way he watched you without acting like he was watching. How he stayed close but didn’t crowd you. How he saw things even when you didn’t want him to.
You swallow once, twice, your throat tight.
McAffey notices the shift instantly. His voice comes soft, careful. “Alvar, what’s going on?”
You look away from him, back at the glass, back at your blurred reflection. “It’s nothing,” you whisper.
It’s not nothing. It’s missing someone you’re trying very hard not to miss. It’s wanting his presence and touch. It’s wishing it had been Slovacek who found you instead of McAffey. The way he would’ve crouched low, not saying a word at first, just waiting until you were ready.
Your nails gently press into your palm again. Not deep like before, but enough that it feels familiar and comforting.
You shut your eyes.
McAffey watches you, jaw shifting slightly, like he wants to ask more but your posture tells him not to push.
“You don’t,” he pauses, “you don’t look fine,” he murmurs.
You almost laugh, a short, humorless exhale. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I know.”
You just keep thinking about Slovacek, he would’ve known what this meant without asking. He would’ve known why you were doing it. And he would’ve known how to help you stop. The thought makes your chest ache.
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my smut account: @kazerine xx
CHAPTER - seven, love triangle, pool, & more hicks
POV - second person point of view
NOTES - thank you so much for all the kind comments and support on my last post, it meant the world to me! also, i’m so very sorry for not posting recently, i have not been well these past few days. i think i have a sinus lol. - anyway, i hope this chapter will keep you all entertained until i fix whatever is going on with me, i apologize in advance if there are any spelling mistakes. 🥲 as always please lmk if you guys want to see anything specific. i love&appreciate the feedback you all give me so much you don’t understand! it helps me a lot. 🥹 (🚨FYI🚨, this is continuing off the the last chapter, the next chapter will most likely continue off of this one as well.) stay safe luvies! xx
After dinner, everyone drifts toward the rec room like gravity pulled them there. The overhead lights buzz, music hums faintly from a cheap speaker, and the air smells like floor cleaner and men’s deodorant.
The pool table is already half-set, Nash’s doing. He’s racking the balls with too much enthusiasm like he’s preparing for a championship match.
“Alvar!” he calls. “Come play before Santos ruins the rules again.”
“You said the cue ball was an emotional support ball,” Nash fires back.
Ochoa cackles so loudly someone shushes him.
McAffey leans on a cue stick, spinning it like he was born holding one. “Let her pick teams before you two break up.”
Behind them, the Bowman twins lounge on the couch, arguing over which one of them would survive longer in the wilderness. Cody keeps saying “me,” John keeps saying “you’re delusional,” and it’s shockingly on brand.
And then there’s Slovacek, he’s not playing or talking, instead he’s just leaning against the pillar near the far side of the pool table, arms crossed, pretending he’s not listening.
The kind of pretending that means he absolutely is.
—
Santos tosses you a cue.
“Alvar’s with me,” he declares.
“No shot,” Nash says. “She’s obviously good. She’s on my team.”
Ochoa points his cue at you like a wand. “We let her choose or I start singing.”
“Let her choose,” everyone says at once.
You almost glance at Slovacek, almost, but stop yourself.
“Santos,” you say.
“Fuck yeah!,” Santos cheers. “Let’s embarrass these clowns.”
Nash groans. “Fake loyalty. I see it.”
The game starts. Santos breaks badly. Balls scatter everywhere but none fall in.
Ochoa gasps. “That was honestly impressive, for you”
“You inspire me,” Santos says.
The Bowmans laugh from the couch. Cody’s clapping politely. John’s shaking his head like he’s witnessing a tragedy.
McAffey steps behind you as you take your place at the table. “Your grip,” he murmurs, gently brushing his hand over your fingers on the cue, “keep it looser. You’re over-correcting.”
The touch is light and barely there, but it’s deliberate.
You adjust, exhale, line up your shot,
clack
The ball sinks cleanly.
Nash slaps the table. “I REFUSE. I DENY REALITY.”
Santos screams triumphantly.
McAffey grins at you softly and amused before stepping back.
And then you feel it, someone’s eyes still on you.
Watching the way McAffey touched your hand.
Watching the way you move.
Watching everything.
He looks away the second your eyes meet. But not fast enough.
—
Later, Ochoa’s yelling about angles, Santos is doing victory laps around the table even though you’re not technically winning yet, and Nash is threatening to ban cue chalk if it doesn’t “start respecting him as a player.”
In the background, John Bowman is loudly explaining why “Cody’s legs would be eaten by wolves first,” to which Cody responds, “They’re too big to eat, idiot.”
You take another shot and it’s another perfect sink.
Nash slams his cue down. “bullshit!”
Santos throws his head back dramatically and laughs. “bow down to our supremacy!”
McAffey laughs, stepping close again. “You’re good. But don’t tell Santos. His ego can’t handle it.”
He nudges your elbow subtlety and playful. You step past him to move around the table and your elbow accidentally brushes slovacek who’s behind you. He was closer than you thought. You don’t look at him though, at least not directly, but you feel heat crawl up the back of your neck.
You line up your next shot. McAffey steps behind you again to check your aim. He doesn’t touch you fully this time, instead his knuckles graze your wrist. And through all the noise in the room, all the trash talk, all the chaotic energy, you still feel one specific stare.
A flicker of something crosses his face, but he looks away before you can fully catch it.
—
The ball drops effortlessly into the pocket.
“Holy hell,” Nash groans. “this is a fucking nightmare.”
Ochoa is cheering. Santos is dancing. Cody is hyping you up from the couch. John is yelling at him for hyping you up.
And Slovacek, he’s looking at you again. A weird look this time, like he’s trying to figure out what exactly he’s feeling and how to stop it.
You don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.
Instead, you chalk your cue. “Next round?”
The chaos from your win is still echoing around the rec room when a quiet voice cuts through it from behind you.
“Alvar.”
You turn.
Slovacek is standing just a few steps back from the table now, not leaned against the pillar anymore. He must’ve moved while everyone else was celebrating. His arms are still folded, but his expression is softer than it was a minute ago, or maybe you just know how to read it now.
He nods toward the table. “Play me.”
Santos gasps jokingly like someone proposed marriage. Nash clutches his chest dramatically. Ochoa whispers, “Drama,” like he’s narrating a nature documentary.
You blink at Slovacek and lift your cue slowly. “Alright,” you say. “Sure.”
A flicker, maybe satisfaction, passes over his face.
McAffey is standing on your right, cue balanced against his shoulder. His easy grin falters just enough to be noticeable.
Slovacek steps closer. Not too close, but just close enough that you feel the heat of him, the weight of his attention.
“You break,” he says.
“You scared to?” you shoot back.
He blinks. “No,” he says quietly, “just curious how you’ll handle it.”
McAffey’s brows lift. Nash whispers, “Oh he’s good.” You try not to react, but your pulse jumps anyway.
You step up to break. As you lean over the table, Slovacek moves around to the other side, circling you, slow, reading your stance, and he’s also definitely checking you out.
You break. It’s not perfect, but solid enough.
Slovacek hums. “Not bad.”
“Not great,” you counter.
He meets your eyes over the table edge. “Let me see your aim.”
Before you can ask what he means, he steps in behind you and you can feel the air shift.
“Your shoulders are too tight,” he says quietly.
You take a deep breath.
McAffey is still watching from the side of the table, cue still in his hand, jaw slightly tense. He tries to look casual, but it’s not working. He’s locked on the way Slovacek stands behind you, on the way your shoulders react, on the way Slovacek’s voice drops just for you.
You adjust your stance.
Slovacek nods once. “Better.”
You shoot and the ball sinks.
Nash screams. “No fucking fair!”
Santos whispers, “I’m scared.”
McAffey’s voice finally slides in low, aimed at Slovacek without looking at him, “She’s been hitting perfect shots all night. Must be the coaching she’s been getting.”
Slovacek looks up at McAffey with a tiny smirk on his face, like he’s amused. He understands the jab McAffey just gave him, but it doesn’t seem to matter to him too much.
Then he turns back to you. “You’re good,” he says. “Even better when you’re not trying to pretend you’re not.”
It hits harder than it should. “Funny,” you say. “Didn’t realize you were paying that much attention.”
Slovacek’s lips tilt, not a smile, but the ghost of one. “I notice what I need to,” he murmurs.
He steps aside to take his shot. He brushes past you lightly, intentionally.
He sinks the shot effortlessly.
“Your turn,” he says softly.
McAffey watches you walk past him to the table, eyes following a little too long.
Santos leans into Nash and whispers loudly, “Am I crazy or are we totally witnessing a love triangle?”
Nash whispers back, “We are. I’m scared.”
You step up to take your next shot, the room buzzing, eyes on you, tension thick and humming.
Slovacek watches you.
McAffey watches him watch you.
You’re about to take your shot, until,
BANG.
The rec-room door slams open so hard the wall rattles.
And in stumbles Hicks.
Of course it’s Hicks.
He’s holding a twelve-pack and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s like it’s a newborn child, his grin way too big for someone who definitely stole that from somewhere.
“Good evening, m’lady,” he pretends to bow down. “and you degenerates,” he announces.
Nash groans. “Oh my jesus.”
Santos mutters, “Here we go.”
McAffey rubs his forehead, already over it.
Slovacek just breathes out, long and slow.
Hicks sees you first, of course he does, and his eyes widen like he’s found treasure.
“ALVAR!” he beams. “I brought refreshments. For morale. For team spirit. For the vibes. You want one?”
“I’m.. good.” You say knowing how much trouble everyone would be in if they got caught.
Hicks nods as if you said yes. “Okay, cool, maybe later.”
Everyone immediately swarms him, trying to grab the beers away, Nash yelling, McAffey lecturing, Ochoa wrestling him, the Bowman twins chanting “CHUG” at full volume.
And that is your escape window. You quietly slide your cue onto the table and slip out the room as quickly as you could.
Slovacek’s eyes flick to you for half a second, just enough to notice you slipping away, but Hicks launches into a full volume rant about “beer rights,” and Slovacek has to look away before Hicks gets himself killed.
—
Down the hall, past the echoing noise, the lights dimmer and quieter, until you find the small window near the end of the barracks hallway, your usual writing spot. You sit, knees pulled up, and the notebook you hide between the open, messed up walls sometimes is now propped across your lap.
Finally quiet.
You start writing, not sure what at first, maybe thoughts, maybe nothing, just letting your hand move to settle your heartbeat.
Minutes pass.
Then footsteps.
Soft ones.
Not heavy like Hicks.
Not steady like Slovacek.
Not long like McAffey.
These are light, quick, and more familiar.
Santos.
He appears at the end of the hallway, hands in his pockets, chest still heaving slightly like he ran from the rec-room.
“There you are,” he says, walking toward you. “I knew you dipped.”
You close your notebook halfway. “Hicks showed up with contraband. Pretty good motivation.”
Santos laughs, rubbing his hand over his face. “He tried to give McAffey a beer. McAffey looked like he aged ten years.”
You smile. “Sounds about right.”
He leans his shoulder against the wall beside the window, eyes drifting to your notebook.
“You writing?”
“A little.”
He nods, quiet for a moment. Then, “You okay?” His voice is gentle not pushing, just checking. Like he noticed more than he let on during pool.
You shrug lightly. “Just needed a break.”
“From Hicks?”
“From everyone.”
He breathes out a small laugh through his nose. “Yeah. That room was getting,” He pauses. “intense.”
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
Then Santos nudges your knee with two fingers, barely a touch, but enough to get your attention.
“Hey,” he murmurs, “you know if you ever need to talk, or not talk I get it.”
You look up at him and nod. “Thanks.”
