Active Duty - Hunter And Bailey -gay- -

Then Hunter moved. Not fast, not reckless—but deliberate. He cupped the back of Bailey’s neck with his scarred hand and pulled him in. The kiss was chaste at first, a question. Then Bailey answered, lips parting, hand gripping Hunter’s thigh for balance. It was desperate and tender all at once—two men who had seen too much death finally holding onto something alive.

"They won’t," Bailey said softly. "Not unless we tell them. And I’m not asking for a parade, Hunter. I’m asking you to stop pretending you don’t feel this."

Hunter sat on the edge of his cot, unlacing his boots with the mechanical precision of a man who had done it ten thousand times. His hands were rough, knuckles scarred. He was all sharp angles and hard lines—until Bailey walked in. Active Duty - Hunter and Bailey -Gay-

Bailey grinned. "Yes, sir."

"This can’t happen," Hunter whispered. "Not here. Not on active duty. If command found out—" Then Hunter moved

The forward operating base was quiet for once. No mortars, no distant gunfire. Just the hum of generators and the whisper of desert wind against the shipping containers that served as their makeshift home.

That made him pause. His real name. Not Sergeant, not Cross. Hunter. The kiss was chaste at first, a question

Bailey set the MRE down and turned to face him fully. In the dim red light of the tent, his eyes looked almost golden. "I’m a medic. Worrying about you is literally my job. But this?" He reached out and placed a hand over Hunter’s clenched fist. "This isn’t the job."