Richard and I sat shoulder to shoulder in the dim, dust-scented alcove of the restricted war archive, files spread out like offerings between us. Nathan had given us provisional clearance—one hour, no copies, no digital uploads. Just two pens, two legal pads, and more paper than I’d seen in months.
The quiet wasn’t awkward. It was intimate. Intentional. Every shift of paper, every scribble of notes, filled the space between us with unspoken questions. When our fingers brushed, I didn’t flinch, but I didn’t breathe either.
“Battle transcripts,” he said, sliding a folder toward me, voice low.
“Incident reports,” I murmured, passing him one of mine in return. Our knuckles grazed.
We worked in rhythm, the kind born of long hours and deep trust. Then I found something.
“Richard.”
He was b
