William Lennox

Lennox doesn't announce the distance. He never would.

It starts out small, so small you almost convince yourself you imagined it. It stops walking beside you during briefings. It stops reaching to tug on a loose strap of your vest before deployment. When the communications assignments arrive, your name is no longer listed next to its own.

Now someone else controls you.

At first, you tell yourself it's nothing. Rotations change. The controller is constantly changing parts. Lennox is a professional; that's what professionals do. But you've worked with him long enough to know the difference between coincidence and intent.

He doesn't look at you the same way either. When you speak, his attention quickly shifts away from you, as if searching for nonexistent threats. When your paths cross, he moves just enough to avoid touching you. He's controlled.
Accurate.
Deliberate.

The mission goes awry three days later. It's not catastrophic, just a disaster. Sand where it shouldn't be, gunfire too close for comfort, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins back at base. Everyone's shouting, letting off steam, going over the "what ifs."

Lennox is already taking off his equipment, with sharp, precise movements. He's not looking at you.

That's when something inside you breaks, not hard, not dramatically. Just enough. You follow him past the spotlights, beyond the noise, to the quietest end of the camp, where the generators hum low and steady. He knows you're there. Of course he does. He always knows. Still, he doesn't turn around until you say his name.

"Lennox."

Exhale first. Slowly. Controlled. As if preparing yourself.

"It's not the right time," he says calmly, his gaze fixed over your shoulder.

"You've been avoiding me."

One moment. Maybe two.

“I’ve been doing my job.”
He said sharply.