He nods back slowly, like that meant something to him.
Then he glances toward the hallway, lowers his voice, and says, “Slovacek noticed you left.”
You tense up slightly.
Santos smirks. “Thought you’d wanna know.”
And before you can even reply, a heavy footstep echoes from somewhere farther down the hall.
Santos straightens, pushing away from the wall.
“I’ll head back before Hicks sets the building on fire,” he says softly. “You can stay here. I’ll make sure nobody bothers you.”
And with one last warm look, he slips away.
Leaving you alone in the quiet hallway.
—
You don’t mean to fall asleep. You just blinked for too long. The hall lights hum softly, the air cool against your cheek where it rests on your folded arms, notebook still open on your lap. The base quiets after lights out, the kind of quiet that makes your eyelids even heavier.
You wake up because something is off. You hear a soft thud. Then another and a slow, dragging shuffle across the floor.
You lift your head groggily.
Someone bumps the wall again, gentle but clumsy, and mutters, “Sorry, sorry, wall,”
Oh no.
Hicks.
He slips into the dim hallway like a gremlin that escaped containment, shirt half buttoned, boots unlaced, moving with the energy of someone who thinks they’re sneaking but absolutely isn’t.
He doesn’t see you at first and he continues whispering to himself. “Okay, steady, you just walk straight, easy, walls are optional,”
He sideswipes a chair anyway.
He finally spots you sitting there and freezes, eyes wide like you’re a deer in the woods and he’s the cryptid.
“Alvar?” he whispers, voice soft but chaotic.
You sigh. “Hicks. What are you doing?”
He tiptoes over, still loud somehow, but speaking in a voice barely above a breath. “I came to help you.”
“Help me with what?”
He sits cross-legged on the floor right in front of you, leaning way too close, studying your face like he’s trying to decode ancient runes.
“Important decision,” he murmurs. “life changing.”
You rub your eyes and hop off the little window ledge to sit with him. “You’re drunk.”
“Emotionally,” he whispers. “and a little regular drunk.”
He taps your knee twice in a weirdly rhythmic pattern.
“Listen. I’ve been thinking all day about you. And them. And this whole.. triangle situation.”
“Triangle?”
He holds up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t pretend you don’t know. It’s adorable, but don’t.”
He leans in even closer, eyes unfocused but intense.
“You got,” He counts on his fingers, “two guys after you.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” he insists calmly. “Mr. quiet-and-mysterious. and mr. tall-and-pretty. Both circling you like weird military house cats.” He laughs. “Are those real? I dunno. I just made it up.”
You stare at him. “Are you talking about Slovacek and McAffey?”
“Yeah. Them,” he whispers. “they’re obsessed.”
You blink. “They are not.”
“I watch things,” Hicks says softly, with a weird serene smile. “I notice stuff. More than people think.”
You don’t have the energy for this. But at the same time he’s somehow soothing? In a chaotic way, though.
He taps your shoe gently. “And you’re.. really pretty,” he adds with that same quiet and serious tone. “which is annoying. For everyone.”
You snort. “Annoying?”
“Yeah. Because now there’s all this like tension. Drama. Decisions. And, like we’re supposed to be learning how to fold shirts right now.”
He scoots even closer. He smells like cheap beer.
“I just want you to know,” he says quietly, “if you picked either one of them, I’d understand. Even though you should pick me.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “You?”
He nods, serious.
“I think you’re hot. And I think you deserve someone who knows how to have fun and plus, I’d let you win at pool.”
You laugh into your hands. “Hicks, you don’t want me.”
He blinks slowly. “I don’t want, like, for real want. I’m not insane.” Then, after a pause, “I just want to be considered.”
You shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
He tilts his head, studying you with a strange, soft focus. “They totally argue in their heads about you,” he mutters. “I don’t. My head’s empty. Makes life easier.”
You’re trying not to smile. “Is this supposed to help me?”
He nods thoughtfully.
“It helps them. They’re losing their minds.”
“Why would that help?”
“Because if they’re busy being stupid about you,” he whispers, leaning back in satisfaction, “I get to watch the show.”
You stare at him.
He pokes your knee again.
“You’re intense and better than both of them,” he murmurs. “and you’ve got this quiet thing going on that’s, like dangerous.”
You blink. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Like you walk into a room and the air gets weird. In a good way, I think.”
Okay. Now he’s just speaking in poetry he doesn’t understand.
He pats your leg like a cat kneading a blanket.
“Get some sleep, Alvar,” he whispers. “tomorrow’s gonna be hilarious.”
You open your mouth to ask what that means, but he stands, very slowly, very carefully, and walks straight into the doorframe.
“Ow.”
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my smut account: @kazerine i will be posting a hicks smut on there soon xx
NOTES - 🚨CLEARING SOMETHING UP🚨 the restroom situation: everyone shares, but you obv take a shower at a different time, which is why i don’t include any of those scenes!! other than that, just know the next chapter is in the works, as always lmk if you have any recommendations, questions, or suggestions!! dms are always open. thank you so much for all the sweet comments and support. xx
McKinnon’s yelling hits like you like somone dropping a metal pan on your skull. You blink awake to the same bunk, same cold air, same mix of snoring and complaining around the barracks. Santos is already half-dressed and rummaging through his drawer.
Cope is sitting on his bunk, tying his boots carefully, brows drawn in sleepy concentration. McAffey is the only one who looks fully awake, his uniform is crisp and he’s sipping from a canteen like he saw the day coming and prepared emotionally.
You rub your eyes. “Why do mornings feel illegal?”
Santos grunts. “Because they should be.”
Before you can get moving, the barracks door slams open. Your father enters with clipped steps, clipboard tucked under his arm.
“Form up,” he orders. “We’re doing team field drills today. Four to a group. Names will be called.”
Groans ripple through the room, but everyone gets up.
—
You fall into line between Santos and Cope. Slovacek is two rows ahead, posture straight, jaw set like he slept in that position.
Your father’s voice rings through the space.
“Team One! C. Bowman, Ochoa, Hicks, J. Bowman.”
A wave of chaos erupts immediately.
“Team Two! Nash, Slovacek, Turner, Davidson.”
More shuffling.
Then, “Team Three! Alvar, Santos, Cope, McAffey.”
Santos does a tiny victory fist pump. Cope smiles, relieved. McAffey glances at you like, ‘guess you’re stuck with me today’.
You’re about to step forward when you feel it. A stare. Burning between your shoulder blades. You look up.
Slovacek is already facing forward again, but you caught it just long enough to see the flicker in his eyes. Not anger or irritation, but instead like someone closed a door too fast.
Your dad keeps calling names, but all you hear is the echo of that look.
—
The morning air is cool enough to sting your lungs. You and your team grab gear from the supply rack.
Santos tosses you a compass. “Leader for today?”
“Oh, so when we get lost, it’s on me.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Cope adjusts his pack straps. “You sleep okay?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
He gives you a small, relieved smile.
McAffey stands beside you, sliding on his gloves. “If Santos starts pretending he knows what he’s doing, don’t listen. Follow me. I’m the only adult here.”
Santos gasps. “You take that back.”
“Never.”
You laugh, and McAffey gives you this sideways look, soft, amused, and warm. Like he was waiting for that sound.
Across the field, you still feel eyes on you. Slovacek, not even pretending he isn’t looking. He turns away fast, jaw tight as always.
Your father blows the whistle, “Teams, move out!”
—
Your team heads toward the tree line, boots dragging through thin frost. You’re checking the compass when McAffey steps close behind you and gently curls his fingers around your wrist to guide it.
“Angle’s a little high,” he murmurs, adjusting your hand downward. “There. Perfect.”
You freeze for a split second. Not because it’s too much, but because it’s so casual.
Santos sees and wiggles his eyebrows dramatically.
You smack his arm. “Stop.”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
McAffey just smiles that little half-smile and taps your shoulder with the back of his knuckles before stepping ahead.
Just a light touch, warm through your uniform, enough to linger.
Cope walks beside you, quiet but observant. “He likes helping,” he says, voice soft.
You give him a look. “Helping?”
Cope shrugs. “Yep, I mean that’s how he’s always been.”
Santos snickers.
McAffey glances back. “Checkpoint should be past that ridge. Stay close.”
You push a branch aside, then McAffey steps in front of you and holds it out of your way with his arm, brushing your shoulder as you pass.
“Watch the thorns,” he says, low, like he’s talking only to you.
You don’t even realize you’re smiling until Santos whispers, “Ooooh, someone’s getting special treatment.”
You elbow him again.
But then, a crunch of footsteps behind your group and a familiar voice.
“Your bearing’s off.”
Slovacek.
You turn, and he’s standing a few yards back with his team and his posture stiff.
McAffey shifts slightly, instinctively moving between you and Slovacek, not aggressively, but just enough that he notices.
And he does.
His gaze flicks to McAffey’s arm, still lightly touching your shoulder from guiding you earlier. Then to your wrist, where McAffey steadied your compass and back to your face.
Your pulse jumps. “It’s not off,” you say.
His jaw flexes once. “Didn’t say it was. Just looked like it.”
He doesn’t look at Santos.
Doesn’t look at Cope.
Only you.
McAffey steps forward, calm but firm. “We’re good on direction.”
Slovacek doesn’t look at him. He just watches you for a beat too long. Then he turns away like he’s forcing himself to. But as he walks ahead to catch his team he glances over his shoulder.
Like he’s thinking, Why him? Why today? Why now?
You swallow hard and look back down at your compass.
McAffey steps closer, voice low. “Ignore him.”
But you can’t. Not when Slovacek is still within earshot. Not when he keeps looking back. Not when your whole body knows he saw every touch.
Your team starts moving again, pushing deeper into the tree line. The path thins into a single-file stretch, forcing everyone into a narrow line.
Santos up front, you behind him, McAffey right behind you, and Cope last.
Branches crackle somewhere behind the four of you. Slovacek’s team.
Of-freaking-course.
You try not to look back, but you don’t have to. You can feel him. The weight of his stare is like someone pressing a thumb against the back of your neck.
McAffey leans in slightly. “Don’t worry about them.”
You nod, but your pulse betrays you. The woods open into a small clearing. You stop to re-check the map, and the moment you pause Slovacek steps out from his formation.
“Alvar,” he says, like you’ve been expecting him. “You’re off the main trail.”
Santos scoffs. “We’re not off anything, dude.”
Slovacek doesn’t look at him, not even a flicker. His eyes stay locked on yours.
“You’re drifting east,” he says calmly. “Take three degrees back or you’ll hit the marsh.”
McAffey steps closer to you, folding his arms. “We already corrected.”
Slovacek finally cuts him a short glance, sharp, quick, almost dismissive.
“Wasn’t talking to you,” he mutters.
Then, to you again, softer, “You good with directions?”
The tone is careful, not taunting nor condescending.
More like he wants to hear you talk, and he’s giving himself an excuse.
You open your mouth, but before you can answer, McAffey shifts slightly behind you, the back of his hand brushing your hip as he steps closer.
His team starts moving again, but slowly, so slowly, leaving enough space that he can linger.
Cope clears his throat quietly. “Uh, we should keep going?”
You nod, adjusting the map. “Let’s move.”
—
The path narrows again, rough and uneven. You step over a fallen log, but your boot slips on the damp bark. You stumble and a hand closes around yours immediately.
McAffey.
He catches you with zero hesitation, fingers wrapping fully around your hand like it’s instinct.
“You good?” he asks, voice low.
Before you can answer, his thumb brushes once across your knuckles, light, deliberate, almost like he didn’t mean to but also absolutely meant to.
You freeze.
His hand doesn’t drop yours.
Not right away.
Not even when you stand upright again.
