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Years have passed; ocean-lengths to London and Greenland. But Caleb knows him immediately.
Before his adventures at sea, Caleb scoured Setauket for mischief in his youth. Samuel was always with him, and his younger brother was never far behind. A bit chubby, Benjamin was. Soft around the edges but just as bold as his older brother. Eager to follow Caleb and Samuel on their ill-advised adventures.
The man seated at the head of the classroom is not the same boy who demanded to hear of the dangers and delights waiting for Caleb across the sea. Who hid tears when Caleb announced he was off on his first expedition.
Caleb teased Benny Boy for it, called him a sweetheart. Young Ben puffed himself up. He would be off to Yale soon, he boasted. He had already been deemed smart enough by the president of the university. "I'll have my own adventures," the boy vowed. "You'll see."
Caleb finds Ben on an unseasonably warm spring afternoon in Wethersfield, Connecticut. The schoolhouse sits on a green hill. A white building steepled like the church of Ben's father.
Ben sits at the teacher's desk, folded over a stack of manuscripts. His waistcoat is storm-gray, filled by a white workshirt beneath. One hand drums the table, fingers long and clean. The other pinches between his eyes. A loose piece of hair shields his forehead.
Ben looks tired and put out, two conditions Caleb doubts his presence will alleviate. But who knows? Caleb was always good at making Ben smile. "Your brother warned me you took books over a bride, Tallboy," he hails.
Ben's head snaps up. He squints at Caleb; center aisle, back of the room. Caleb must look different too; more muscle and hair. His beard is shorter than his usual preference. He thought it appropriate to clean up for a Yale man.
Ben springs to his feet. "Caleb Brewster?"
"Ah, so you have heard of me!" He laughs at Ben's abrupt embrace. Ben is much taller than Caleb remembers. His grip is strong. His body, lean. His slacks, far too fitted.
"Why didn't you message!?" Ben demands. He pulls back to examine his old friend. "Samuel had not heard anything since you set off from London. We feared you were lost!"
"Can't let Sammy Boy spoil all my surprises, can I?" Caleb frames Ben's face with his hands. His skin is warm and shaved smooth. His eyes, an enticing twist of anger and excitement. Thrumming with energy, ready to burst. Here is the Ben Tallmadge Caleb remembers.
Word of Ben's teaching post surprised Caleb. He has the mind for the task, undoubtedly. But the position is a prison, trapped inside brick walls. It does not suit the Ben he once knew. Even now, years apart, Caleb recognizes red rimming Ben's eyes. Exhaustion cracks through the honest joy of his smile.
"God, look at you," Caleb marvels. "Locked in a schoolhouse to keep from luring the ladies of Connecticut."
Ben laughs, though Caleb is only partially kidding. "Are you in town long?" he asks. "I must hear about your adventures, Caleb. Samuel shared what he could, but he left out the details."
"That's Sammy Boy for you," Caleb jokes. Reluctantly, his hands fall from Ben's face. "A pass through, that's all. I've been off the trade route for a few months. Not much coin to spend on room and board-"
Ben jumps in. "You'll stay with me," allowing no room for argument. "It's not much. But there's certainly room for two."
"Not much? Don't pay Yale men like they used to, eh?" Caleb's eyes twinkle.
Ben smiles, ignoring the tease. "I've missed you, Caleb," he says.
Caleb falls for him a little in this moment.
"Let me grab my things." Ben withdraws. "There's a tavern in the main square. You must be starving."
"Always!" Caleb chirps. "Some things never change, eh?"
"I'm glad for it." Ben packs away his papers and books. Tucks his brown coat over his arm. "Turned warm, hasn't it?"
"Early summer, I think," Caleb agrees. He nudges Ben's arm with an elbow as he passes. Ben scoffs, smiling.
Caleb follows him out, and tries not to stare too hard at his back. He fails.
***
Caleb agrees, Ben's residence is not much. But it is close to the school, clean, and has a small fireplace that comes in handy when the eve turns cold.
Caleb is on his fourth ale. Fifth, counting their dinner at the tavern across the green. A lively place, boasting the wealthier of Wethersfield's residents. And a buxom bar wench with a delightful name. Alycia.
The poor doll showered Benny Boy with every charm in her arsenal. Goldilocks curls and a sweet, dimpled smile. Her efforts yielded bemusement. "She quite liked you, didn't she?" Ben assessed to Caleb as they left.
