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Dean went, still laughing. “It’s not for me. It’s for you. I was the one who bought them, but...well, they’re from that little bakery you like.”

Marco’s eyes widened. “Eclairs?”

“Homemade from top to bottom,” Dean informed him, opening the door. “And don’t forget what I said. Talk to me, Marco, for both the good and bad.”

“I will,” Marco promised.

Dean winked as he stepped out, closing the door behind him. It took only a few seconds before Marco’s desire for sugary, fat-heavy pastries got the better of him, and he marched over to the paper bag. He stopped when he saw a folded piece of paper sitting atop the wax paper of each individually wrapped pastry.

Frowning, he reached in, took the paper out, and opened it to read the brief message.

I’m not apologizing. Be safe.

Marco groaned, knowing that handwriting from the times he’d seen reminder messages from Sloane scattered around him and Dean’s previous apartment. It had been Sloane who had probably told Dean to pick up the pastries, knowing they were Marco’s favorite. Then he’d had Dean slip in a note, which was Sloane’s normal, brusque style, yet he managed to convey perfectly that despite everything, he had Marco’s back.

Marco glanced at his phone and then at the letter in his hand.

“Jesus, we really do have similar taste in men,” Marco muttered, contenting himself with his life and a custard-filled eclair.

CARTER

Weekends for Carter since coming to Fort Dale had always been a sort of blur. They were excuses to spend his nights off base, wandering, drinking, or just existing away from any bullshit. Yet they’d changed since meeting Marco.

The weekend after their trip to the club had created a shift Carter couldn’t quite put a finger on. As he’d insisted, he’d shown up on Saturday with tacos. He had ended up snorting into the food when he realized that apparently, he liked his food a lot hotter than Marco, and the man had whined for a good five minutes over it. That was alright, though, because Carter had ended up with lettuce in his nose from laughing.

Sunday had been much the same, though they got pizza instead. Reynolds had been running Carter ragged due to whatever bug had crawled up his ass and died.

“I know you aren’t used to cleaning, coming out of some shithole, but I expect that floor clean enough to eat off,” the Sergeant had barked.

Only an hour later, he was screaming again. “Get that goddamn storeroom organized, Grant! Everything better be in its place within the hour!”

It was one order after another. Almost all of them had been screamed, and rarely did it go without some sneering comment.

“Tired, Grant? Thought you boys were supposed to be tough. Get to it.”

“Give me that look again, Grant, and you’ll find out what I can do to you.”

Carter had to grin and bear it, admittedly without the grinning. By the time he’d finally managed to get to Marco’s apartment, he’d felt ready to collapse. He’d barely been able to keep his eyes open as Marco sat beside him while Carter dozed on the couch, some sitcom playing softly on the TV.

It had also somehow changed his attitude toward the week. Instead of being stuck on the base for five days because he might end up with a night shift or a double without warning, he started to endure it. He found himself growing more irritable as the week pressed on, and even texting with Marco didn’t do much to alleviate his mood.

Then, worst of all, Friday came, and with the broadest grin Carter thought he’d ever seen on Reynolds, the Sergeant informed him that despite being promised at least part of his weekends for himself, he would be working a double.

“Yes, sir,” he’d told Reynolds through gritted teeth.

“Back to work, Grant,” Reynolds said, eyes glittering with amusement as Carter spun on his heel to march off.

It’s alright, Marco texted.Don’t let him get to you, Carter. It’s what he’s trying to do.

I fucking know that. That’s what pisses me off.

And if you get into trouble, you’ll never get to leave the base again.

There was that. Before, it had started to lose its effectiveness as a threat. The only reason he’d ever clung totrying, albeit half-heartedly, to keep himself in check was because being off base meant being away from Reynolds, away from the people on thebase he didn’t give a flying shit about, and the reminders of how he was probably going to be stuck on bases for the rest of his career.

Now, the threat meant not being able to see Marco. Carter still had no idea what to think of the man or what was happening between them. Marco hadn’t said anything, though Carter privately swore the man knew. Somehow, he just knew.

Carter didn’t date. That was all there was to it. He didn’t draw hearts on his journal at the mention of a guy. He rolled his eyes at love songs and sneered at romance books and movies. He’d long accepted that romance and dating were not a part of his life. Hell, even if hemighthave craved it with some part of himself, it wasn’t like there was or had been anyone who even bothered to pursue him and deal with him.