...“You can use your other shirt to dry off,” Rafe said as he approached. “Do you have a change of pants, or do I need to go scrounging for some of those, too?”

Sullivan didn’t speak until he practically stood in front of the man. Rafe tried not to stare. He’d been imposing inside, but Rafe had assumed that was due in part to his being the strange face in the crowd. The mind filled in the threat. Not so, in this case. The threat had already been there, broader than any man had a right to be, so finely honed it was no wonder Strike soldiers were considered the deadliest weapons at the government’s command. A few wispy hairs curled around flat, dark nipples, and a similar trail arrowed down the center of his stomach to disappear into his pants, but the muscles didn’t need any further proof of testosterone to get their message across.

They said, Don’t fuck with me or I will rip your head off and drink from your brain stem.

He masked his morbid thoughts with a smile, waiting for Sullivan to respond.

“These are all I have.” His voice was softer than it had been inside, a distant rumble before a summer storm. “I’m sorry they’re so dirty.”

“That happens when you’re sleeping in ditches.” When Sullivan made no move to reach for his other shirt, Rafe bent and scooped it up for him. “We’ll find something for you. Don’t worry.”

No contact this time when Sullivan took the garment. He dropped into negative space again as he backed away to have room to finish what he’d started. “I don’t like taking advantage of your hospitality. Can I do something to pay you back?”

Rafe wished Mama had come out to hear the unsolicited offer. “We can work something out, if it’ll make you feel better. How long are you staying?”

“I don’t know. I know I’m not welcome.”

“Luther’s that way with everybody.”

“It’s not just him.” For several seconds, the only sounds were the rustle of his shirt over his skin and the buttons occasionally knocking against each other in tiny clicks. “People don’t like Strike. I know that.”

“You said you weren’t enlisted anymore.”

“I’m not.”

“So you’re not Strike.”

“That’s not what people see.” The shadows stopped dancing, and then there he was, the shirt dangling from his hand. “That’s not what you saw.”

It was dark enough for him to lie without worrying it would read in his face, but he couldn’t defend Sullivan to his mother and then refuse to trust him himself. Rafe was a lot of things, but a hypocrite was not one of them.

“But then you told me the truth,” he said. “It’s just a matter of making sure everyone else knows the truth, too.”

Sullivan traded him shirts without a word. His unwavering gaze only broke from Rafe’s when his head passed through the neck opening.

“Your uniform’s going to be a problem if you stick around for any time.” Rafe tried to assess him without making it clear he had more than a passing interest in Sullivan’s physical presence. It was a lot harder than he would’ve thought. Nobody behind the borders cared about sexuality anymore, not when history had given them more lethal things to worry about, but he knew the border cities were a lot more conservative. The last thing Chadwick needed was a Strike-trained soldier, furious that someone had the balls to be attracted to him. And it was a good thing his mother wasn’t around to witness his appraisal, or she’d be hauling Sullivan off to the sheriff’s, Rafe’s requests be damned. “I’ll have to wait until morning to fix that, though.”