"Virgins," Caleb quipped, pleased by Ben's scowl.
Behind closed doors, Ben has grown solemn. His gaze rests on the hearth. A mug of ale is propped on his thigh. Caleb sits at his side, a respectful few feet of distance between them. He would very much like to close the space, but Ben is in a serious mood. The weight of his temper keeps Caleb honest.
"Word of the turmoil reaches us daily," Ben says. "They believe it could turn to all-out war."
It will turn to war. Caleb has sensed this up and down the coast. Tensions are rising between the colonies and the British. Something will give, and it will happen soon.
"Will you stay here if it comes to that?" Caleb asks. Ben worries a lip between his teeth. His reaction is all the answer Caleb needs.
Caleb does not like the idea of Ben going to war. He certainly does not want Ben going alone. "You've spoken to your brother?"
"He shares my sentiments," Ben says. "Our lives have been dictated by the rule of an absent king for too long, Caleb. What life can our children hope for without freedom?"
"Ah, so you are planning to put that pipe of yours to good use," Caleb teases.
Ben snorts, but Caleb does not miss the color on his cheeks. "What news of our friends back home?" he asks. Firelight swims across his eyes.
Caleb grins at the diversion but answers dutifully. "All's well. The Woodhull boys are off at university. Rumor has it our Woody and Annie have become quite the pair."
"To the surprise of no one," Ben says. "His father will allow them to wed?"
"He'd better," Caleb quips. "Hard to marry without a magistrate." Ben hums and sinks back in his seat. Legs kicked out. Eyes glowing.
It's not right for the son of a reverend to be this damned tempting. Caleb chews a cheek until he can force his stare elsewhere. "I've considered enlisting when the time comes."
"Oh?" Ben regards him with surprise.
"What's that for?" Caleb pretends to bristle. "Can't see your old pal as a soldier?"
"Your bravery and loyalty are second to none, Caleb," Ben offers. "But..." he hesitates. "Following rules isn't your strong suit."
"Yale battered your imagination," Caleb informs him with a wink. He grows solemn. "What else am I supposed to do? Watch the whole damn trade go up in flames? I was meant to be on the water, Ben."
"You were."
"And who knows?" Caleb's mouth tips upward. "Maybe I'll get lucky. Fall under the rank and file of General Benjamin Tallmadge of Setauket."
Ben arches a brow. "General?"
"Colonel Benjamin Tallmadge of Setauket."
"They won't let a man a year removed from university-"
"Major Benjamin Tallmadge of Setauket."
Ben laughs, cheek resting on the back of his chair. "Caleb."
"Captain Benjamin Tallmadge of Setauket?"
"Caleb!" Ben catches his pumped fist, a poor attempt at restraining his enthusiasm.
"Lieutenant?" Caleb glances at their joined hands. "Can't go lower for a Yale man." Ben's chuckles taper into a comfortable silence. His hand lingers over Caleb's.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" Caleb asks.
The abruptness of the question makes Ben frown. "What?"
"Sleeping. Why aren't you sleeping?"
Ben pulls his hand back, a tick of his tongue over his bottom lip. "Why do you think I'm not sleeping?"
"Your eyes," Caleb presses. "When we were boys, you were the kid without a care in the world."
"Those days are past us." Ben combs a hair through his hair. "We know what we're up against." His gaze lingers on the fire.
"You don't have to fight," Caleb tells him. It's a losing cause, but he's never been good at biting his tongue. "You've got something good here, Tallboy. Teaching kids. Setting them up for-"
"For what? Death?" The word spits out, sour on the tongue. Ben shakes his head. "I can't stand still while life moves around me, Caleb. You know that."
Caleb nods. He does know.
***
"Tell me about Greenland."
They are the first words Ben has spoken since the final troops fled Long Island. Since the battle was lost. And, by all accounts Samuel too. Prisoner or dead? No way to tell in the melee that followed the defeat.
Ben and Caleb sit side-by-side in the grass. An officer should be closer to the center of camp. But Ben meets Caleb along the outer circle. It's quieter here, removed from the tents along the bank. Caleb produces a bottle of Madeira, and Ben does not ask how or when he acquired it. He downs most of it himself.
On a different night, Caleb might begrudge him for hogging the refreshments. But tonight, Ben is welcome to anything he'd like.