He just holds it.
Until familiar footsteps crunch behind you.
Slovacek’s voice sounds closer than it should be.
“Watch your footing, Alvar.”
You don’t look back.
But you see him in the edge of your vision standing just a few feet behind, gaze lowered to where McAffey’s hand is wrapped around yours.
He doesn’t blink.
Not once.
McAffey squeezes your hand and you feel his calluses rub against your palm, but finally releases you, slow, like he’s showing Slovacek he isn’t in a rush.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
McAffey smiles. “Anytime.”
Santos whispers loudly, “Ohhh my god.”
Cope elbows him so hard he practically squeals.
—
The trail widens for a moment, and Slovacek uses it. He steps up beside you just enough to walk parallel. His team stays behind him, keeping pace.
“You’re favoring your right foot,” he says quietly.
You blink. “What?”
“When you slipped back there. You’re leaning on it wrong.” His eyes flick downward for half a second, catching the way you step. “It’ll hurt later.”
You swallow. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be fine for anyone.”
McAffey moves closer again, subtle but intentional, placing himself a hair closer to your other side.
Slovacek notices. Of course he notices. His eyes sharpen, but he reins it in, steps back, rejoining his team without another word.
Santos breathes out dramatically. “Ohhhh, this is messy.”
You kick his boot.
Cope whispers, “You okay?”
You nod, but your stomach twists.
Because even as you walk, you feel two things,
1. McAffey’s fingertips still imprinted on your palm.
And
2. Slovacek’s stare burning between your shoulder blades.
—
Your team pushes through the last stretch of the trail, breath loud, legs burning. Santos sprints the final twenty feet like a madman. Cope wheezes behind him. McAffey grabs your elbow to help you over a rock ledge as if you’re fragile even though you aren’t.
When you hit the finish point, the instructor blows the whistle.
“Alvar’s group, first!”
Your lungs are on fire, but the rush of winning hits you harder. Santos throws his arms up like he just won a gold medal. Cope collapses on the ground and McAffey helps him up.
Slovacek’s team arrives seconds later. He’s breathing hard, and his brows damp. You can feel the frustration radiating off him. But more than that,
He looks straight at McAffey.
Then at you.
Then back at McAffey.
Something sharp flickers behind his eyes.
—
The second you’re dismissed, you bolt. Not dramatically, just quietly disappearing. You need air. A moment. A reset.
There’s a small clearing behind the barracks, half-shaded by a bent pine tree. You sit there with your notebook, knees up, pen tapping against the pages.
Finally, peace.
You start writing little pieces of today,
What the hell is going on with McAffey! I said i wanted to get to know him… maybe i don’t though. ugh. slovacek is being weird, he has no reason to be jealous, but damn how i miss how he smells like marlboro reds, it makes me so ugh, i can’t get enough of it.
You’ve only written a few sentences when you hear voices. Male voices. Close.
You freeze.
Then you recognize them.
Nash.
And Slovacek.
Shit.
You sink lower behind the tree trunk, notebook pressed to your chest.
—
Nash’s voice comes first, steady and blunt as always.“So,” he says, “you gonna pretend you didn’t look like you wanted to break McAffey’s teeth back there?”
Slovacek scoffs under his breath. “I didn’t,”
“Bro,” Nash cuts in. “You stared at his hand like you wanted to rip each finger off.”
Then Slovacek mutters, quieter, “He was grabbing her for no reason.”
Nash laughs. “She tripped.”
“He used it as an excuse.”
Another pause.
The air goes still.
You grip your notebook tighter.
Nash speaks again, tone lighter. “Even if he likes her, why do you even care so much.”
You stop breathing.
Slovacek doesn’t answer at first. You hear the sound of him kicking a pinecone. Hard.
“I don’t care if he likes her.”
Nash snorts. “Oh, you care.”
“I don’t.”
“Nicholas, you literally walked off the trail because she ‘slipped’.”
Slovacek’s silence is louder than arguing.
Nash pushes. “You didn’t even look at the rest of your team. You just,”
“Drop it,” Slovacek snaps.
Nash goes quiet for a moment.
Then, more gently,
“You like her.”
The silence stretches.
You swear you hear Slovacek’s heartbeat from where you’re hiding.
Finally, he exhales, voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s not… liking her.”
“Then what is it?”
“She’s,” He stops for a second.
“She’s different.”
Your pulse spikes.
Different?
Nash hums. “Different how?”
Slovacek hesitates. “She’s sharp, but quiet. And she just knows everything.”
“And she makes people softer somehow.”
Nash goes, “Damn.”
Slovacek clears his throat immediately. “Forget I said any of that.”
“Not a chance,” Nash laughs.
Slovacek mutters something you can’t hear, pacing a small line in the dirt.
Then Nash adds casually, “You gonna do something about McAffey?”
Slovacek pauses mid-step.
“No.”
“Why not?”
And this time his answer is instant, “Because it’s not my place.”
You feel that line like someone pressed a hand against your ribs from the inside.
Nash’s voice softens. “You really think she likes him?”
Another pause.
Then, so quiet you barely catch it, “I don’t know what she likes.”
Your face heats up.
Then Nash asks, “And what do you want?”
Silence. A bird chirps. Wind shifts the pine needles. And after a long, heavy moment, Slovacek gives an answer you weren’t prepared for.
“I just want to know her the way she knows me.”
Your stomach flips.
Nash exhales. “C’mon.”
Then, you hear boot steps and crunching leaves. You duck behind the tree just as their shadows stretch too close for comfort.
Nash laughs under his breath. “Just don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m not weird.”
“You’re being a little weird.”
“I’m not,”
Their voices fade as they move back toward the barracks.
Your hands shake slightly as you stare down at your notebook.
You don’t write anything.
You just sit there, heart pounding, replaying every word he said.
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my smut account: @kazerine xx
CHAPTER - five, hicks, mcaffey, and “his words, not mine”
POV - second person point of view
NOTES - i am soso sorry it took me so long to publish this chapter. final exams are coming up and i am sooo nervous and busy! the next chapter is already in the works i WILL publish at least one more *long* chapter this week. breaks are also coming up, so except two if not three chapters this week!!! love you all, i hope you are staying safe during holidays (if you celebrate, even if you don’t still stay safe lolol🥹). again, thank you for being so patient with me. xx
That morning feels heavier than the others.
Everyone’s moving around the barracks the same as always, boots scraping, someone arguing about whose socks smell the worst, Ochoa humming something painfully off-key, but it all feels distant today. Like the world’s a few seconds behind you.
You tie your boots slower than normal, trying not to glance across the room.
Because the one time you do look up, just a flicker, Slovacek looks away like you burned him.
Fast.
Your chest tightens and you stare down again, re-tying a knot that’s already perfect.
As you head out, someone catches up to you at the end of the hall.
“Hey! Wait, slow down.”
Cope.
He falls into step beside you, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You good? You look, uh,”
“Don’t say terrible,” you warn.
He winces. “I was gonna say ‘haunted,’ but terrible works too.”
You snort despite yourself. “I’m fine.”
He gives you a “really?” kind of look. “No offense, but you’re walking like you’re thinking out loud.”
You shrug, trying to hide a sigh. “Just a long week.”
Cope nods a little like he gets it. “Yeah. Those happen.”
You expect him to drift off like he usually does after a comment like that, but he doesn’t.
He nudges your arm lightly. “Hey. You know Santos and I were talking last night and he said, don’t tell him I told you this, but he said he thinks you’re kinda keeping everything bottled up.”
You blink. “He said that?”
“Yeah.” Cope shoves his hands into his pockets. “His words were, and I quote, ‘She holds herself too tight.’ Which, don’t ask me what that means, he’s weird. But I think he’s right.”
You laugh quietly. “I don’t hold myself too tight.”
“You do,” Cope says gently. “Especially when something’s bothering you.”
He’s not prying, just being there. It’s subtle. Soft, but slightly annoying.
“Just saying,” he adds, bumping your elbow again. “You don’t have to do that around us.”
us?
It hits a little too close, so you nudge him back. “Thanks, Cope.”
He smiles, small and sincere. “Anytime. Really.”
—
You’re almost to the field when you run into Santos.
He looks you over once, immediately picking up on the shift in your mood. “You look like you slept in a tornado.”
“Good morning to you too my sunshine.”
He squints, then steps closer, lowering his voice. “Alright. Who pissed you off? Cope? Bowman? Did Ochoa sing again?”
You shake your head. “Nobody pissed me off.”
Santos tilts his head, not buying it. “You get quiet when you’re upset. Then you pretend you’re not upset. Then you look at the ground.”
You stare at him. “Do you guys all take a class on reading me or what?”
“No,” he says. “You’re just expressive. And bad at hiding it.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re grateful he notices even if you don’t say it.
He softens a little. “Whatever it is you’ll figure it out.”
You give him a tiny smile. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” he says. “I’m only doing this because Cope told me not to ‘let you spiral.’ His words. Not mine.”
You groan. “Great. Perfect.”
Santos laughs. “Hey, if it makes you feel better, spiraling looks good on you.”
“Go away.”
“Gladly.” He winks and jogs off.
—
Later, heading back toward the barracks after midday drills, somebody steps into your path so abruptly you almost collide with them.
“Halt.”
Hicks. Someone you’ve been told to stay away from, and you’ve been doing a good job at it, until now.
You blink. “Are you guarding this walkway?”
He shakes his head. “I’m observing.”
“Observing what?”
“You.”
You blink again. “Why?”
He studies your face. “You look weird today.”
“This is just my face, Hicks.”
“No,” he says flatly. “Your face is usually a beauty to look at. Today it’s weird.”
You stare at him. “Thanks?”
He leans slightly closer, eyes narrowing. “Who messed with you?”
“No one.”
“You hesitate when you lie.”
“I do not.”
“You just did.”
You exhale, lightly frustrated. “I’m fine.”
He keeps staring, not blinking, like you’re a tactical problem to solve.
“If it helps,” he says, “I can make someone disappear. Temporarily.” he winks.
You choke on air. “I don’t need your help.”
He puts his hands up in defense. “Alright. But I’m available.”
Then he walks off like he didn’t just offer to commit several felonies on your behalf. You rub your forehead. What is your life.
—
By dinner, your energy’s drained. You’re hungry, sore, and you keep doing that stupid thing where your eyes search for a face you shouldn’t be searching for.
Then he walks in.
Slovacek.
The mess hall is loud, trays clattering, soldiers laughing, Ochoa arguing with Bowman about whether chocolate milk counts as hydration and somehow you hear none of it.
You only hear the sharp, quiet sound of him not looking at you.
He sits next to Nash, nods at something he says, and keeps his gaze locked forward.
No glance.
No twitch.
No nothing.
Like you’re just another uniform in the room.
Like yesterday didn’t happen at all.
You stab a piece of chicken too aggressively.
“Damn,” Santos whispers beside you. “What did that chicken do to you?”
You don’t answer.
Because the only thing you can think is
Why won’t he look at me?
Santos watches you for a long second, chewing slowly, squinting like he’s trying to do math in his head. Then he leans closer. Too close.
“So,” he says casually, “you gonna tell me why you’re looking at him like he stole your oxygen?”
You keep your eyes on your tray. “I’m not looking at anyone.”
“Uh-huh.” He takes another bite, completely unconvinced. “Totally. You’ve only glanced over there” he checks his watch “six times in the past 2 minutes?.”
Your head snaps toward him. “I have not.”
“You have,” Cope chimes in from across the table without even looking up from his mashed potatoes.
You glare at both of them. “Can you two mind your business?”
Santos grins. “Absolutely not.”
