The Broken Sandal

By Jamie F. Bell

On their final night before reassignment, two teenage operatives navigate a beach littered with debris and a past one of them can't remember.

> "I know we weren't just partners. I know that. But I don't have the pictures, Corey. I just have the feeling. And it hurts. It hurts like hell."

Introduction

The narrative presented in "The Broken Sandal" functions as a sophisticated exercise in somatic memory and the persistence of identity amidst institutional erasure. At its core, the chapter explores the terrifying dissonance between cognitive recollection and emotional truth, utilizing the trope of amnesia not merely as a plot device, but as a vehicle to examine the durability of love when the self is fragmented. The central conflict is waged not against external enemies or the looming threat of the "Agency," but against the epistemological void within Paul’s mind. It is a battle between the sterile, mandated "white noise" of his conditioning and the visceral, undeniable biological imperative that draws him toward Corey. The tension here is a specific, acute flavor of existential dread masked by dark humor, a "gallows romance" where the protagonists are acutely aware that their time as a unified entity is expiring.

This scene operates within a liminal space, both geographically and psychologically. Set on a desolate, freezing shoreline—a borderland between the solid earth of their mission and the chaotic, fluid ocean of their uncertain future—the environment mirrors the protagonists' transitional state. They are suspended between the trauma of the "Helsinki job" and the impending separation of their reassignment. The emotional stakes are raised by the inevitability of their parting; the narrative does not tease a potential escape but rather forces the characters, and the reader, to inhabit the excruciating final moments of intimacy before the "reset." It is a study in pre-grieving, where the memory of the relationship is being mourned by one partner while being desperately reconstructed by the other.

Furthermore, the text establishes a profound melancholy that undercuts the banter and tactical jargon. The interplay between Paul’s deflection through humor and Corey’s crushing solemnity creates a harmonic dissonance that defines the chapter’s mood. It is not simply a story about two soldiers; it is a critique of the commodification of human assets, asking whether love can survive in a system designed to strip-mine the soul for efficiency. The "broken sandal" serves as the inciting incident for this collapse of professional distance, a trivial mechanical failure that precipitates the total unraveling of their carefully maintained emotional armor, proving that even the most disciplined soldiers are ultimately undone by the fragility of their own humanity.

Thematic, Genre & Narrative Analysis

The narrative voice is anchored firmly in Paul’s limited third-person perspective, a choice that is crucial for the story’s impact. Because the reader is confined to Paul’s fragmented consciousness, we experience the "gap" in his timeline viscerally; we share his confusion and his reliance on sensory input over cognitive recall. This unreliability is not deceptive but rather tragic. Paul is a narrator struggling to audit his own existence, clinging to "high-quality bond" paper textures because the emotional reality of his life is too volatile to retain. The storytelling reveals a consciousness that is terrified of the void, using hyper-specific details and "CQC" terminology to impose order on a psyche that has been compromised. The narrative blind spot—the missing memory of the kiss and the escape plan—becomes the negative space around which the entire emotional architecture of the chapter is built.

morally and existentially, the text grapples with the definition of the self in the absence of memory. If Paul cannot remember the promise to run away, is he still the person who made it? The story suggests a radical humanist philosophy: that identity is not stored in the hippocampus but in the body, in the "phantom ache" and the instinctive way Paul fits against Corey’s side. The Agency views them as "inventory," interchangeable and reprogrammable, representing a nihilistic, utilitarian worldview. In contrast, the protagonists’ relationship asserts that there is an immutable core to the human spirit that resists formatting. The "treason" Corey speaks of is not just political; it is an existential rebellion, a refusal to be a "ghost" and a demand to be "real," positing that intimacy is the only force capable of verifying one's existence in a dehumanizing world.

The genre positioning here is a masterful blend of espionage thriller and tragic romance, specifically utilizing the "Boys' Love" framework to explore high-stakes emotional devotion. The narrative borrows the language of the spy thriller—debriefings, extraction teams, burn notices—but subverts their purpose. Instead of advancing a plot about international intrigue, these elements serve as the backdrop for a domestic drama of separation. The "mission" is irrelevant; the "debriefing" is a failure because it cannot capture the emotional data of their bond. This displacement of genre expectations emphasizes that for Paul and Corey, the geopolitical landscape is merely stage dressing for the only reality that matters: the three-foot radius of warmth between them.