Ben came out of the fray in decent shape for one of his first battles. Dull, purple bruises cascade down his face. His shirt is frayed, dirty at the cuffs and splatters of blood on the midsection. Not his own, Caleb was quick to confirm.
"What is Greenland like, Caleb?" Ben's eyes shine wet in the low light.
Caleb should have been with the Tallmadge boys the whole time. But he wasn't. His company pulled up the flank. He could not protect the people who mattered to him. This damned war cost him that chance. Now, they're cut off from Long Island. From Ben's father, from Caleb's uncle, from the friends left behind. Setauket and its neighboring townships, littered with lobster backs.
"Caleb." Ben's voice strains.
Caleb steals the bottle back and takes a hearty swallow. "Well it ain't green, for one thing," he mutters, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Up to your arsehole in snow. Cold. Peak whaling though. Boys you meet in the brew holes on the coast? They've seen some things." He doesn't want to talk about this.
The drained bottle is set between them on the grass. Ben looks at it. Caleb looks at him. "He's alive, Ben," he says. "We've gotta hold on to that."
Ben blows out a breath. "Retreat, the captain said." His hands clench at his sides. "I knew Samuel was missing. I couldn't move. Even with his orders, I couldn't..." He shakes his head. "Our families are there, Caleb."
"I know."
"Our friends. Our lives."
"I know, Ben."
Ben forces out another breath. The bruises on his face stretch and distort. "He was right there. Samuel. He was with me, then..." His voice dissolves into the late summer air.
"Where are you off to next?" Caleb asks.
Ben presses a fist to his mouth. Anger and nausea, one in the same. Caleb knows the feeling. "South, I've heard," he replies. "But I doubt anything is certain after today. You?"
Caleb has no answer for him. His battalion may move on tomorrow. Caleb will make up his own mind once he knows where Ben is going.
***
"You shouldn't be here."
Caleb is too happy about locating Ben to be discouraged by his obvious disapproval. Or maybe the pleasure is from his many'th ale. In his defense, the bar wench here is the finest Caleb has seen in a long while. Genevieve is her name. Both dark and fair, a plunging jade neckline and rings of raven curls.
The tavern is on the waterfront. A warm, wooden place, glowing gold and inviting. A rare safe haven for Continental travelers. Ben's battalion has taken reprieve close to town for the night. Caleb's is not in the vicinity. This, for the moment, is none of Caleb's concern. Ben seems insistent on making it his own.
"Where should I be, huh?" Caleb knows better than to bait him. But fact is, he's tired of Ben's sudden passion for protocol. After the Battle of Long Island, Caleb thought they had an understanding. They should have been together that day. Their companies move of their own accord, but that has nothing to do with Caleb. His place is with Ben.
"They'll hang you as a deserter," Ben hisses. He looks furious, nervous, and desirable as ever. Mere months in the Continental Army have filled him out. Ben's body completes his uniform; white shirt tight in the sleeves, beige trousers tight elsewhere. His hair, tied back and bowed in spectacular braided order. Caleb wants to wreck every inch of him, hang them both.
"Let my lead catch sight of Genevieve here." Caleb dangles his mug out for a refill. He gets a coy smile for his efforts. Well-schooled, this Genevieve. "Only one thing's hanging tonight, Benny Boy. It ain't by the neck."
Ben never has a sense of humor about life's finer pursuits. It's a wonder he isn't blind yet, with that virgin pecker of his. But tonight, Ben's mood is even darker than usual. He glares at the wood counter, gulping his ale as if it's slighted him personally.
"Am I that sore a sight?" Caleb scowls. "Wasn't easy tracking you. If I knew you'd be an arse about it, I would have sought out kinder quarters."
"Of course I'm happy to see you, Caleb." The words are a sigh, fingers pinched between his eyes. Ben isn't sleeping again.
"Fine way of showing it." Caleb is sulking, but he can't be bothered to improve himself. The war is hell on all of them, not just Ben. Caleb has seen horrors beyond his comprehension. Boys hacked up like farm meat. Cannon fire in a herd of wide-eyed militiamen. Maggot-ridden food. Amputated limbs.
"I..." Ben glances at the bar maid when she tops him off. His mug bulges with a fresh head of white foam.
"Thank you, doll," Caleb offers for his mute friend. Genevieve curtsies before being hailed by a group of raucous foot soldiers.
