The General

Chapter 10.

​The morning sun hadn't quite cleared the horizon when the back door creaked open, followed by the familiar, heavy tread of Archer’s combat boots. Briar was already in the kitchen, the air smelling of toasted grains and the sharp, acidic bite of her first cup of coffee. She was already dressed in her work clothes- a pair of comfortable leggings and a soft denim button-down, her hair pulled back into a messy but practical bun.

​"You’re early," Briar noted, not looking up from her list of special orders. "Again."

​"Early is on time, and on time is late," Archer chirped, grabbing a mug from the cabinet with the practiced ease of someone who still considered this kitchen his primary base of operations. He looked annoyingly awake, his eyes bright with the restless energy that seemed to be his default setting since he’d touched down on American soil. "Besides, Mom’s pancakes are worth a little sleep deprivation."

​Eliza emerged from her room a moment later, already tying her apron.

"Good morning, sunshine," she said, swatting Archer away from the bacon she had just started. "Where’s the General? I assumed you two were joined at the hip."

​"He’s finishing a call on the porch," Archer said, leaning against the counter. "High-level stuff. He’ll be in once the world is safe for another hour."

​True to his word, Victor stepped through the screen door a few minutes later. The transition from the cool morning air to the warm, yellow light of the kitchen seemed to sharpen his features. He was dressed in his tactical trousers and a tight black t-shirt that left absolutely nothing to the imagination regarding the work he put in at the gym. His eyes immediately found Briar, a silent acknowledgement of the "slow and steady" rhythm they’d shared over the fudge pot the night before.

​"Morning," he rumbled, the sound hitting Briar right in the center of her chest.

​"Morning, General," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt.

​As Eliza began flipping pancakes, Archer took his seat at the table, tapping a restless rhythm on the wood.

"So, the plan for today. We’re heading over to the obstacle course at the training grounds. I talked to the guys at the local reserve center, and they’re letting us use the facility. It’s a beast, Bri. Ropes, walls, mud- the works. You’re coming."

​Briar paused, her pen hovering over her notebook. She didn't even look up. "No."

​The silence that followed was broken only by the sizzle of bacon. Archer blinked, his mouth falling open slightly.

"No? What do you mean, no? We had a blast at the range yesterday. You proved you’ve still got the eye. Now I want to see if you’ve still got the lungs for a five-mile circuit."

​"I have work, Archer," Briar said firmly, finally looking at him. "A concept you seem to have forgotten exists during your leave. I own a bakery, remember? A small, thriving business that requires me to actually show up and bake things."

​"Oh, please, please!" Archer begged, leaning across the table like a sprawling teenager. "I want to see my sister! I’ve been gone for nine months, Bri. Nine months of MREs and sand. I deserve some sibling bonding time on the monkey bars."

​"You saw me yesterday. You saw me at dinner. You’re seeing me now," Briar countered, unimpressed by his puppy-dog eyes. "And it’s bad enough I left Kiara all by herself for the last three days. She’s been running the morning rushes solo while I played hostess. It’s not fair to her."

​"But you’re your own boss!" Archer argued, throwing his hands up. "The perks of ownership, right? You can just tell her you’re taking a personal day."

​"No," Briar said, her tone final. "Just because I’m my own boss doesn't mean I should power trip all over Kiara. She’s a person, not a machine, and she needs a day off. I’m going in, I’m putting on my apron, and I’m making two hundred sourdough loaves. That is my mission for the day."

​Victor watched the exchange from his seat, his arms crossed. He didn't intervene, but there was a flicker of respect in his eyes as he watched Briar hold her ground. He knew a thing or two about the weight of responsibility and the importance of looking after your subordinates.

​Archer slumped back into his chair, looking truly defeated.

"Fine. You win. Duty calls and all that." He cheered up almost instantly, a devious glint returning to his eyes. "But we’re visiting you at the bakery after we finish training. You can’t stop us from being paying customers."

​Briar sighed, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite her best efforts. "Fine. Go ahead. Just... try not to scare away my customers, please?"

​Archer furrowed his eyebrows, looking genuinely offended. "Scare away? Briar, I’m a nice person. I have a very approachable face."