The Grounded Partner (The Seme Archetype)

Corey, fulfilling the archetypal role of the Seme or Grounded Partner, is defined not by his dominance, but by the crushing weight of his exclusive knowledge. Psychologically, he is operating in a state of hyper-vigilance that borders on despair. Unlike Paul, who is afforded the mercy of forgetting, Corey is cursed with the burden of total recall. He is the repository of their shared history, the "black box" recorder of a crashed relationship. His "Ghost" is the memory of the safe house—the moment of vulnerability that he knows is about to be erased from existence. His composure is not a natural state but a rigid, agonizing performance; the "calm that made instructors nervous" is a symptom of a man who has already accepted a fatal outcome and is merely executing the final protocols of care.

The "Lie" Corey tells himself is that he can endure this separation if he ensures Paul’s safety. He attempts to maintain control by framing the situation through logistics—the flip-flop, the walk back, the schedule. However, his psychological armor is brittle. The text reveals his desperate need for Paul through his physical gravitation; he invades Paul’s personal space with the "inevitability of a tide," a description that betrays a lack of volition. He cannot stay away. His dominance is a facade for his dependence; he needs Paul to be the one to ask for the truth because Corey is too terrified to offer it unprompted. He is a protector who has failed to protect the most important thing: their future.

Corey’s "Gap Moe"—the fissure in his stoic persona—manifests in the sudden, jarring tenderness of his physical care. The transition from the "stone wall" operative to the man who offers a piggyback ride signals a total collapse of his professional identity in favor of his relational one. The specific moment where he admits, "I’ll find you," sounding like a "threat to the universe," reveals the terrifying depth of his attachment. It is here that the Seme’s aggression is recontextualized as devotion; his capacity for violence is entirely sublimated into a fierce, defying determination to reconnect, proving that his "grounded" nature is actually a form of static, immovable obsession with his partner.

The Reactive Partner (The Uke Archetype)

Paul, as the Reactive Partner or Uke, utilizes a complex psychological defense mechanism characterized by intellectual deflection and humor. His interiority is a chaotic storm of sensory data that he cannot parse, leading to a profound insecurity regarding his own agency. He lashes out with wit—jokes about "competitive hopscotch" and "decoder rings"—not because he finds the situation funny, but because humor is the only weapon he has left against the encroaching horror of his memory loss. His volatility is driven by a fear of "engulfment" by the void; he talks incessantly to prove he is still there. However, beneath the bravado lies a desperate, gaping need for external validation. He needs Corey to be his memory because he cannot trust his own mind.

Paul’s vulnerability acts as a paradoxical gift to Corey. By admitting, "I just have the feeling. And it hurts," Paul cuts through the obfuscation of their situation and forces an emotional confrontation. His inability to hide his pain—his "trait of expressive suffering"—validates Corey’s silent burden. Paul is the emotional conduit for the pair; he vocalizes the grief that Corey is too disciplined to speak. His physical incapacity (the broken sandal, the hopping) is a somatic manifestation of his psychological state: he is unbalanced and requires a counterweight. He needs Corey’s stability not just for comfort, but to triangulate his own position in reality. Without Corey, Paul is merely "white noise."

Furthermore, Paul’s specific neurosis—the fear of being a "ghost"—drives his attraction to Corey’s solidity. Corey is "heavy," "tactical," and "warm." To Paul, whose existence feels fluid and erasing, Corey represents permanence. Paul’s reactive nature is a frantic attempt to create friction, to generate heat and sound, to prove that he exists. He provokes Corey, challenges him, and demands answers because the alternative is a silent drift into oblivion. His "weakness" is actually a relentless demand for contact, making him the active seeker of intimacy despite his physical reliance on the other.