Upon her retreat, Ben leans closer. "There are traitors within our ranks, Caleb."
"What?"
"Our last two mounts have ended in ambush. We've lost good men." A pause. "Good boys."
Caleb can't even muster a sympathetic wince. Isn't Tallmadge just a boy himself?
"Maybe scouting's an issue," Caleb suggests.
Ben shakes his head. "Scouting is an issue because it's ineffective. Our battalion falls under the command of a General Scott. He's..." a glower at his mug. "...unerringly traditional."
Caleb grins. "If there's one thing a Yale man hates, it's tradition."
"Tradition does not work against this enemy," Ben mutters. He eyes the tavern warily. "They invented the tradition. They know how to sabotage it."
The room has grown boisterous with new arrivals. Men, laughing and singing. Shouts across opposite ends of the room. Caleb's eyes trail Genevieve behind the counter. She bends to refill two mugs, her dress jutted out in a glorious curve.
He downs a mouthful of ale with a rueful grin. It's tragic, really. A fine woman like Genevieve, here to remind Caleb of his own vitality. That which he's wasting on the oblivious arsehole to his right.
Speaking of, Ben is glaring at him again. "Let's face it, Tallboy," Caleb says. "Sabotaging the system ain't tough right now. The army's not paying what it used to. Food's bad, other provisions are worse. All the redcoats need are a few coins pushed in the right direction."
"Cowards," Ben hisses. "Trading freedom for profit."
"For some." Caleb isn't sure why he's waging this battle. Maybe it feels good to fight with words over muskets. "A man's got to eat. That's the freedom this lot's fighting for. They're not getting it under Washington."
"Well then." Ben scowls, as if one look can judge an entire tavern. "Let their children grow old under the tyranny of a false king."
Caleb quirks a brow. "A little heavy on the brew, eh Ben?"
"Come off it," Ben snaps. He buries himself in his ale. Caleb is grateful for the chance to leave him be for awhile.
He uses the opportunity to examine the exquisite Genevieve in more detail. The perfect frame of her dress over her ample lower half. The chain around her neck. Her curls are like autumn leaves ghosting the slopes of her shoulders.
It's been far too many days since Caleb has seen Ben's hair out of its braid. He wonders how long it is now. Would it frame his face and tickle his neck? How would it feel between Caleb's fingers? Could Caleb make him sigh just with the stroke of his hands?
Genevieve waves and winks. Caleb smirks back, mug to his lips.
"Well, it seems you have your assignment for the evening." Ben pushes off his bar stool abruptly. "I'm getting a room."
Caleb raises a brow. "Finish your drink, Tallboy. It's bought and paid for."
"I've lost the taste for it," Ben mutters. He leaves Caleb alone at the counter.
Caleb does not stay long, despite all instinct and reason. If he were rational, he would allow Ben the space he clearly needs. He would also allow himself this reprieve. The war will only get worse as temperatures drop. Conditions were bad in the summer; Caleb can only imagine what they will become when the frost sets in.
There is also the lovely Miss Genevieve. She is too fair for him, a beacon in a sea of other suitors. But Caleb has caught her eye, and he owes it to himself to see how far he can carry her favor. Even one night's dabble is an opportunity to put the war aside. To be Caleb Brewster again, not company or rank. Not the fool pining over what he will never have.
But Ben's foul moods have a way of spreading. This one is a seed that sprouts of its own accord. The longer Caleb sits, the angrier he becomes.
He abandons his own half-full ale for the stairs to the rooms. Ben's rented space is at the end of the hall. Caleb announces his presence with a fist banged seven times in succession. "Open up, ya bastard."
Ben has the spine the look furious when he flings the door open. He doesn't say a word, just leaves it ajar and stalks back into the room. Caleb slams it after himself.
The room is bare bones. A thin cot dressed in a knitted blue blanket. A desk beside it, simple oak with a low-seated chair. A lantern sits on the desk's center, candle light flickering in a solemn dance. The far wall is marked only by a window, a narrow crack along the bottom of the pane. Ben stands before it, hands propped on his waist. He stands straighter when he's in a mood, the arch of his back more pronounced under his waistcoat. Anger burns his eyes to near-black.
Furious as Caleb is, his hands still itch at his sides. He wants to touch. It's getting harder not to with every meeting.
"What?" Ben snaps.
"I'm sick of this," Caleb tells him. "I came to find you, Ben. All right?"
