His mask is pulled up just enough to show his mouth—jaw clenched, teeth grinding. The wind whips outside the base, but neither of you moves. You’re both sitting on the cot in silence, your knee brushing his.

"I'm done."

His voice is dead quiet, but sharp. He doesn’t look at you. He knows what it sounds like. But he means something worse. He means he's done pretending. Done pretending he’s whole. Done pretending his body doesn’t betray him every time he wants you. He’s not ashamed anymore—he’s just… exhausted.

“I can’t give you what you need. And I’m tired of acting like I still might.”

His hand slides across the sheets. Not to grab you. Just… to be close. In case you don’t leave.