Archetypal Deconstruction & World-Building

The narrative engages in a distinct **Inversion of Power** where Paul, despite being physically compromised and mentally fragmented, acts as the psychological driver of the scene. Typically, the Seme directs the action, but here, Corey is paralyzed by his secret and his grief. It is Paul’s relentless questioning—his refusal to accept the "morphine hallucination" excuse—that forces the narrative forward. Paul’s emotional anxiety acts as a battering ram against Corey’s defenses. By demanding, "Tell me," Paul strips Corey of the power to withhold, effectively commanding the superior officer to break protocol. The "victim" of the memory wipe becomes the interrogator, proving that emotional urgency supersedes tactical authority.

Regarding the **'Why' of the Seme's Attraction**, Corey is not merely drawn to Paul’s beauty or wit, but to his **radical authenticity** and **desire for the Real**. In a world of spies, lies, and "inventory," Paul’s desire to have a dog named Baron and sit on a beach represents a purity of spirit that Corey feels he has lost or never had. Corey valorizes Paul’s capacity to *want* things—to want a life, to want to run—because Corey is trapped in duty. Paul represents the "human" element that the Agency tries to excise. Corey seeks to protect Paul not just as a lover, but as the last remnant of humanity in his life. He anchors Paul because Paul is the only thing that floats; without Paul’s dreams of escape, Corey is just a machine.

The **Queer World-Building** in this story functions within a **"BL Bubble"** that is simultaneously absolute and fragile. There is no mention of societal homophobia; the threat is the "Agency" and "treason," which act as metaphors for the closet or societal disapproval without the explicit bigotry. The external environment—the cold North Sea, the distant tanker ships—is hostile and indifferent, necessitating the creation of a private, shared world. The "safe house" and the "three-foot radius" on the beach are the only territories where their queerness can exist. The environment dictates their intimacy; the cold forces them to huddle, the broken sandal forces the piggyback ride. The world is designed to separate them, which makes their union an act of defiance. The absence of a female counterpart or rival focuses the tension entirely on the structural forces trying to tear them apart, purifying the conflict into Man vs. System.

The Dynamic: Inevitability & Friction

The architecture of Paul and Corey’s relationship is built on the collision of **Chaos and Stasis**. Paul is the kinetic energy—flailing, hopping, joking, forgetting—while Corey is the potential energy—waiting, holding, remembering, enduring. Their energies do not merely complement; they correct each other. Paul’s chaotic fragmentation requires Corey’s monolithic stillness to prevent total dissolution, while Corey’s rigid stasis requires Paul’s erratic spark to incite movement and emotion. The friction arises from the disparity in their data; they are running different operating systems (one with memory, one without), yet the hardware interfaces perfectly.

The power exchange is fluid and tragic. Corey is the **Emotional Anchor**, providing the physical and historical weight that keeps Paul from floating away. However, Paul is the **Emotional Catalyst**. It was Paul who initiated the kiss in the safe house; it was Paul who proposed running away. Even in his amnesiac state, Paul is the one who breaks the silence and demands the truth. This dynamic suggests that while Corey holds the power of *protection*, Paul holds the power of *transformation*. Corey would have stayed a soldier forever; Paul made him a traitor.

Their union feels fated because it transcends the cognitive mind. The text posits a "biological inevitability"—Paul’s body reacts to Corey ("freeze," "melt") before his brain processes the identity of the man. This suggests that their connection is etched into their autonomic nervous systems. They fit together with the practiced ease of a "sequel to a book," implying a cyclical or eternal recurrence to their bond. The friction of the memory loss only serves to highlight the indestructibility of the underlying connection; you can wipe the drive, but the hardware is hardwired for this specific connection.

The Intimacy Index

The "Skinship" in this chapter is utilized as a language of desperation. The text moves from the "pathetic" snap of the sandal to the "shocking" heat of Corey’s body. Every instance of touch is amplified by the cold environment, making the transfer of body heat a life-sustaining act. The "three-legged march" is a clumsy, non-sexual intimacy that mimics the reliance of a single organism; they literally cannot move forward without sharing a center of gravity. The piggyback ride, explicitly called out as "childish," is the ultimate surrender of autonomy and the ultimate act of service. It infantilizes Paul in a protective way, allowing him to be carried when he can no longer stand on his own structural integrity.