"You had orders-"
"Screw my orders, I came to find you." Caleb glares. "I can't be Sammy Boy, all right? Or your dad. Hell, I'm not Woody, Annie, or our friends back home. But I'm not leaving you til you grow a backbone and tell me off."
Ben weakens under the barrage. "I'm not asking you to be my brother," he argues quietly. "You know that. But you can't betray your orders for me, Caleb."
"That's exactly what I'm doing," Caleb declares. Ben's eyes narrow. "You tell me to get lost. Til then, I'll keep after you."
"You're going to get yourself discharged. Or worse!"
"Fine by me." Ben frowns, but Caleb refuses to let up. "Give the order."
"What are you even doing up here?" Ben demands with a bitter laugh. "I've never seen you give up on a tavern wench. One of the finest you've seen, isn't that what you said?" Caleb rolls his eyes, which only seems to stoke Ben's temper. "You've found me. Well done. More than enough time left to wet your whore-pipe before morning."
"Whore-pipe, he says." Caleb's eyes glint. "Crass for a preacher's boy. The army might make a man out of you yet, Ben."
Ben holds his glare, but his shoulders have already begun to slump. Caleb sees a shadow of the boy he once was. A petulant curl of his lips, still wet from his drink. A flush of irritation warming his face. "Get out of here, Caleb," he relents. "Go have your fun."
"Nah," Caleb says.
"What?"
"I'm good." Caleb shrugs off his coat. Pulls the hat off his head and sets it on the meager desk by the window. Sits on the bed to start unlacing his boots.
"No, you're not." Ben looks young all of a sudden. "The bar maid... She is beautiful, truly You'll regret it if you don't try."
Caleb shakes his head. "Nah," he repeats. He kicks off his boots. "Can't leave my best friend up here green, now can I?"
"Green?" There's something about the tone of his response. The word spits out too fast, too forceful. Ben's eyes widen. "Are you implying I'm envious of-"
"That's exactly what I'm implying." Caleb keeps his words light, in case he's wrong. Gaze sharp, in case he's right.
Ben smiles, bemused. Nervous? "I'm not-"
"Yeah, you are." What the hell, Caleb figures. Might as well take the risk. He can always play it off as fun later if he has to. "It's all right," he assures. "I'm right there with you."
"You..." The smile falls from Ben's face. "You what?"
Caleb is right. Has to be. He becomes painfully aware of his own pulse shivering under his jaw. "How long's it been, Ben?" he asks quietly. It would make sense if it were a recent development, the wandering eyes of a man waking to life's forbidden fruits. It took manhood for Caleb to recognize the bounty that hid in plain sight when they were kids.
But Caleb remembers how the boy blanched when he announced his departure from Setauket. Ben's stoic expression, the clench of his jaw. And the odd way his body shook when Caleb squeezed him in farewell. Even Ben's boast that he was off to Yale.... That was for Caleb, wasn't it?
Ben manages a chuckle. "Are you cracked?"
"Sadly, no." Caleb rolls his eyes. "Neither are you. We can fix that, you know." He nods towards his overcoat. "Flask's in the pocket. Good thing, seeing you cut us off early."
"I'd expect nothing less," Ben says. "Listen, Caleb-"
"I'm done listening." Caleb grabs Ben's elbow. "I gave you the chance to order me out of here, Tallboy. You couldn't do it."
"That doesn't mean I need your mocking, Brewster." Ben's voice sounds different. Low and warning.
"Who's mocking you?" Caleb tests him with another step forward. Ben tenses visibly. But it's his look that hits Caleb hardest. The fear. The long-buried hurt. "Jesus," Caleb marvels. "You don't even know."
He isn't expecting Ben to shove him. Caught off-guard, Caleb stumbles back. "Don't," Ben warns again.
One does not push Caleb Brewster without receiving double the punishment in return...
Ben barely manages to hiss Caleb's name. Caleb is shorter but stockier, and the first shove makes Ben lose his balance. The second sends both men to the creaking floorboards; scrambling, yanking, and cursing. Clothes are grabbed, punches thrown.
Until a broomstick bangs from downstairs. Shouts follow, for them to shut the bloody hell up or get thrown out on their arses. Wouldn't be the first time they were chucked out of a place for fighting.
