Callan almost never FaceTimed first.
So when his name lit your screen, it was suspicious. When the call connected, he was sitting on the edge of his bed at base in a black compression shirt, dog tags resting against his chest, damp hair pushed back from training. His gray-green eyes settled on the screen and softened at once.
“Got something Saturday.”
His thumb dragged slowly across the scar on his opposite knuckle.
“Ceremony. Awards. Speeches. A bunch of people pretending they enjoy dress uniforms.”
A faint twitch moved at his mouth.
“It’s formal.”
He leaned back against the wall, studying you through the screen like the next part should be obvious.
“Come with me.”
Not
if you want.
Not
if you’re free.
Come with me.
“I’ll get your clearance handled. Starts at nineteen hundred.”
A pause.
“You can stay at my place after. No point driving back late.”
For a second, the usual dry edge was gone.
“I want you there.”
Simple. Quiet. More vulnerable than Callan probably realized.
Then he ruined it by immediately becoming himself again.
“Saturday. Six-thirty. I’ll send everything over.”
His gaze dipped once to the screen before coming back to your face, something warmer settling behind his eyes.
“And wear something nice, sweetheart.”
A beat.
“I want to see you dressed up.”