You shove another bite in your mouth aggressively. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Cool,” Santos says, leaning back with exaggerated casualness. “So you won’t mind if I ask you a question.”
“No,” you say instantly. “I’m not answering.”
He ignores that. “When exactly did you start, I don’t know,” He circles his spoon in the air. “caring where Slovacek is sitting?”
You freeze for half a second. It’s tiny, but Santos catches it.
A slow, evil smile curls across his face. “Ohhh.”
You want to kick him. “Shut up.”
“It’s cute.”
“Shut. Up.”
“You like him.”
“I do not.”
“Oh, you definitely do.”
Cope finally looks up. “Oh yeah. For sure. You got that look.”
You blink at him. “What look?”
“That look people get when they desperately want to pretend they don’t have a look.”
You set your fork down with a little too much force.
Santos leans on his elbow, chin propped on his hand, studying you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “So what happened? He say something? Did you say something? Did you guys,”
“No,” you interrupt. “Nothing happened.”
“Something happened,” Santos says. “You’re being weird.”
You scowl. “You’re always calling me weird.”
“Yeah, but today it’s a different flavor.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands for a second. “I don’t have a thing for him.”
Santos lifts an eyebrow. “Okay. So you don’t have a thing for him, but you’re mad he hasn’t looked at you once?”
Your jaw tightens.
And that betrays you more than anything.
Santos’s eyes widen like he just struck gold. “You’re mad because he’s ignoring you which means you like him.”
“I, no, I’m not mad and I don’t like him.” you lie horribly.
“You are absolutely mad,” Cope adds, pointing his fork at you.
“I’m not!”
“You totally are.”
“I said I’m not.”
But your voice cracks just the slightest bit on the word not, and Santos slaps the table in triumph.
“Ha! Bingo.”
You stare at him, mortified. “Can you keep your voice down!?”
Santos leans in, grinning. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell him.”
You tense immediately. “Tell him what?”
“That you’re sitting here upset because he isn’t looking at you,” he whispers.
Your face heats.
“I’m not upset,” you say, quieter this time. “I just, I don’t know. He was acting normal yesterday. Now he’s,”
“Distant?” Santos finishes.
“Yeah,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Santos’s expression softens. Not teasing. Just understanding.
“You know,” he says, tapping his spoon on your tray, “guys pull away when they’re trying to figure their crap out.”
You blink. “What crap?”
“A girl,” Santos says plainly. “Always a girl.”
Your pulse flicks in your throat.
You force yourself not to look over at Slovacek again.
But your eyes drift anyway, just for a moment. He’s laughing at something Nash says, eyes low, jaw tight, shoulders tense in a way that doesn’t match his smile.
Like he’s trying too hard.
Santos watches you watch him.
Then he nudges your knee under the table. “Hey.”
You look back at him.
“Whatever’s going on,” he says quietly, “he’s not avoiding you because he suddenly stopped caring.”
You exhale slowly, something heavy loosening in your chest something you didn’t even know was tied in a knot.
“Eat your food,” Santos says, trying to play it off. “You’re cranky when you’re sad.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m not sad.”
“You’re sad.”
“Stop it.”
“You’re doing the sad-eyebrow thing.”
I fix my eyebrows. “I don’t have a sad-eyebrow thing.”
“You very much do.”
Cope nods. “It’s actually kinda cute.”
You stare at them, betrayed. “I hate both of you.”
Santos grins. “Liar.”
Santos is still smirking at you like he discovered your diary and read every page out loud. You ignore him. Or try to.
At the other table, Slovacek suddenly stands up, tray in hand. He doesn’t look in your direction, but he doesn’t look at anyone else either. Just walks straight toward the line for seconds.
Nash watches him go with a tiny shake of his head, like here he goes again. A moment later, Cope clears his throat and pushes back from your table.
“I, uh, think I’m gonna also get something,” he mumbles.
Santos lifts a brow. “You barely ate.”
Cope shrugs, eyes following Slovacek without meaning to. “I’m still hungry, I guess.”
He walks off not following exactly, just drifting in the same direction. You pretend not to watch them both, but you totally are.
Slovacek stands in line alone, staring forward like he’s thinking hard about something he doesn’t want to be thinking about.
Cope hesitates, then steps up beside him with a little too much space between them. Enough to show he knows people watch him. Judge him. Say things behind his back.
Slovacek glances sideways, surprised. He doesn’t speak.
Cope looks straight at the food trays. “You good?”
Slovacek’s jaw flexes. He looks forward again. “Fine.”
Cope nods softly. “Okay. Just seemed, I don’t know. Off.”
A long pause.
Slovacek shifts his weight, still facing ahead. “I’m not off.”
“Right,” Cope says quietly. “Okay.”
Another beat.
Then almost too quiet to hear
“I didn’t say you were wrong,” Slovacek mutters.
Cope’s eyes dart to him, quick, grateful, but he doesn’t push. He just steps forward in the line like nothing happened.
You force yourself to look away before either catches you staring.
You pick up your tray with whatever scraps are left and stand. “I’m throwing this out.”
Santos salutes dramatically. “Godspeed.”
You roll your eyes and walk off.
The trash cans are right by the table where Nash is still sitting, alone now, elbows on the table, rumbling with something he definitely wasn’t supposed to smuggle onto base.
You try to be quiet. Invisible. Just get rid of your food and go. But Nash notices everything.
“Alvar,” he says the second you pass.
You pause. “Yeah?”
He tilts his head slightly, “You look pissed.”
You blink. “I’m not pissed.”
“Uh-huh.” He stabs a forkful of potatoes and points it at you. “You got the lip thing.”
“What lip thing?”
“That little pout thing you get when you’re trying to look normal but something is eating you alive.”
Your face burns. “Nothing is eating me alive.”
“Sure.” Nash takes a slow bite, unimpressed. “Just saying. You look like you’re either about to cry or punch someone.”
“I’m not. I just,”
He holds up a hand. “Hey. No need to explain.” Then, lower, almost conspiratorial: “If it helps, he’s always like that when he’s trying not to think about something.”
Your heart jumps. “Who?”
Nash doesn’t even blink. “Don’t play dumb.”
You swallow. Hard.
He nods slightly toward the line where Slovacek is now standing with his seconds, shoulders squared too carefully, expression too blank.
Then Nash leans back and says, with zero drama, “Talk to him.”
Your pulse stutters. “Why would I?”
“You should,” Nash says simply.
You stare at him.
He shrugs once, like it’s obvious. “He listens to you.”
Your stomach flutters and you almost laugh. “He won’t even look at me.”
Nash smirks, eyes flicking past you. “He’s looking now.”
You turn before you can stop yourself.
Slovacek is standing a few feet away, tray in hand, expression unreadable, but his eyes are locked directly on you.
You freeze.
He doesn’t look away.
Then, slowly he lifts his chin in a tiny upward nod. Not “come here.” Not “go away.” Just I see you.
Your chest does something stupid and warm.
Behind you, Nash murmurs around another bite, “Yeah. Talk to him.”
You’re about to open your mouth when you feel it.
A stare.
And then, “Alvar.”
Your father’s voice cuts through the room like a blade.
Slovacek’s gaze snaps away from you so fast it almost looks like he got burned.
Your father stands by the end of the table, uniform perfect, jaw tight, scanning every face like he’s deciding who to yell at first. His eyes land on you, then flick briefly, very briefly, toward Slovacek.
He doesn’t acknowledge him.
Just jerks his chin toward the hallway.
“Walk with me,” he orders.
The room goes quieter in that not-quiet way, but instead the kind where everyone pretends they’re not listening.
You follow him toward the door, heat crawling up your neck, stomach tightening because you already know this isn’t just about lunch.
Right as you step out, you look back for half a heartbeat.
Slovacek looks up again.
Your eyes meet exactly once more.
You’re halfway through turning the knob when he speaks again, sharper, like he’s decided he didn’t say enough.
“Y/n.”
You pause.
He steps closer, voice dropping back into that half-father, half-commander tone that always pins you in place.
“These Marine boys,” He shakes his head once. “They only want one thing.”
Your face goes hot instantly.
“Sir”
“No.” His voice cuts through yours, firm. “Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
You stay frozen, jaw tight, because arguing will only make it worse.
He continues, quieter but heavier, “Especially men like him.”
Your pulse jumps. You don’t ask who he means, you both know.
Your father goes on, “The ones who are built for it. Fit. Confident. The ones who know exactly how they look.” His jaw flexes, like he hates the words but has to say them. “They know what they can get away with. They know what girls like you respond to.”
You swallow hard. The embarrassment crawls up your neck, hot and sharp.
“I’m not stupid,” you mutter.
“I never said you were,” he fires back instantly. “I said you’re inexperienced.”
Your breath catches because he never sugarcoats, but hearing him say it so plainly still stings.
“You haven’t had time for this. I made sure you didn’t.” He gestures vaguely to your childhood, to training, to everything. “You’ve never dated. Never dealt with boys like him. Not ones who look at you the way he did just now.”
Your stomach flips because he noticed that, too.
He steps closer, lowering his voice even more, “Men like Slovacek? They don’t flirt for fun. They don’t get close on accident. They see someone who’s never had that kind of attention before, and they push. And push. And push.”
Your heart is hammering now.
“Sir,”
He cuts you off again, but this time softer, “I’m trying to protect you. Even if you don’t like how it sounds.”
You look down, unsure whether you’re angry, mortified, or both.
A long moment passes before he adds, almost grudgingly, “And Y/n don’t let him think he knows you better than I do.”
You freeze there hand still on the doorknob, breath caught in your throat.
That line hits deeper than the rest. Not a warning, but instead a claim. You don’t answer, you can’t.
He gives you a final nod. Permission, dismissal, and frustration all in one.
You open the door and step out, heat burning under your skin, feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with uniform regulations.
—
The mess hall feels louder the second you walk back in, like everyone turned their volume up just to mess with you. Or maybe your dad’s words are still echoing in your head.
You don’t look toward Slovacek.
Not once.
You head straight for Santos and Cope.
Santos spots you immediately and raises a brow. “There she is. Thought you got drafted into dish duty.”
Cope rolls his eyes. “Ignore him. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Just needed a minute.”
Cope nods, gentle. He gets it without prying. Santos does not get it, but he’s at least pretending. Before either of them can start something, someone drops onto the bench beside you, tray in hand like he was invited.
McAffey.
The kid I wanted to get to know when I first got here, but I never got the time.
“Hey,” he says in that calm way he always talks, like he’s sliding into a conversation mid-sentence. “Didn’t notice you come back in.”
You shrug. “Didn’t exactly want to make an entrance.”
He hums quiet, amused, and poking at his food. “Yeah, well…” he glances at you, not fully, just enough to make it feel intentional, “you kind of do that without trying.”
Santos chokes on nothing.
Cope presses his lips together so he doesn’t laugh.
You blink, surprised because McAffey says it so casually you might miss it if you weren’t paying attention. No grin. No theatrics. Just a low, even remark dropped between breaths.
He bumps your shoulder lightly with his own, almost like he forgot he did it until after. “Don’t worry,” he adds, “it’s not a bad thing.”
Santos groans. “Can you not? Please?”
McAffey just smirks faintly at his tray. “Relax, man.”
And you feel it.
That warmth on the back of your neck.
Even though you’re not looking, you can feel someone watching you from across the room.
Slovacek.
And this time, the awareness settles deep in your stomach. Not embarrassment, but something else entirely.
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my smut account: @kazerine xx
NOTES - let me know if you guys want to see a certain friendship dynamic!! as always let me know if you have any thoughts or suggestions! i hope you all are having a wonderful week. thank you soso much for the reblogs and likes!!!!! xxx
You wake up before the bugle. Not because you’re responsible or motivated or any of that, but because you had maybe three hours of sleep total. Your brain replaying last night in an endless loop. Your dad’s warning, Slovacek’s face, the way he flirted like it wasn’t a joke.
