Page 8 of Stalked By the Quartermaster

Frank

I watch, heart in my throat, as Captain Mitchell lays out the mission parameters to Caroline and Sam. His voice is like a blade—sharp and cutting through the tension in the room. “This intelligence is crucial,” he says, his eyes scanning over the two of them like they’re pieces of a chess game he’s determined to win. “Failure is not an option.”

Caroline stands there, all golden hair and steely blue eyes, soaking up every word like she's built for this sort of thing. And damn, if she isn't. She nods once, fiercely, her gaze never wavering from Mitchell’s. I can see it—the fire that sets her apart, burning brighter now as she processes the weight of what’s being asked.

"Understood, sir," she replies, and I swear her voice doesn’t even quiver. She's rock solid, my Caroline.

As they're dismissed, I hang back, watching her slip into prep mode. It's like her body moves on muscle memory alone, each piece of gear checked with meticulous care. She’s a machine, but the hottest damn machine I've ever laid eyes on. That focus of hers, it's laser-sharp, zeroing in on every little detail of her equipment. Her hands, steady and sure, run over the clasps and straps, ensuring everything's secure.

"Got everything you need?" I ask, trying to sound casual, but hell, my voice betrays the heat stirring inside me.

She looks up, those piercing eyes locking onto mine, and I’m hit with a wave of longing so strong it’s a wonder I don’t keel over. "Yeah, thanks to you," she says with a small smile that does funny things to my insides. Damn, she’s got no idea what she does to me. But then again, maybe she does. There’s something in the way she holds my gaze just a second too long.

"Remember, keep your head down out there," I tell her, the words rough with the effort it takes to keep them light.

"Always do, Frank," she replies, her voice low, intimate almost, and it shoots straight to my groin. The air between us crackles, and it's like the room gets smaller, hotter. She turns back to her gear, breaking the spell, but those few seconds linger, heavy and charged.

"Be safe, Caroline," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Will do, Sarge," she throws over her shoulder as she shoulders her pack. She moves out with Sam at her side, both of them the picture of dedication and resolve. I’m left standing there, grappling with the desire to follow her, to be there by her side. Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets, the ache for her company settling deep in my bones.

Come back to me, my badass, beautiful soldier.

The days bleed into nights, and each tick of the clock is a hammer to my chest. I'm restless, a constant itch under my skin that won't let up. When I close my eyes, it's Caroline's face I see—those piercing blue eyes that don't just look at you, they look into you. It's like she's carved from a part of me, leaving a space that nothing else can fill.

"Get it together, Donovan," I mutter to myself, hoisting another crate onto the stack with more force than necessary. The work is mindless, monotonous—the perfect kind of busy to drown out the noise in my head, but it’s no use. My hands might be moving on autopilot, but my thoughts? They're all tangled up with her, wrapped around every golden strand of her hair, every determined line of her jaw.

My buddies, they notice. Of course, they do. I'm the guy who always has a smartass comment ready, a laugh waiting to burst forth. But now, there's a distance in my eyes, a far-off look that tells them I'm miles away from this dusty storeroom in the bowels of the base.

"Hey, Frank, Earth to Sarge!" That's Rodriguez, waving a hand in front of my face like he's trying to clear smoke. "You planning on joining us for poker night?"

"Ah, not tonight," I say, voice flat, and I can almost hear the unspoken 'again' hanging between us.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs, but his gaze lingers, full of questions I ain't willing to answer.

I keep lifting boxes, sorting supplies, making lists—anything to keep my brain from spinning off to where she is. What's she doing right now? Is she safe? Does she feel this gnawing void stretching kilometers wide between us?

I grunt, slamming down another box harder than before. It earns me a few raised eyebrows, but no one says anything. They know better.

When the day bleeds out and I finally fall onto my cot, it's no respite. The ache is there, throbbing in time with my pulse. I want her here, I want her safe, I want her underneath me, over me, all around me. She's under my skin, in my blood, and I'm goddamn burning up with the need for her. Every moment we're apart is a slow, searing torture that no amount of work can soothe.

"Frank, you're not yourself lately," Tom's voice cuts through the monotony of my inventory check. He leans against the doorframe of the supply room, arms crossed, those dark eyes of his sharp with concern—or is it curiosity?

"Didn't realize I had an assigned self," I reply without looking up from my clipboard.

"Come on, man." His tone softens a notch as he steps inside. "You've been...distant."

Distant is one word for it. Haunted is another. Caroline's absence gnaws at me with every tick of the clock, her laugh echoing in my head like a siren's call I can't answer. But Tom doesn't need to know that.

"Got a lot on my mind, is all." The words are terse, clipped, hoping he'll take the hint and back off.

"Anything I can help with?" There it is again, that probing. Tom's good at this game, always digging for the next piece of intel that could propel him up the ranks. Can't blame him, though—ambition's in his blood.

"Appreciate it, but no," I say, turning a page with more force than necessary.

"Alright, just remember, we're here for you," he insists, and there's a flicker of something genuine there. For all his ladder-climbing, Tom's got his own demons, I can tell. Everyone here does.

"Thanks," I mutter, because what else can I say?

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