​Briar let out a dry laugh, her gaze shifting between her brother and the mountain of a man sitting next to him.

"Look in the mirror, military man. You’ve been back for less than a week. You still walk like you’re looking for snipers on the rooftops. And the General..." She trailed off, her eyes lingering on the General’s stoic, granite-hewn face. "The General looks like he was carved out of a cliffside to guard an ancient tomb. Just looking at you guys can make a civilian want to run for cover or check their ID. Just... I don't know, smile while you're there or something? Try to look like you’re enjoying a cupcake and not conducting a reconnaissance mission."

​Archer turned to Victor. "Sir, can you smile on command? For the sake of the muffins?"

​Victor’s gaze remained fixed on Briar. The corner of his mouth did that microscopic twitch again- the one that Briar was starting to recognize as his version of a grin.

"I’ll do my best to remain... approachable," he rumbled.

​"Good," Briar said, grabbing her keys and her bag. "I’ll see you both this afternoon. If the shop is empty when you get there, I’ll know who to blame."

​She kissed her mother’s cheek and headed for the door. As she stepped out into the crisp morning air, she could hear Archer already telling Victor about the legendary status of Briar’s cinnamon rolls.

​The bakery, Knead to Know, was a sanctuary of flour-dusted surfaces and the comforting hum of the industrial ovens. Briar threw herself into the work, the repetitive motions of kneading dough and measuring ingredients acting as a balm for her overstimulated mind. She and Kiara worked in a synchronized dance, catching up on the gossip of the town while the shelves filled with golden-brown treasures.

​But as the afternoon rolled around, Briar found herself glancing at the front door more often than usual. She told herself she was just worried about her customer base, but every time the bell chimed, her heart did a strange little stutter that had nothing to do with sourdough.

​At exactly two o'clock, the bell didn't just chime; it seemed to rattle in its housing.

​Archer led the way, looking sweat-streaked and triumphant, his t-shirt clinging to his back. But it was the man behind him who truly altered the atmosphere of the shop. Victor Bennett stepped inside, and the three women sitting at the corner table immediately stopped talking. Even the background music- a soft indie folk track, seemed to shy away from his presence.

​He was still in his training gear, a light sheen of sweat making his tattoos look even darker against his skin. He stood in the center of the cozy, pastel-painted shop like an intruder from a much harsher reality.

​"Reporting for duty!" Archer announced, leaning over the counter. "We’re here for the goods, Bri. And I told Victor if he didn't try the lemon bars, I’d file a formal complaint."

​Briar wiped her hands on her floury apron, her eyes meeting Victor’s over Archer’s shoulder. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the room with that habitual intensity. Then, he remembered his promise.

​He looked at the elderly woman at the nearest table, who was staring at him with wide eyes, and he gave a stiff, agonizingly deliberate nod. It wasn't exactly a smile, but it was an effort.

​"He's trying," Briar whispered to herself, a warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the ovens.

​"Welcome to the shop, General," she said out loud, her voice clear and welcoming. "I hope the training ground didn't break my brother too badly."

​"He holds his own," Victor rumbled, stepping up to the glass display case. He looked down at the delicate pastries with a look of profound confusion, as if trying to figure out how something so small could exist in a world as big as his. "But I think we both underestimated the caloric requirement for this afternoon."

​"Well," Briar said, reaching for a box. "I think we can find something to fix that."

​As she reached into the case, Victor leaned in, his voice dropping so only she could hear it. "You were right, Briar."

​"About what?" she asked, looking up.

​"The walls," he said, gesturing to the warm, flour-scented room. "They know you here. I can see why you didn't want to leave them alone today."

​Briar felt a lump form in her throat. For a man who didn't have a home, acknowledging hers felt like the highest form of praise. She packed the box with enough treats to feed a small squad, her fingers trembling just a little when they brushed against the counter next to his.

​Archer was already digging into a cookie, but Victor remained still, watching Briar with an unblinking intensity that made the bakery feel a lot smaller than it had ten minutes ago. He wasn't just a customer; he was a weight, a grounding force that made her feel like, for the first time in a long time, she was exactly where she was supposed to be.