The "BL Gaze" is deployed with devastating precision. Corey’s gaze is described as physical, "like a thumb pressed against a bruise." This is not a gaze of lust, but of **archival preservation**. Corey looks at Paul to memorize him, to catalog the "shadows across his face" before they are lost. Conversely, Paul’s gaze is searching, looking for a "code he couldn't crack." The gaze reveals the subconscious desire to merge; Corey wants to consume Paul’s image to keep it safe, while Paul wants to be consumed by Corey’s certainty. They look at each other to verify that they are real in a landscape of hallucinations.

Sensory language is critical to the intimacy. The "taste of mint gum and desperation" grounds the kiss in a gritty, unromantic reality that makes it more profound. The smell of "detergent on Corey’s collar" evokes a domesticity that they are denied. The contrast between the "cold, wet grit" of the world and the "furnace" of Corey’s body creates a binary: the world is pain, the partner is relief. The "electric, searing" touch of Corey’s thumb on Paul’s cheekbone registers as a shock to the system, bypassing Paul’s confusion and hitting the raw nerve of his desire directly.

Emotional Architecture

The emotional arc of the chapter is constructed like a slow-motion car crash, moving from the jarring comedy of the broken sandal to the devastating stillness of the final promise. The narrative begins with a sharp, pathetic sound—the snap of rubber—which sets a tone of fragility. Paul’s initial banter acts as a pressure valve, releasing tension so that the subsequent heaviness doesn't suffocate the reader immediately. As the dialogue progresses, the emotional temperature rises. The shift occurs when Corey stops walking; the silence becomes "heavy," and the humor dies. This pacing allows the reader to lower their guard along with Paul, only to be ambushed by the tragedy of the "safe house" revelation.

The atmosphere is engineered to invite a specific kind of claustrophobic empathy. The "bruising purple" of the horizon and the "salt rot" smell create a sensory backdrop of decay and bruising. The narrative sustains emotion by withholding the release of the kiss until the climax of the conversation. When the kiss finally happens—"clumsy," "noses bumped"—it serves as a crescendo of tension, a release of the built-up static. However, the narrative denies a "happy" release; the kiss is immediately framed as a "goodbye," twisting the emotional knife.

Emotion is transferred to the reader through the somatic experiences of the characters. We feel the "cold sand seeping into the sock," the "itch" of the skin, the "weak knees." By grounding the emotional abstract in physical discomfort, the text makes the heartbreak tangible. The final image of the two dark shapes merging into one against an indifferent landscape creates a lingering sense of isolation-as-intimacy. The emotional architecture is circular; it begins with a break (the sandal) and ends with a mend (the carry), but the underlying fracture (the separation) remains unhealed, leaving the reader in a state of suspended longing.

Spatial & Environmental Psychology

The setting of the North Sea is not merely a backdrop but a psychological mirror. The "grey, miserable coastline" reflects the bleak prospects of their future and the sterile, joyless nature of their work. The "cold, wet grit" represents the harsh reality that Paul is trying to ignore with his fantasies of the Mediterranean. The beach is a place of erosion, where the land is slowly eaten by the sea, mirroring how Paul’s memories are being eroded by the Agency’s procedures. It is a hostile environment that offers no comfort, thereby forcing the characters to turn inward toward each other for warmth.

The "Broken Sandal" acts as a potent metaphor for Paul’s psychological state. Just as the sandal has suffered a "structural integrity" failure, Paul’s mind has snapped. He is unable to walk through the world unaided. The "shell-littered sand" is treacherous, representing the fragmented, sharp pieces of his memory that he has to navigate. The "lights of the facility" in the distance function as a panopticon—the watching eyes of the superego or the oppressive state—reminding them that their time in the wild, chaotic id of the beach is limited.