You sit up and immediately regret it. Your whole body aches from yesterday’s work. Perfect. Wonderful. Exactly what you needed.
The barracks are quiet. The guys are still knocked out. Even Slovacek, who usually wakes up at an ungodly hour, is flat on his back, forearm thrown over his eyes, chest rising and falling slow and steady.
You try not to stare and you fail.
How could someone be so hot.
—
By the time everyone’s up, the clouds are still low and heavy, the field too muddy for real training. That can only mean one thing: indoor drills.
McKinnon calls your squad into one of the smaller training buildings, basically a giant warehouse with crates stacked high and mats covering the floor.
“We’re doing close-quarters movement today,” he announces. “Everyone pair up, twenty seconds, or I’m assigning everyone partners.”
You don’t even get a chance to move.
A voice behind you says, low and annoyingly confident.
“Alvar’s with me.”
You turn.
Slovacek stands there, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
“Why?” you ask even though you remember last nights conversation.
He shrugs. “Because I said it first.”
You roll your eyes. “That’s not how it works.”
“Sure it is,” he says. “Watch.”
He steps closer, not touching, but close enough that you feel the heat coming off him. Your breath hitches, which is mortifying, and of course he notices.
His voice drops. “Unless you’d rather partner with Cope or Bowman.”
You glance at John Bowman, who’s across the room flexing at himself in a window reflection and then at Cope who’s messing with his fingers.
Yeah. No.
“Fine,” you mutter.
Gosh, Slovaceks smile should be illegal.
—
You’re supposed to practice moving through narrow spaces, maintaining awareness, communicating silently. Slovacek gives you your instructions easy and simple.
“You’ll go first,” he says. “I’ll spot you.”
“That sounds like you don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone,” he says. “But if it makes you feel better, you’re at the top of my list.”
You look at him sharply, trying to see if he’s teasing.
He isn’t smiling.
He actually means it.
Before you can respond, he steps close behind you enough his breath grazes your neck.
You jump slightly.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “I said spot, not chokehold.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
His hand hovers near your hip, not touching, but close, as if he’s keeping the option open. The proximity is insane. It’s too much. It’s not enough.
You start moving between two stacked crates, squeezing through the narrow gap. Slovacek follows right behind, guiding you with quiet murmurs.
“Left foot here. Slow. Watch your shoulder.”
When your boot slips slightly on the mat, his hand shoots out and catches your waist.
“You good?” he asks.
You nod, even though your heartbeat is punching a hole in your ribs.
His hand lingers half a second too long before he lets go.
—
It’s now break time.
The room bursts into movement again as McKinnon switches drills, and you grab a water bottle, leaning against the wall for a moment.
That’s when Cope approaches you quietly and awkwardly, in a way that instantly tells you something’s off.
He glances around, then at you. “Hey. Alvar. Got a sec?”
“Yeah,” you say, straightening. “What’s up?”
He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can’t tell anyone I said this.”
“I won’t.”
He exhales, staring at the ground like the words are too heavy to carry.
“I’m scared I’m not gonna make it through this,” he says finally.
Like he’s confessing a crime.
You soften up. “Cope,”
“I’m serious.” His voice cracks slightly. “Everyone here’s strong as hell. And I’m just…” He makes a helpless gesture at himself. “Me.”
You step closer, lowering your voice. “You’re surviving the same shit everyone else is. That counts for something.”
“Barely,” he mutters.
“Barely still counts,” you say. “And you’re not alone. You’ve got McAffey. You’ve got,” You stop, then smile softly. “You’ve got me, apparently.”
He laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “You’re something else, Alvar.”
“You’ll get through this,” you say firmly. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”
He meets your eyes and you can see the relief there, fragile but real. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “I needed that.”
You squeeze his arm, a friendly, grounding touch. And Cope leaves you with a shaky smile, looking a little less like he’s carrying the world on his shoulders.
You barely get two seconds alone before you hear another voice.
“You’re real comforting today.”
You jump. Slovacek stands behind you again, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward Cope’s retreating back.
Jealousy. A very specific, very pointed kind.
“I was talking,” you say.
“I noticed,” he says. “Seemed.. close.”
You blink. “You’re making things up.”
He steps into your space, crowding you a bit. “You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
His gaze drops to where your hand had touched Cope’s sleeve, and something shifts in his jaw.
“I don’t like seeing you upset,” he says suddenly.
You freeze. That came out of nowhere.
“I wasn’t upset.”
“You were trying not to be.”
You swallow hard. His voice is low, deep, too gentle for how he usually sounds.
“And for the record,” he adds, leaning just a little closer, enough that you feel the warmth rolling off him, “if you need someone you don’t have to look far.”
Your heartbeat stutters. “That supposed to be comforting?”
“Supposed to be true.”
You sigh. “Look, Slovacek, whatever you’re trying to do it’s not gonna work.” you say knowing it’s not what you want, but instead what your father wants.
He smirks, his shoulder touching yours. “I’m not trying to do anything.”
You push yourself up from the wall. “See you.”
—
The next drill is a trust fall, but modified. You’re supposed to stand on a crate and fall backward into your partner’s arms. You hate it instantly.
Slovacek quirks an eyebrow. “You scared?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
You step onto the crate anyway.
“Ready?” he asks, hands open.
“No.”
He laughs under his breath, moves closer, and places his hands lightly on your ankles, repositioning you.
“Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”
You close your eyes and let yourself fall.
He catches you instantly, his strong arms around your waist, your back pressed against his chest.
You feel everything. His breath near your ear, the way his hands settle firmly but gently, the faint tremor in your own body.
“You okay?” he says.
Your voice comes out embarrassingly soft. “Yes.”
He sets you down slowly, hands sliding away like he doesn’t want to but forces himself to anyway.
Your cheeks are on fire. His eyes are darker than usual.
“Again?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Nope.”
He smirks. “Thought so.”
—
When lunch comes around everyone else sits in a chaotic swarm. Slovacek drops his tray across from you like it’s assigned seating.
“You’re following me,” you say.
“You make it easy.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, leaning forward, voice low, “you’re loud without saying a word.”
You blink. “What?”
“You’re the quietest one here,” he says. “But I hear you the most.”
You don’t know what to do with that.
You look down at your food. He nudges your boot under the table.
“Hey.”
You look up.
For once, his expression is readable.
“You did good today,” he says. “Better than most.”
“Even you?”
He doesn’t break eye contact. “Especially me.”
You laugh softly. “Finish your food.”
You two are eating in silence until Santos comes around. “Hey, haven’t heard from you all day.” He plops down next to you.
“There’s not much to hear” you say.
He looks at you, then at Slovacek, and back at you. “Is this my sign to go?” he jokes.
“Shut up.” you kick his boot slightly.
—
Mckinnon had us do at least 100 more drills, and back at the barracks, everyone is exhausted. You take your notebook and step outside for some fresh air.
The sun is dipping low, casting long shadows across the berms and walkways. You’re halfway through the track when you hear a voice.
“Alvar.”
You stop without meaning to.
He catches up, falling into step beside you like it’s natural. For a minute you walk in silence.
“You didn’t eat much at lunch,” he says.
“You noticed?”
“I notice a lot when it comes to you.”
Your stomach flips.
You try to deflect. “You don’t have to.”
“Maybe I want to.”
You look at him sharply. His profile calm, except for the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You flirt with everyone like this?” you ask.
“No,” he says immediately.
Shit, what can you even say now.
“Oh.”
“Just you.”
You blink. Hard.
He keeps walking, hands in his pockets, like he didn’t just detonate something between you.
“You’re not easy to ignore,” he adds.
“Is that a good thing?”
He glances at you. “You seriously need me to answer that?”
Your breath stops. You reach the barrack steps again and pause. He does too.
His eyes find yours again, warmer, softer, and unguarded.
“You know your father warned me, right?” he says.
Your stomach drops. “What?”
“He didn’t say much. Just made it clear he’s watching.”A slow shrug. “I told him I wasn’t planning on doing anything stupid.”
Your pulse spikes. “And are you?”
He steps closer, slow, deliberate, careful. “I’m trying not to,” he murmurs.
Please can lighting just strike already.
He lifts one hand, hesitating a split second before brushing a piece of loose hair off your cheek. His knuckles skim your skin. They’re rough but comforting.
You freeze and he does too.
Then he steps back, exhaling sharply like he was holding himself together by a thread.
“Goodnight, Alvar,” he says quiet and rough, full of something unsaid.
He turns to walk away.
You stop him without meaning to.
“Hey. Slovacek.”
He looks back, waiting.
You swallow, then say the first truth that wants out, “I notice things about you too.”
The way his expression falters. Just a flicker, just for a heartbeat tells you that you hit something real.
He nods once, slow. Like he’s filing the moment away somewhere only he gets to see.
Then he heads inside, leaving you standing in the humid evening air, heart pounding so loud you swear the whole base can hear it.
And you know, undeniably, impossibly
Whatever this thing is between you two?
It’s getting riveting and you don’t want it to stop.
—
You sit by the steps, writing more in your notebook before stepping back inside. You’re only a few steps from your bunk and your fathers office when the hallway goes too quiet.
Then you hear it, your father’s voice.
And the second one?
Slovacek.
Your stomach drops. You drift closer to the partially cracked office door without meaning to.
Inside, your father’s voice is lower than usual, tired and pulled thin.
“I worry about her.”
You freeze.
“I’ve been hard on her. Maybe too hard.” And then a sigh. “She grew up around Marines, not kids. No space to be young. No space for.. ‘normal things’.”
Your throat tightens.
Then comes the part that makes your heart lurch “She’s never had any real experiences with boys. Nothing. She doesn’t know what intentions look like, not really.”
Heat floods your face.
There’s a quiet shift from Slovacek, a boot scraping lightly on the floor.
Your father continues, “And when someone gives her attention” He stops. A heavy, knowing silence fills the gap.
When he speaks again, his tone is different low, steady, but with an edge like he’s trying very hard not to give anything away.
“I don’t.. approach her. She just looks at me sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” your father cuts in, unimpressed.
Slovacek goes quiet. Too quiet.
Your father’s voice sharpens, “You’re not oblivious, son. I’ve seen you watching her back.”
Your pulse pounds so hard you feel it in your jaw.
Then Slovacek answers even softer than before, almost under his breath, “It’s hard not to.”
You slowly and quietly sit down, then bring your knees to your chest for warmth.
He sounds like he didn’t mean to say it, like it slipped out of him before he could stop it.
Your father exhales through his nose, “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. She has no frame of reference. She’ll attach fast, without knowing what it means.”
A tense beat of silence follows.
Slovacek takes a breath. When he speaks, the words are careful, almost cautious, “I don’t want to confuse her.”
Your father studies him, you can hear it in the pause.
“You already are.”
A couple seconds of silence.
Slovacek doesn’t defend himself.
Doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t clarify.
The quiet answer, the one that slips out almost involuntarily is worse than anything he could’ve said outright “…yeah.”
It’s not guilt.
Not apology.
Just truth he can’t take back.
“Look… she trusts fast. Too fast. She thinks the best of people before she thinks of herself.”
“I don’t want her hurt. Not by anyone. And especially not by someone under my command.”
Slovacek lets out a slow exhale, the kind you release through your nose when you’re fighting something back.
“I wouldn’t… I don’t want to be the reason she gets hurt.”
It’s the shakiness on the word want that knocks the air from your lungs.
Your father cuts in sharply, “Intentions don’t matter as much as outcomes.”
