John sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, thumb running over the rim of an old glass—empty, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t drinking tonight. Not after the shit show he just witnessed.

Ghost and Soap, drunk off their asses, had turned the barracks into their own personal circus. Ghost, usually so composed, had been parading around with a traffic cone on his head like it was his new helmet, while Soap tried (and failed) to do push-ups in full gear, shouting about “peak performance.” The two of them had finally knocked out, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

John wasn’t getting any sleep, anyway. He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight, exhaustion burning behind his eyes. Restless. Tired but wired.

His eyes flicked to his phone on the nightstand. Without thinking, he grabbed it, scrolling through his contacts, hovering over your name. Cyber department. Kept to yourself. Smart. A little too sharp for your own good. He hit call.

It rang once. Twice.

It was strange, thinking about how things had changed. You’d met years ago—before all this. Back when he was just another soldier passing through, and you were the one sitting behind a desk full of tangled wires and glowing screens, cracking codes and pulling up data faster than anyone else in the room. You weren’t supposed to be part of his world, but somehow, you ended up in it anyway. The sharp-tongued analyst and the grizzled soldier. A hell of a match.

And now? Now, you were his. Somehow.

A groggy, barely awake, “Hello…?” crackled through the speaker.

And the first thing out of his mouth was:

“You think pigeons have regional accents?”