Furthermore, the spatial dynamics between the characters serve as a map of their intimacy. They start "a few paces" apart, separated by the wind. As the emotional truth is revealed, the distance closes until there is "no air between them." The piggyback ride collapses the space entirely, merging them into a single vertical entity. The environment dictates that survival requires proximity; to be apart is to freeze. This spatial psychology reinforces the theme that their relationship is not just a preference, but a survival strategy against a cold universe.

Aesthetic, Stylistic, & Symbolic Mechanics

The prose utilizes a distinct "tactical-poetic" diction. Words like "structural integrity," "requisition forms," "extraction team," and "bond paper" are juxtaposed with "pathetic, wet surrender," "bruising purple," and "traitorous little sound." This contrast creates a stylistic friction that mirrors the characters' internal conflict between soldier and lover. The sentence rhythm varies from Paul’s frantic, staccato rambling (short, punchy sentences) to Corey’s slow, measured declarations. This rhythmic interplay mimics a heartbeat—erratic and panicked, then slow and heavy.

The central symbol, the **Broken Sandal**, represents the failure of the trivial in the face of the monumental. It is a ridiculous object to focus on, which highlights the absurdity of their situation. Paul clutches it like a "dead pet," symbolizing his desperate grasp on the tangible reality when his mind is failing. The **Paper Texture** is another key symbol; Paul remembers the *medium* (the bond paper) but not the *message* (the mission/tragedy), symbolizing how trauma causes the mind to fixate on safe, irrelevant details to avoid the core horror.

Metaphorically, the "three-legged march" serves as an image of their codependency. They are maimed individuals who become functional only when joined. The "invisible ink" Paul jokes about becomes a metaphor for their love: it is there, written on the page of their history, but requires a specific catalyst (Corey’s touch/truth) to become visible. The repetition of "I know" by Paul ("I know we weren't just partners," "I know that") serves as a rhythmic chant of defiance against his own amnesia, asserting an emotional knowing that supersedes intellectual knowing.

Cultural & Intertextual Context

The story resonates deeply with the **"Child Soldier"** archetype prevalent in anime and manga (e.g., *Gundam Wing*, *Evangelion*), where young protagonists are weaponized and stripped of their humanity, leaving them to find solace only in their fellow combatants. It taps into the cultural anxiety regarding the exploitation of youth and the loss of innocence. The characters are "seventeen," a culturally loaded age representing the cusp of adulthood, making their "burn notice" and weariness feel particularly tragic.

Intertextually, the narrative echoes the myth of **Orpheus and Eurydice**, but with a twist. Corey is the Orpheus figure who "looks back" (remembers), but instead of losing Eurydice (Paul), his looking back is the only thing that keeps Paul real. It also draws heavily from the cinematic trope of **"Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,"** exploring the idea that you can erase the memory of a lover, but you cannot erase the impulse to love them. The "reboot" concept situates the story in the digital/post-human age, viewing the mind as software that can be corrupted or wiped, raising questions about the soul in the age of information.

Historically, the setting of the "North Sea" and references to "Helsinki" evoke a Cold War aesthetic—a landscape of gray moralities, spies, and silent wars. This context frames their love as a defecting act. In a binary world of East vs. West (or Us vs. Them), their relationship creates a third pole, a private nation of two that poses a threat to the established order simply by existing.

Meta-Textual Analysis & The Fannish Gaze

The chapter is constructed explicitly for the **Fannish Gaze**, employing an **Aesthetic of Consumption** centered on "Hurt/Comfort." The narrative prioritizes the *spectacle of suffering* and the subsequent *balm of intimacy* over plot progression. The detailed description of Corey’s "wrecked" face and the "searing" touch caters to a readerly desire to see the stoic male archetype undone by love. The text fetishizes the vulnerability of the strong; seeing Corey, the "perfect soldier," nearly crying is the primary emotional payoff. The dialogue is highly stylized—witty, tragic, and rhythmic—designed to be quoted and GIFed, prioritizing emotional resonance over realistic teenage speech.