Another quiet shift maybe Slovacek crossing his arms, or bracing his hands on his hips the way he does when he’s irritated but holding it in.
“I keep my distance,” he says. His voice is steady, but there’s tension buried in it. “Half the time she walks into a room, I leave it.”
Your heart drops.
Your father doesn’t buy it.
“Is that you keeping distance,” he asks flatly,
“or avoiding something you don’t want to deal with?”
Slovacek answers reluctantly, “both.”
Your father huffs, not a laugh, not anger, just a tired, disappointed sound.
“So you admit there’s something to avoid.”
Another moment of a silence.
Then Slovacek lowers his voice, almost too quiet to hear “She makes things feel different.”
Your breath stutters.
Your father goes still. You hear his chair shift, leaning forward, elbows probably on the desk, that posture he takes when he assesses a threat.
“Different how?”
Slovacek hesitates you can feel the battle happening behind his teeth.
“She looks at me like she expects something real. And I’m not,” He stops abruptly.
Your father’s tone sharpens, “You’re not what?”
Another breath.
“I’m not used to someone looking at me like that.”
Your chest tightens so hard you press your back against the wall to stay steady.
Your father’s next words cut like a blade, “And what does that look make you feel?”
What the fuck? This isn’t love therapy.
Slovacek’s answer is immediate, too immediate, “Nervous.”
Your father actually goes silent at that, you’ve never heard him speechless.
Slovacek continues, “She sees straight through me. Like she’s waiting for me to be better than I am.”
Your father sucks in a slow breath resetting his temper,“That’s exactly what I mean,” he says, voice stiff. “It’s just that you’re,”
Slovacek mutters, “A bad idea. Yeah. I know.”
“Then act like you know.”
A harsh pause.
“I try.”
Your father doesn’t respond immediately.
“Trying isn’t always enough.”
Slovacek murmurs something unintelligible, maybe, before saying, clearly, “I’ll keep my distance. For her sake.”
You’re not sure whether it’s relief or heartbreak that hits harder.
Your father sounds tired in a way you rarely hear, “I appreciate that.”
Slovacek clears his throat, tone shifting like he’s closing himself off again, shutting the door on everything he let slip.
“Sir, permission to be dismissed, sir.”
There’s a pause.
“Go,” your father says.
You push yourself off the wall, too fast, and shuffle away from the door just as the handle turns.
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It’s been two weeks since you’ve been forced to stay in this hell hole and the Saturday mornings at boot camp feel like small miracles. No unnecessary shouting. No running. No mud. Just the faint sound of someone snoring two bunks over and sunlight creeping through the blinds.
You stretch slowly, taking in the rare silence.
“Careful,” Santos mutters from a few bunks away. “If McKinnon catches you smiling, he’ll make us run laps.”
“I’m not smiling,” you lie.
He cracks an eye open. “You are.”
“Then stop looking.”
He snorts and rolls onto his back. “You’ve officially adjusted.”
“Working on it.”
Across the barracks, Cope sits cross-legged on his bunk, playing cards with McAffey and the Bowman twins. Ochoa’s in the middle of some way-too-dramatic story.
“and then she goes, ‘That’s not my sandwich!’” Ochoa says, flinging a card.
Cody groans. “Bro, you are terrible at storytelling.”
“I’m visual,” Ochoa argues.
“You’re loud,” Cody says with a smirk on his face.
Cope leans back. “And bad at cards.”
Ochoa gasps. “Say that again.”
“Bad. At. Cards.”
The table erupts. You watch them, smiling to yourself. It’s weirdly nice seeing everyone act human for once, nothing other than chaos and unfortunately, coffee breath.
—
By mid-morning you head outside. The air’s crisp, the sun warm but not too warm. A few guys throw a football near the training field, others nap in the grass like they’re on a field trip.
You’re halfway through a slow perimeter lap when someone falls into step beside you.
“Alvar.”
You don’t need to look. The voice gives him away.
“Slovacek,” you say, keeping your tone casual. “Didn’t peg you as a walk-for-fun type.”
He shrugs. “I’m not. Just got bored inside.”
“Not into Ochoa’s sandwich drama?”
His mouth twitches. “He could make reading a cereal box sound like a crisis.”
You laugh. “Accurate.”
You walk in easy silence, the comfortable kind, not the awkward one. His hands stay tucked in his pockets, and the wind brushing through your hair softly.
“So,” you say, “what do people usually do on our one day off from hell?”
“Sleep. Pretend we’re not here. Complain about how sore we are.”
“Wow. How thrilling.”
“You’d be surprised how good boring feels.”
You bump his arm lightly. “You saying I’m ruining your boredom?”
“Little bit.” His tone is dry, but the smile gives him away.
“I can leave you to your thrilling activities, then.”
“Didn’t say I wanted you to.”
That one catches you off guard. You arch a brow. “So you do want company?”
“Depends on the company.”
You pretend to consider this. “You could find Santos. He tells better jokes.”
“Yeah, but you roll your eyes better,” he says.
Your stomach flutters a bit. “That’s not a compliment.”
“Sure it is. Means you’re paying attention.”
“Or annoyed.”
“Same thing, usually.”
He looks at you, but really looks. A held, steady gaze that dares you to look away first. You don’t. He breaks first, the corner of his mouth tugging up.
—
You end up on the bleachers overlooking the field. He leans back on his elbows, squinting at the sky.
“I forget the sky can look… normal,” you say.
“Without smoke or yelling?” he asks.
“Exactly.”
He smirks. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I’m fully getting used to it.”
For a while you sit in companionable quiet, trading small, easy observations. His rhythm is unhurried, every word deliberate.
Then he says, “You don’t act like an officer’s kid.”
You blink. “Meaning?”
“Most of them talk like their parents are listening.”
“Oh, so you think I don’t?”
“You talk like you’re listening.” He pauses. “It’s different.”
You’re not sure what to say for a second. “You always this observant?”
“No, but you learn a lot about a person by just watching them.”
“Do you watch me?” you ask, joking.. kind of.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Sometimes.”
Your pulse jumps. “…And what have you learned?”
He taps his knee. “You try to hide when you’re nervous.”
“I, no, I don’t.”
“You do. You dig your finger nails into your palm.”
You glance down. Sure enough, you’re doing exactly that.
He gives you a quiet, victorious smile.
“You’re impossible,” you say.
“That’s the rumor.”
—
The afternoon drifts by, football yelling, burnt popcorn, Ochoa singing like a dying radio. The usual base chaos.
You and Slovacek walk back slowly.
“You ever take a break from analyzing people?” you ask.
“Not really.”
“That must be exhausting.”
“Only when they’re boring.”
“So I should feel honored?”
“You should.”
“You’re different today,” you say.
“Day off,” he replies. “Even I get to act human.”
“You? Human? In the same sentence? Shocking.”
He snorts. “I could still outrun you.”
“You can outrun a cheetah.”
He gives a quiet laugh and shakes his head. “You’re trouble.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
You reach the barracks steps. For a moment neither of you moves.
“Same time next Saturday?” you joke.
He meets your eyes. “If you survive ’til then.”
“Well, you’re an optimist.” You say sarcastically.
“Realist.” Then, softer, “But I wouldn’t mind it.”
He walks inside before you can say anything back.
—
Later, you’re sitting inside and Santos elbows you.
“You were gone a while.”
“Walked the perimeter a couple times.”
“With Slovacek.”
“Maybe.”
He grins. “That guy barely talks to anyone. You paying him?”
“I’m just charming.”
“Or he’s bored.”
You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, laughing.
“Whatever you say, Alvar.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.
—
The next morning you wake to shuffling boots and the smell of burnt instant coffee. Santos is humming like an over-caffeinated bird.
“It’s Sunday,” you groan. “Why are you alive?”
“Mckinnon said ‘light schedule.’ Marine version of vacation.”
Cope groans. “If this is vacation, I want a refund.”
You crack a grin while rubbing your eyes. “I’m with ya there.”
Ochoa tosses him a canteen. “Hydrate, princess.”
Cody reads a letter on his bunk, John punishes the floor with push-ups. It’s loud and annoying, but better than being outside in a mud puddle on a random Tuesday.
You’re pulling on your jacket when Slovacek walks in, towel around his waist, morning light catching the scar across his nose.
“Morning, Alvar.”
“Morning, Slovacek.”
He nods at your boot. “You missed a loop.”
You glance down. “You always care this much, or only when it’s me?”
“Just when it’s you.”
You blink. “That sounded like flirting.”
“Then I said it right.”
Your cheeks flush up as Santos snickers behind you.
“Oh this is gonna be fun to watch.”
“Leave.”
He leaves, but smirking.
—
The mess hall is loud and smells like eggs. Slovacek sits across from you with Santos and McAffey.
Ochoa is trying to barter fruit cups with Cope next to you.
“You don’t even like peaches!” Ochoa says.
“It’s the principle,” Cope replies.
Santos leans toward you. “We’re gonna die of stupidity.”
“We’re?” you joke.
Slovacek stirs his coffee. “Plans for your first Sunday off-duty?”
“Survive like yesterday. Maybe read.”
“Read?” he repeats dramatically. “In this economy?”
“And you?”
He thinks. “Run. Clean my rifle.”
“Wonderful.”
“Last time I relaxed, Ochoa convinced me to iron his shirts.”
Ochoa yells next to your ear, “THEY LOOKED GREAT, THOUGH!”
Slovacek points his fork at you. “See? Never again.”
You grin.
—
After breakfast, McKinnon announces light paired field-navigation drills. Groans erupt. You get paired with, of course, Slovacek. Santos mouths good luck surviving that.
The sun is high but the air’s cool as you head out to the range. Your task is to follow a compass route, find three checkpoints, return before noon.
Slovacek hands you the map. “Good with directions?”
“I once got lost playing hide-n-seek in my own home.”
He smirks. “This will be educational then.”
You walk through the bushes, boots crunching. The world outside the base feels wider and somewhat safer.
You joke, “So, is this like our first official date?”
“You always joke when you’re nervous?” he asks.
Great, you think. Your fingernails are now in contact with your palms.
“Only around intimidating people.”
“Intimidating?”
“Tall. Serious. Scar. Big vibe.”
He laughs. “Didn’t know I had a vibe.”
“Oh, you do.”
He steps closer. “And what’s my vibe?”
“You’re like one of those big bicep, action-movie protagonist.”
He hums. “New one. Usually I get ‘grumpy.’”
“Well, that’s not far off either.”
Next thing you know, at the ridge for checkpoint one, you slip on loose dirt.
“You good?” he calls.
“Fine. Bonding with nature.”
He reaches out a hand. You take it. His grip is warm, steady, and he doesn’t let go right away.
“Thanks.”
“You make it dramatic.”
“Graceful distress,” you say.
“Ten out of ten.”
Checkpoint two is easier. As you write down coordinates, you feel him watching.
“What?” you ask.
“You take this seriously.”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“Yeah. It’s good. Most people don’t.”
“Guess I’m not most people.”
“I know.”
—
Santos and Cope cross paths with you at checkpoint three.
“We’re beating you!” Santos yells.
“You got lost!” Slovacek fires back.
“The journey matters!”
“Try surviving it!”
You laugh as Cope drags Santos away.
Slovacek hands you the compass again, his fingers brushing yours deliberately. “Lead the way.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“Oh, I trust you.” His tone dips, warm, teasing. “I just like watching you prove me right.”
It takes you a second to catch the flirting wrapped neatly inside the calm delivery.
“Whatever you’re doing you better stop it,” you say, your nails leaving marks on your palms.
He shrugs. “You started it.”
—
You reach the finish line first. Santos collapses dramatically.