Caleb thinks of reminding Ben of the memory. But he makes the mistake of glancing at Ben first. Ben, who's breathing hard, long legs sprawled in front of him. Caleb is on top, close enough to pledge allegiance to the seamstress of Ben's uniform.
"I'm sorry, Caleb." Ben breaks their eye contact. He looks sick. "I never meant for this to happen."
Caleb starts to remind Ben that he can take punishment as well as he can dish it. But the fight isn't what Ben is talking about, is it? Ben refuses to look at him, flinching in anticipation of whatever may come next.
His dread becomes a sputter when Caleb pushes up for a kiss. Ben tries to speak, but Caleb has heard enough. He pins Ben against the side of the bed. A few moments pass until he's gratified by Ben's response. Ben's tension becomes a sigh and a tilt of his head. His lips part under Caleb's, curious and inviting. Caleb eases into him, surprised by the quick tease of Ben's tongue. He knows how to kiss, then? Interesting...
Upon their break, Ben still looks apprehensive. "Caleb," he treads carefully, "You don't have to-"
"Shut the hell up." Caleb glares accusingly. "Who taught you to do that?" He twists the end of Ben's braid between his fingers.
"Taught?" Ben looks momentarily confused. Amusement follow. "Bad enough you break camp to follow me," he says. "Are you taking ownership of my personal affairs now too, Brewster?"
"Well, yeah," Caleb replies. Ben arches a brow at his lack of hesitation.
"Caleb," he admonishes. But he doesn't exactly struggle when Caleb urges him in for another kiss.
***
December is frigid, even underneath an afternoon sun. A fine layer of snow dusts the grass. Fires have been lit around camp, each boasting pockets of huddled Continentals.
"Look at this!" Caleb whistles under his breath. Ben emerges from the general's tent. His blue continental jacket is pressed and polished to match the pride glowing on his face. "Way to go, captain. Heard they've given you the Dragoons."
"First scout leaves tomorrow." Cautiously, Ben leans down. "I, ah, hope you don't mind. But I asked for a few provisions with my new rank and title."
"Provisions?" Caleb raises a brow. "If you got us more ale rations, I will ruin our secret right here, Tallboy."
Ben nudges him. "Not even Washington can swing that, I'm afraid."
He starts to say more, but they are interrupted by the solemn approach of General Scott. His boots crunch a path through the snow, his stride stiff and direct. "This your man Brewster?" he asks.
Ben nods. "It is, sir."
Scott turns his attention to Caleb. He frowns at the lack of official uniform. Caleb glares. "You're part of the 2nd Company, 4th Battalion of New York?"
"That I am, sir," Caleb says.
"We will communicate your new assignment to your superior officer, effective immediately." Scott turns a skeptical look to Ben. "Though I fail to see how this will assist in your upcoming scouts, Tallmadge."
"It will, sir," Ben assures. "Brewster is an expert seaman. His knowledge of the coastline will be invaluable as our Dragoons canvas the shore."
"Very well then." Scott shoots a final glance at Caleb before returning to the officer quarters. A trail of footprints marks his retreat.
"The hell'd you do?" Caleb demands.
"You, sir," Ben answers, smiling, "have been officially assigned to Captain Tallmadge on special detail."
"Special detail?" Caleb's brow rises higher. "What the hell's a special detail?"
"It means," Ben leans closer, out of earshot of any passers, "we stick together, Caleb. Like we should have all along. You were right." His exhale ghosts from his lips, a warm wisp of white drifting into the afternoon sky.
"Usually am," Caleb agrees. Confusion still laces his voice. "Were you being honest with that fossil Scott? You want me on water while you're scouting land?"
"Not exactly." Ben hesitates, scanning their perimeter for eavesdroppers. "I need a courier," he confides. "Someone who knows the waterways better than anyone. Someone I trust."
"A courier?" Caleb risks a smirk. "You weren't kidding about upping the alcohol rations then?"
Ben shakes his head, smiling. "What you'll be carrying is a lot more valuable than ale."
"Not much more valuable than that." He definitely has Caleb's attention. "Is this what we talked about? You're trying to get ahead of the breaks in the army?"
"I'm still figuring it out myself," Ben admits. He sets a hand on Caleb's shoulder. "But I want you with me, Caleb. If you're willing."
Caleb rolls his eyes, but he covers Ben's hand with his own. "You gave the order, captain," he replies. "Guess I'm stuck with you."
* The End *