The **Power Fantasy** provided here is not one of dominion, but of **Unconditional Witnessing**. In a modern world defined by transient connections and digital impermanence, the story fulfills a wish for a partner who will "find you" even if you lose yourself. It validates the fantasy of an all-consuming connection that defies logic, authority, and even biology (memory loss). It addresses the social void of loneliness by presenting a bond where one person literally carries the other. The fantasy is that *you are unforgettable*, even if you forget yourself.

The **Narrative Contract** of the BL genre assures the reader that despite the "tragic" tone, the bond is unbreakable. The promise "I’ll find you" is not just dialogue; it is a meta-textual guarantee. This allows the story to explore the devastating themes of erasure and abandonment safely. The reader can endure the pain of the separation because the genre conventions dictate that the "Red String of Fate" cannot be severed, only stretched. The high emotional stakes are a form of "safe danger"—we know they will suffer, but we know they will not end, allowing for a cathartic experience of vicarious heartbreak.

Reader Reflection: What Lingers

What remains after the chapter concludes is not the image of the facility or the mission, but the sensory imprint of the piggyback ride—the weight of one life resting entirely on another. The story leaves behind a haunting question about the location of love: does it reside in the shared memories of the past, or in the persistent, stubborn promise of the future? The "broken sandal" lingers as a symbol of the discarded, imperfect self that is nonetheless cherished by the beloved. The narrative evokes a profound sense of "saudade"—a longing for something that is currently missing but remains an essential part of the soul. It reshapes the reader's perception of memory, suggesting that forgetting might be a mercy, provided there is someone else there to remember for you.

Conclusion

In the end, "The Broken Sandal" is less a story about memory loss than it is a manifesto on the durability of the heart's architecture. While the structural integrity of Paul’s footwear—and his mind—may fail, the structural integrity of the dyad proves absolute. The narrative posits that in a world intent on reducing human beings to inventory and ghosts, the act of holding on, of carrying another person through the cold dark, is the ultimate act of rebellion. The story’s tragedy is eclipsed by its defiance; the erasure is imminent, but the promise to "find you" rings louder than the silence of the North Sea, asserting that some frequencies are too deep to ever be fully jammed.

The Broken Sandal

Two teenage boys standing close together on a twilight beach, looking at each other with intense emotion. - amnesia romance, teen spy fiction, boys love story, emotional reunion, summer beach setting, memory loss fiction, lgbtq young adult, slow burn romance, Short Stories, Stories to Read, Boys Love (BL), Boys Love, MM Romance, danmei, yaoi, shounen-ai, K-Boys Love (BL)
A desolate strip of coastline near a safe house facility. It is late evening, the air is cooling, and the tide is coming in. amnesia romance, teen spy fiction, boys love story, emotional reunion, summer beach setting, memory loss fiction, lgbtq young adult, slow burn romance, Short Stories, Stories to Read, BL, Boys Love, MM Romance, danmei, yaoi, shounen-ai, K-BL
By Jamie F. Bell • Amnesia/Memory Loss Boys Love (BL)
On their final night before reassignment, two teenage operatives navigate a beach littered with debris and a past one of them can't remember.

The cheap rubber strap snapped with a sound that was less of a pop and more of a pathetic, wet surrender.

Paul stumbled, his left foot sliding out of the flip-flop and burying itself ankle-deep in the cold, wet grit of the shoreline. He flailed for a second, arms windmilling in a way that was definitely not taught in CQC basics, before catching his balance. He stood there on one leg like a stork that had failed flight school, staring down at the treacherous footwear.

"Unbelievable," Paul said. "Tactical failure. Gear malfunction. I’m writing a report."

Corey stopped walking a few paces ahead. He didn’t turn around immediately. He just halted, his silhouette cutting a sharp, dark shape against the bruising purple of the horizon. The wind, smelling of salt rot and diesel from the distant tanker ships, whipped Corey’s windbreaker against his torso. It was a loud, flapping sound, like a flag in a gale.

"It’s a three-dollar flip-flop, Paul," Corey said, his voice carrying back over the wind. calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that made instructors nervous.