“THEY CHEATED!”
Slovacek smirks. “Maybe train harder.”
“Maybe shrink your legs!”
Everyone laughs. Even your father cracks nearly half a smile, it made you realize that you haven’t had a real conversation since you two got here.
—
Later, after chores, you sit on the barracks steps. The sun’s dipping when Slovacek appears, tossing you a water bottle.
“Truce gift.”
“For what?”
“Trying to intimidate you this morning.”
“You failed miserably.”
“Did I?”
“You smile too much to be intimidating.”
He leans against the railing, shoulders nearly brushing yours. “I’ll work on it.”
“Don’t. It’s kind of an improvement.”
He pauses, just half a second before laughing quietly. “You’re dangerous when you compliment people.”
“And you’re dangerous when you smile.”
His eyes catch the light as he looks over at you. “Guess we’re both in trouble, then.”
You sit there for a long time. Talking about nothing, music, food, normal life. Every so often your arms brush. Neither of you move away. When he finally stands, the sky is a pretty pink-gold color.
“Are we going to be a team again tomorrow?” he asks.
“I don’t pick the teams.”
“Then I’ll request it.”
“Confident.”
“Persistent.”
He steps down, pauses, glances back.
“You missed a loop.”
You check your boot, perfectly tied. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah,” he says, smile soft and knowing. “You did.”
He leaves before you can say anything smart.
Santos appears from nowhere. “You two done flirting in Morse code yet?”
“Go bother Cope.”
He snickers. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
You roll your eyes, but the smile stays.
“He’s so hard to read, it’s driving me insane” You say as you lay your head on his knee. He doesn’t respond, but you know he understands.
—
After a little you lift your head away from Santos, a sign that he could leave, and he did. You sit there for a few more minutes and head back inside.
You’re halfway back to the bunks when you hear it.
“Y/n.”
Your father’s voice cuts through the distant chatter like it has rank over the noise itself.
You freeze. Of course he’d find you now, with your pulse still misbehaving from the entire Slovacek situation.
You turn slowly. “Sir?”
He stands under the overhang of his office door, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. But you recognize the little tell, the crease between his brows that means he saw something.
“Walk with me,” he says.
You fall into step beside him, boots squeaking against the marble floors. He doesn’t speak at first. Just lets you sweat. Classic.
Finally, “I heard you won first place in today’s comp.”
“Yes, sir.”, you gulp.
“With Slovacek.”
You try not to react. Which probably makes you react more.
“It was assignment rotation,” you say. “He didn’t choose me.”
Your father glances at you. “Did you choose him?”
Your stomach drops. “Sir,”
“That wasn’t a no.”
You inhale sharply, cheeks heating. “We were doing our job. That’s all.”
Your father walks a few more steps before speaking again, voice low but not unkind.
“You’re my kid. I know what you look like when you’re trying to downplay something.”
You clench your jaw. “There’s nothing to downplay.”
“Uh-huh.” He stops, turning to face you fully. “Listen. I’m not here to interrogate you. Or… police your every move.” His voice softens in a rare way. “But you’re in my command. And these are Marines. They’re not careful the way I’d like them to be around you.”
You try to swallow the knot in your throat. He’s not wrong, but it still stings.
“I can handle myself.”
“I know you can.” He studies you, a tiny sigh slipping out. “That’s the part that scares me.”
For a second, you see something real crack through his usual steel. Worry. The kind he’d never admit to in daylight.
You look away. “If this is about Slovacek,”
“It’s about any of them,” he interrupts. “But yes. Him especially.”
You blink. “Why him?”
Your father hesitates, instantly suspicious “He’s… competitive. Intense. The type who doesn’t back down from something he wants.”
Your breath betrays you at the word wants.
Your father notices that too. Great. Perfect.
“Just be cautious,” he says, tone turning firm again. “No one out here is worth you getting distracted.”
You almost laugh. If only he knew how distracting that man already is.
“Yes, sir,” you say instead.
He watches you for a moment longer, as if trying to read whatever you aren’t saying. Then he nods once, sharp.
“Get inside before lights out.”
You turn to go, but he calls your name one more time.
“And Y/n?”
“Yes, sir?”
His expression softens a bit. “You’re doing well here. Better than most of them. Don’t let anyone dim that.”
It hits you harder than expected. You straighten.
“No one will, sir.”
He nods, satisfied, already shifting back into Sergeant mode as he heads back toward his office.
You watch him go, a strange mix of pride, frustration, and adrenaline twisting in your chest.
By the time you reach the bunks, one thought keeps circling your mind like a radio signal you can’t shut off: Slovacek is going to be a problem. And you’re absolutely not sure you want him not to be.
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my smut account: @kazerine xx
NOTES - stayed up all night writing this, finished it on the bus lolol. i hope you’all like it! again, any&all suggestions/thoughts are welcome, feel free to message me. also — if you’d like, leave a comment and let me know if you like these longer chapters or want shorter ones. xx
The bugle blows at five. You jolt awake, almost fall out of the bunk, and immediately regret every life decision.
“Move, move, move!” someone yells down the hall.
Around you, the guys are already up, pulling on boots, buttoning shirts, moving like they rehearsed it in their sleep. You try to follow, fumbling over your laces.
“You’re too slow,” Slovacek says as he passes, voice low, calm.
“I’m aware,” you mutter.
He smirks just slightly. “Thought I’d make sure.”
You line up behind the others outside. The air’s still cool and the ground damp. Your dad stands in front of the platoon, hands behind his back, his face straight and serious as always.
“Today, we see what you’re made of,” he says. “Teams of two. Endurance course. You’ll have to rely on each other. If one fails, you both fail.”
Pairs start forming. You scan the crowd, trying to spot Santos. He waves you over.
“Guess we’re teammates again,” he says.
“Lucky you,” you reply.
“Damn right.”
—
The course looks like something built to make people cry. Mud pits, ropes, wooden walls, barbed wire, and tunnels.
You start running. Santos sets the pace, steady and fast. You try desperately to keep up.
“Don’t slow down,” he says between breaths.
“I’m not slowing down, I’m just” Your foot hits a patch of mud. You nearly faceplant.
He grabs your arm, steadying you. “You were saying?”
“Testing gravity.”
He laughs, still running. “Gravity works. Confirmed.”
You hit the wall next. It’s taller than you expected. You wipe mud from your hands and look at Santos.
“You first,” he says.
“I weigh more than you think,” you warn.
“Then I’ll catch you,” he says, easy as breathing.
You climb halfway, slip, and feel his hands shove you up from below. You grab the top edge, haul yourself over, and look down at him.
“Not bad,” he yells over all the noise.
“You doubted me?”
“Only a little.”
He makes it over in one jump.
Show-off
By the end, you’re covered in mud, breathing hard, but laughing. The sun’s up now, glaring.
“Not bad for day two,” Santos says, offering a high five.
You slap his chest weakly. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
He grins, bright, easy, and it makes the morning feel a little less miserable.
—
Back in formation, the drill sergeants yell names and times. Slovacek’s team finishes first, obviously. He stands tall, arms crossed, and barely sweating.
When his eyes meet yours, he tilts his head just slightly. It’s not a smile, not quite a challenge either, just acknowledgment that I made it out.
Santos leans in, voice low. “That guy’s like a machine.”
“Yeah,” you say. “A rude one.”
He chuckles. “Don’t let him get to you.”
“I won’t,” you say, though you’re already watching Slovacek talk to one of the instructors, completely unreadable.
—
Breakfast is louder today. The nerves have burned off; people are actually talking. You sit with Santos. He’s halfway through his oatmeal when a guy across the table introduces himself, bright smile, light eyes, loud voice.
“Nash,” he says simply.
“Alvar,” you say.
He nods. “Saw you out there. You don’t quit easy.”
“Thanks,” you reply, surprised.
Next to him, another recruit cracks a grin. “She fell in the mud, though.”
“Only once,” you shoot back.
“I’m Ochoa,” he says, grinning wider.
“Resident comedian” Nash replies.
“Noted.”
Santos leans back. “Don’t encourage him, Nash. He’ll never stop.”
“Too late,” Ochoa says, smirking.
The banter is fast and familiar. It makes you feel less like the outsider.
Across the room, Slovacek sits with a few others, loud as usual. You catch him glancing over once before he looks away.
Santos follows your gaze. “You really trying to figure that guy out?”
“I’m not trying to figure anyone out.” I lie.
“Sure,” he says, smiling. “You just keep accidentally staring.”
You throw a piece of bread at him. “Eat your oatmeal.”
He laughs, dodging it. “Ma’am, yes ma’am.”
—
By the afternoon, you’re assigned to cleaning duty. Santos and you get stuck scrubbing floors. He hums under his breath, some song you half-recognize.
“This is depressing,” you say.
“It’s building character.”
“Well, this character smells like bleach.”
He laughs. “You really hate it here, huh?”
“I don’t hate it,” you say. “I just… don’t know where I fit.”
“You’ll find it,” he says. “People like you usually do.”
“People like me?”
“Yeah. The ones who don’t quit. Besides, you fit in fine with me.”
You look at him, and he just shrugs, smiling like it’s obvious.
—
Later, during free time, you sit outside on the steps, notebook in hand. The sky’s going pink over the treeline.
“Writing a resignation letter?” a voice says behind you.
You look up. Slovacek stands there, arms crossed.
“Just notes,” you say.
He nods toward the notebook. “You do that a lot?”
“Yeah. Helps me remember things.”
He sits a few steps below, elbows on his knees. It’s the first time he hasn’t looked like he’s in a hurry to be anywhere else.
“Your partner did alright today,” he says.
“Santos?”
He nods.
“So did you,” you say. “You finished first.”
He glances back at you. “You noticed.”
“Kind of hard not to.”
He smirks faintly. “You’ll catch up.”
“That a challenge?”
“No,” he says. “It’s a fact.”
The way he says it isn’t arrogant, just sure.
You smile softly. “Guess we’ll see.”
He stands, brushing off his hands. “Don’t stay out too long. Tomorrow’s worse.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
He walks off without looking back.
Santos passes him on the way up the steps, nodding. “You good?” he asks you.
“Yeah.” You close your notebook. “Just trying to keep up.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”
You nod.
The night settles over the base, soft and quiet. For the first time, it doesn’t feel suffocating, just still
—
The next morning starts like every other. Too early and too loud.
“Up and out!” McKinnon’s voice echos down the hall. Boots hit the floor. You’re halfway through tying yours when Santos throws a towel at your head.
“You move like you’re underwater,” he says, laughing.
“I am underwater,” you mutter. “Just emotionally.”
He snorts. “Come on. You’ll wake up once they start yelling.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
You line up outside same as yesterday, the grass wet from rain the night before and the sky still pale. Your dad’s there, clipboard in hand.
“Today’s your first full competition drill,” he says.
“You’ll be divided into groups. Teamwork and quickness will count as points.”
A collective groan rolls through the ranks.
“Complaints already?” he asks, voice sharp. Silence follows.
“Didn’t think so, move.”
—
Your squad ends up being you, Santos, Slovacek, Cope, McAffey, and one of the Bowman twins, but the loud one. John. He’s already talking like you’ve been best friends for years.
“Alright, people, listen up,” John says, clapping his hands. “We’re gonna win this thing.”
“Relax,” McAffey says, steady and even. “It’s not a war.”
“Everything’s a war,” John replies, grinning.
Cope rolls his eyes and I follow right after. “You must be exhausting to share a bunk with.”
John grins wider. “Ask my brother.”
“Please don’t,” Santos murmurs.
Cope stifles a laugh. Slovacek doesn’t say anything, just adjusts his gloves and scans the field like he’s already strategizing.
