Quaritch doesn’t call full-room meetings unless something’s moving.
That’s the first thing I know.
The second is that I’m not ready to hear it.
We’re standing in the operations bay, holographic terrain suspended between us, reef topography rotating slow in blue light. The other recoms are focused, alert, leaning in.
I’m focused too.
Just not on the map.
“Recon sweep expands at dawn,” Quaritch says evenly. “Extended deployment. Could be a few weeks. Could be longer.”
A few weeks.
The words land heavy.
I don’t move.
Don’t react.
“Rotations will adjust accordingly. Lab assignments suspended during active mission cycles.”
Suspended.
Containment.
My pulse kicks once, hard.
Weeks.
I’ve been her night guard for months.
Every cycle.
Every shift.
She measures time by my boots.
And now—
Nothing.
“Wainfleet,” Quaritch says.
“Sir.”
“You’re forward unit.”
Of course I am.
I nod once. Controlled.
“Yes, sir.”
Meeting disperses in clean military motion. Orders distributed. Gear requisition lists flash across tablets.
I don’t move right away.
Weeks.
She’s never gone more than a day without hearing my boots on that grate.
I tell myself she’ll adapt.
She always adapts.
She’s stronger than they know.
But that doesn’t stop the tension tightening across my shoulders.
I step away from the holo-table and head back toward the barracks, keeping my pace measured.
Normal.
Unbothered.
Inside, it’s not that.
Inside it’s calculation.
Who takes containment in my place.
Which guard rotates in.
Whether they drag their boots.
Whether they kick the cot when they’re bored.
Whether they talk too loud.
Whether she hides more without me there.
Damn it.
I shove the thought down and start checking my gear.
Armor plates aligned.
Weapon clean.
Ammo sealed.
This is what I’m built for.
Not glass rooms and quiet breathing.
Not blind girls who listen for my steps.
My jaw tightens.
My Girl.
The word doesn’t feel reckless anymore.
It feels anchored.
Bonded.
Irrevocable.
Across the bay, Quaritch is reviewing flight paths.
He doesn’t glance at me.
Doesn’t need to.
I’m solid on paper.
Disciplined.
Loyal.
Reliable.
He doesn’t see the fracture line.
Not yet.
I seal the last clip into place and snap the locker shut.
Weeks.
I’ve stood on that night shift so long it stopped feeling like assignment and started feeling like routine.
Now it’s being pulled.
I lean my forearms against the locker for a second, breathing slow.
She won’t hear me tonight if I don’t go.
I check the wall clock.
I’ve got one more shift before deployment.
One.
My last one for a while.
The thought sits heavier than it should.
I push off the locker and grab my boots.
The laces feel tighter tonight.
I tie them carefully.
Because she hears everything.
She’ll know if I’m rushed.
She’ll know if I’m off-balance.
She doesn’t see tension.
She hears it.
I stand and roll my shoulders once.
Control it.
This is temporary.
Mission in.
Mission out.
Return to rotation.
But the part that bothers me isn’t the field.
It’s the gap.
The silence.
The fact that for the first time since we bonded, she won’t have my boots grounding the room.
And I won’t have her tail brushing against the air when I step in.
I step into the corridor.
The hum of the facility wraps around me as I move toward Lab C.
Every footstep echoes.
Measured.
Deliberate.
This isn’t goodbye.
It’s a gap.
That’s what I tell myself.
But something low in my chest doesn’t like it.
I pass two techs heading the other direction. They nod.
I nod back.
Professional.
Untouched.
Inside my head, it’s different.
She’ll hear the shift in my breathing if I’m not careful.
She’ll map the hesitation.
And I don’t want her unsettled before I even say it.
I slow my pace as the containment wing comes into view.
Red camera lights steady.
Glass reflecting corridor light.
One more shift.
One more night of her sitting near the center when she hears me.
One more quiet moment in the blind spot beneath the cot where no one watches.
Weeks.
I exhale slowly.
My Mate Alone.