Free First to Burn by Anna Richland

last inch between their bodies even though he must not .
    He swung a second bag of cookies in the air as he pulled away and gave her the free-form salute perfected by Special Forces.
    She squeezed the big box until its seams creaked. The shameless bastard had grabbed her butteroons.
    * * *
    Wulf’s internal clock passed nineteen hours fifty-five minutes. He didn’t lurk next to the ready room door, but his team sensed not to get between him and the knob. He would answer when she knocked. At three minutes before eight, he heard two taps. He snapped the waistband of his army running shorts and counted to five before opening the door.
    He hadn’t been this close to Captain Chiesa in a workout uniform since the first day in the gym. A benevolent deity had issued her the smaller size T-shirt, and she hadn’t swapped it for the gray garbage sack most females wore.
    She cleared her throat.
    Remembering his manners, he looked at her face. Fuck. She was frowning. He beckoned her and Mir into the room. “Welcome to our humble abode.”
    Inside the door, Mir slipped off her sandals and barreled across the room to throw herself on a stack of embroidered pillows, but Theresa paused. “This is your ready room?”
    “Expecting camo netting?” Rugs on the plywood surfaces showcased the colors and textures of the Silk Road. On the walls, birds with black-and-gold tails cavorted with deer in shades of brown, while geometric red-and-black designs softened the floor.
    “Wondering what it keeps you ready for.”
    Before he could reply, Kahananui dimmed half the lights and announced, “Aloha, ma’am. Thanks for bringing our buddy. And now Cinderella is about to begin.”
    As Theresa bent to untie her running shoes, her black nylon shorts stretched across her ass like plastic wrap on cherry pie.
    Fuck good manners. He stared.
    Quiet, stifling as a sandpit, descended on the room until she shifted position to tuck her butt to her heels. She lowered her head, too, but not before he spotted the red color spread across her cheeks. Shit. She’d realized where every last eye had been plastered. His frown whipped the circle. Immediate conversations about the Yankees, whether frozen fish retained its texture in the mess and Cruz’s daily hypothetical— would you rather wake up as the Terminator or Linda Hamilton —where did he get those?—filled the dead air.
    Her eyes and posture had the awkward, blinking innocence of a colt, as if she might leap to her feet and stagger away, so he’d let her come to him. Instead of pointing to the pillows and low table he’d chosen, he summarized the movie plot in Pashto and told Mir where to sit. The nine-year-old grinned and grabbed Theresa by the hand as Wulf brought over the coffee tray.
    Good girl , he wanted to say, but the other guys understood enough of the language to catch him out, and they’d had his number since the cafeteria weeks ago. “Your beverage service, ma’am.” He said Theresa’s title as if it were an endearment, not a barrier. To a man who’d stolen Ottoman princesses, higher rank was not an obstacle.
    She laid three bags of cookies on the table before she lowered herself to the pillows, but her spine didn’t bend until Mir hugged her. He’d send the kid home with reams of paper and every government Skilcraft pen in camp to start her own school if she remained on his side.
    When he lifted the silver coffeepot, someone with a death wish snickered, but the modern custom of flashing a middle finger solved that.
    The opening credits hadn’t finished before someone called, “Sarge, pass a cookie?”
    Reaching across Mir to the bags in front of Theresa, he slipped a slice of nut and raisin roll onto a napkin and handed it away.
    “Wulfie, dude, me too.” This request came from the other side of the room.
    This time he handed a cranberry chocolate chip concoction past her. Inches from his forearm, her breasts rose as she inhaled and held her breath, but he mustered his