Your team starts with the rope climb. It’s taller than it looked yesterday.
“Alright, who’s first?” Santos asks.
John cracks his knuckles. “Obviously me.”
He scales it fast, hits the bell at the top, and slides down like he’s auditioning for a movie. When he lands, he spreads his arms like he expects applause.
McAffey claps once and you speak. “Congratulations. You survived gravity.”
Cope snickers.
When it’s your turn, you hesitate for half a second. The rope feels rough and heavy. You grab on and start climbing. Halfway up, your arms start to shake.
“You’ve got it,” Santos calls from below.
You grit your teeth, push through, and slap the bell at the top. The cheer that goes up feels better than it should. When you slide down, Santos grins. “Not bad.”
Slovacek just nods once, quiet. “Efficient,” he says.
It sounds like a compliment, even if it’s delivered like a report.
—
The next station’s worse. Crawling through mud under barbed wire. John goes first again, obviously. Santos follows, smooth and fast. You’re halfway through when someone’s boot clips your arm.
“Watch it,” you hiss.
“Keep up, Alvar,” John says, not even turning around.
You grit your teeth, shove forward. The mud seeps through your uniform, cold and heavy. By the time you crawl out, you look like a swamp creature.
Cope helps you up, pulling you by the wrist. “You okay there?”
“Define okay.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I’m with you there.”
Slovacek climbs out behind you, brushing off his sleeves. “Next time, stay closer to the line,” he says.
“I was in the line,” you shoot back.
“You drifted,” he says, raising his voice slightly. “Makes you a bigger target.”
“I’ll try not to get metaphorically shot next time.”
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes flick sideways, amused, maybe. It’s hard to tell.
—
The last course is a timed run. Everyone’s wiped. Mud, sweat, bruises. Your lungs feel like they’re on fire.
“Teams of two,” your dad calls. “You and your partner finish together or not at all.”
You look at Santos, ready to move, but John steps forward first. “I’ll take the lady.”
You blink. “Why?”
“Balance,” he says with a grin. “You’re light, I’m fast. We’ll crush it.”
Santos opens his mouth to argue, but Slovacek cuts in. “I’ll pair with you, Santos.”
John slaps your shoulder. “Try not to slow me down, hot stuff.”
“Oh, I’ll do my best,” you mutter.
—
The whistle blows. You take off. John’s faster than you, longer strides, all energy and noise. He shouts over his shoulder, “Come on, Alvar! Move!”
You push harder, matching his pace. Halfway through, he trips on a rock and goes down hard, muttering something that would probably earn him a couple extra push-up sets if your dad heard it.
“You okay?” you ask, stopping.
“Keep going,” he grunts.
“I’m not leaving you.”
He tries to stand, limping. “I’m fine.”
“You’re wasting time.” The frustration hits him fast. “This is your fault,” he snaps suddenly.
“My fault? You fell!”
“You hesitated earlier. You slowed me down.”
Before you can answer, Slovacek and Santos pass you both, silent and in sync. Neither of them look at you as they go by, but Santos’ jaw tightens.
By the time you and John finish, you’re dead last. He limps the final stretch, muttering curses under his breath.
Your dad blows the whistle again. “Squad six, last place.” His gaze lands on you. It’s angry and you can feel the disappointment right away.
John starts, “Sir, if she hadn’t”
“That’s enough,” Slovacek says from nearby, voice sharp. He steps forward just slightly, not looking at you. “It wasn’t her fault. He tripped.”
Your father raises a brow, then nods once. “Then maybe you all need to work on communication.” He turns away.
—
Later, when the others head to wash up, you linger near the field, trying to scrape the dried mud off your boots.
Santos jogs over, still catching his breath. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Fine.”
“John’s an ass sometimes,” he says easily. “He’ll get over it.”
“He can keep it,” you reply. “I didn’t ask him to trip.”
“Exactly,” Santos says, grinning. “And hey, you didn’t leave him. Most people would’ve.”
“Guess I’m a sucker for teamwork.”
“Or moral guilt.”
“Both.”
He laughs, heading back toward the platoon. “C’mon. Chow’s soon. You earned it.”
You stay behind a minute longer. The field’s quiet now.
Slovacek’s there, near the rope climb, cleaning his hands with a rag. He looks up once.
“Nice work,” he says.
You frown. “We came in last.”
“You didn’t quit,” he says simply.
You shrug. “Low bar.”
“Not around here.”
He tosses the rag over his shoulder, turns, and walks off.
For a guy who barely speaks to me, he sure says a lot.
You spend the rest of the day eating, writing, and sleeping.
—
McKinnon’s voice hits like a gunshot: “Rise and move!”
You roll out of bed, lights in your face, boots hitting the floor before your brain catches up. Same old, same old, except, Santos groans from a few bunks down.
“You ever think maybe he enjoys yelling that much?” he mutters.
“Absolutely,” you say, dragging on your jacket. “He probably practices in the mirror.”
Santos grins, eyes still half-shut. “Wouldn’t be surprised.”
Outside, the air’s cool and damp, the field lined with fog. You line up, trying to look alive. Dad’s at the front, clipboard in hand, angry expression as always.
“Today,” he starts, “we focus on endurance. Team pacing. Cooperation.”
Translation: you’re running until someone throws up.
—
You do laps until the sun’s high. John Bowman’s the first to complain.
“Sir, permission to”
“Denied.” He cuts him off.
Santos snickers. You bite back a smile.
By the last lap, your legs feel like cement. Slovacek passes you twice without breaking pace. He doesn’t look tired just focused and calm. When you finish, he’s already standing near the bleachers, barely breathing hard.
“Show-off,” you mutter.
He glances over, one brow slightly raised. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” you say, wiping sweat from your forehead.
He steps closer, that small smirk forming. “Didn’t sound like nothing.”
“Must’ve been the wind,” you shoot back.
He chuckles, low, short. “You’ve got spirit. I’ll give you that.”
“Is that drill-sergeant code for you’re slow but amusing?”
“Maybe.” He tilts his head slightly. “You keep up better than half the guys here.”
“Half isn’t good enough.”
“It’s a start.”
He walks off, and you can’t help but watch him go. There’s something steady about the way he moves. All control, no noise.
unlike me.
—
After drills, you’re assigned maintenance duty, again. The military version of detention. Mops, buckets, endless floors. Santos hands you a broom. “Ever cleaned a tile this shiny before?”
You ignore him.
Cope, mopping nearby, joking. “That’s the spirit.”
McAffey’s beside him, quietly efficient. The two of them work like it’s the most fun thing to do in the world.
Cope glances up. “So, Alvar, rumor says you and Bowman wiped out yesterday?”
You roll your eyes. “Rumor travels faster than common sense around here, n’plus you were there.”
McAffey grins. “He deserved it. Guy talks like a motivational poster with brain damage.”
Santos chokes on a laugh. “That’s accurate.”
You smirk. “You all really hate him that much?”
“No,” Cope says. “We just enjoy it when he loses.”
Fair enough.
You work in comfortable silence for a while. The sound of water sloshing and brushes scraping fills the hall.
—
After lunch, you get a rare hour off. Half the guys are writing letters or sleeping with their boots still on. You sit by the open window with your notebook. The breeze smells faintly like dust and metal.
You start jotting down whatever sticks in your head: Santos laughs like he doesn’t care who hears, but he’s nice and I appreciate how he talked to me on day one. Cope talks too fast but he usually says something funny. Slovacek’s hard to read… and I don’t like that. Nash is cute but too dirty for me. Ochoa…
You tap your pencil a few times thinking of what to say about Ochoa. You look over to where he is and find him helping Slovacek clean his boots, or rather being forced to.
No thoughts.
John is okay, loud, but tolerable. He brags too much, he probably just has daddy issues, though. His brother, Cody is funny and somewhat confident which I think takes some balls. Mcaffey is cool. I have a friend-crush on him. Hopefully I can talk to him more.
“Writing about us?”
You look up, Cope again, grinning.
“Maybe.”
“Put me down as ‘best personality,’” he says, tapping his chest.
“Sure,” you say, “right next to ‘most humble.’”
McAffey leans against the bedpost. “You writing letters?”
“Not yet.” You say knowing you have no one to write to.
“You should,” he says simply. “Keeps your head straight. Even if you don’t send them.”
he speaks so.. perfect.
That sits with you. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”
They head out after a bit, leaving you with your thoughts and the hum of the ceiling fan. I write down the dumb things Cope told me to write.
Cope talks too fast but he usually says something funny.
Cope has the best personality, and is the most humble. Uses body language a lot. … McAffey always seems to have the perfect words for everything.. definitely taking notes.
—
Later that day, weapons drills. The air smells like oil and dust. Everyone’s quiet, focused.
You’re field stripping a rifle, careful with each step, when a shadow falls over you.
“You missed a pin,” Slovacek says.
You glance up, pretending not to notice how close he’s standing. “I was getting to it.”
He crouches beside you, steady and calm. “Mind if I?”
“Be my guest.”
He takes the rifle, showing you how to angle the tool just right. His hands move with the kind of confidence that comes from doing something a thousand times over. He looks like he works with his hands, a lot.
“See?” he says. “Pressure here, not there.”
“Right. Pressure on the pin, not the trigger. I’ll try not to shoot myself.”
He laughs quietly, the sound short and genuine. “Good plan.”
When he hands the rifle back, your fingers brush. He doesn’t move away right away, just lets the moment hang.
“You learn fast,” he says.
“Trying to keep up with the experts.”
“You’re not far behind.”
You glance up at him. “Was that a compliment?”
He smirks. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
He leans back slightly, eyes scanning your face for a moment longer than necessary. Then, softer, “You’ll do fine here, Alvar.”
He says it like it’s fact. Not reassurance or pity. Just certainty, which you find comforting.
Before you can reply, he’s already on to the next station.
—
Dinner’s louder that night. The noise of trays clattering, laughter bouncing off metal walls. Santos tells some wild story about accidentally setting off a smoke grenade during training last year.
“Whole place looked like a barbecue,” he says.
Nash’s nearly crying from laughing. “You did not!”
“I did. McKinnon still brings it up.”
McAffey shakes his head. “You’re lucky you only got thrown out.”
Santos shrugs. “Charm gets you far.”
“Charm gets you punished,” Slovacek says, sliding onto the bench beside him.
You think about his words for a second longer than needed. Charm gets you punished.
“Not everyone’s allergic to fun, Slo,” Santos fires back.
Slovacek cracks half a grin. “Fun’s overrated.”
You tilt your head. “You sure about that?”
He looks at you, but this time a smirk is spread across his face. “Depends who you’re having it with.”
Santos whistles. “Whoa, he does have a sense of humor.”
“Barely,” you tease.
“Careful,” Slovacek says, faint smile still there. “Keep that up, and I might start talking more.”
“Promises, promises.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re trouble, Alvar.”
You grin. “Takes one to know one.”
The others exchange looks, smirking, but no one says a word.
—
By the time lights-out rolls around, the laughter’s still echoing faintly in your head. Santos mumbles sitting by your bunk. “You’re settling in.”
“Guess so.”
“You and Slovacek getting friendly, huh?”
You roll your eyes even though he can’t see. “He’s just teaching me stuff.”
“Sure,” he says sleepily. “That’s what they all say before the notebook gets hearts in the margins.”
I smirk, thankful he can’t see it. “Go to sleep, Santos.”
“Already am.”
You laugh quietly to yourself, as he walks back to his bunk. Soon enough you’re staring at the ceiling until the dark hum of the room settles over everything.
please comment below / dm me if you’d like to be added to the tag list! - also, i do take requests for stories, fluff, smut, etc! - my smut account: @kazerine xx