"It’s a symbol, Corey. It’s a metaphor for the structural integrity of my entire life right now." Paul hopped on his good foot, trying to fish the broken sandal out of the slurry. "Also, this sand is freezing. Why did they send us to the North Sea for 'rest and relaxation'? I specifically requested the Mediterranean. I forged the requisition forms myself."

Corey finally turned. The dying light caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his dark hair was matted with salt spray. He looked tired. Not sleepy-tired, but the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from three weeks of debriefing officers asking the same five questions about a mission in Helsinki that went sideways. A mission Paul still couldn’t quite remember.

"You didn't forge anything," Corey said, walking back slowly. His boots crunched on the shell-littered sand. Heavy, tactical boots. Because Corey never relaxed. "You hallucinated that while you were on the morphine drip."

"I have excellent penmanship," Paul muttered, finally retrieving the sandal. The central plug had ripped right through the sole. Fatal damage. "And I remember the forms. I remember... the paper texture. It was high-quality bond."

"You remember paper, but you don't remember the extraction team pulling you out of a burning sedan," Corey noted. He wasn’t mocking. It was that flat, observational tone he used when he was trying to assess a threat. Or a casualty.

Paul winced, and not just because the cold sand was seeping into his sock. "Selective memory. My brain prioritizes the important stuff. Stationery quality is paramount. Explosions are derivative."

He looked up, expecting Corey to roll his eyes. Corey didn’t. He was staring at Paul with an intensity that felt physical, like a thumb pressed against a bruise. It was the Look. The one Corey had been giving him for two weeks since Paul woke up in the infirmary with a concussion and a gap in his timeline the size of a long weekend.

It made Paul’s skin itch. It made the hair on his arms stand up, and not from the cold.

"Here," Corey said, extending a hand. "Lean on me. You can't hop a mile back to the facility."

"I can hop," Paul insisted, clutching the broken sandal to his chest like a dead pet. "I have incredible calves. You’ve seen my calves. They’re my best feature."

"Paul."

"I’m just saying, if the Agency fires me because of the memory thing, I have a future in competitive hopscotch."

Corey didn’t wait. He closed the distance, stepping into Paul’s personal space with the inevitability of a tide coming in. He didn't ask again. He just slid an arm around Paul’s waist and hauled him close. The contact was shocking. Even through the layers of Paul’s hoodie and Corey’s windbreaker, the heat was immediate, radiating off Corey like a furnace.

Paul’s breath hitched, a traitorous little sound that got lost in the crash of the waves. He stiffened, his body reacting before his brain could catch up. Flight or fight? Neither. It was... freeze. It was melt.

"Shut up," Corey murmured, his mouth dangerously close to Paul’s ear. "Just walk."

They began a clumsy three-legged march down the beach. The rhythm was awkward at first—Paul hopping, Corey taking the weight—but they fell into a sync that felt practiced. Maybe it was. Maybe they had done this a hundred times before the Helsinki job. Paul didn't know. That was the terrifying, hilarious joke of it all. He was walking next to a guy who knew exactly how he took his coffee, exactly how he aimed a Glock, and exactly how he fit against his side, and Paul felt like he was reading the sequel to a book he hadn't finished.

"So," Paul wheezed after a minute, trying to break the heavy silence. "Tomorrow. Departure. Big day. You excited? Gonna get your own badge? Maybe a decoder ring?"

Corey’s grip on his waist tightened slightly. "They’re splitting us up, Paul."

"I know," Paul said, keeping his tone light, airy. "Different handlers. Different cities. You go to... where was it? D.C.? And I go to 'remedial memory training' in some cornfield in Nebraska. It’s fine. We’ll be pen pals. I’ll use invisible ink. It’ll be very retro."

"It’s not fine," Corey said. The vibration of his voice traveled through his chest and into Paul’s ribs. It felt like a low growl.

Paul looked at the ground, watching their mismatched tracks. One set of heavy boot prints, one set of dragging, hopping bare foot marks. "It’s the job, Ci. We knew the deal. Assets get moved. We’re just... inventory."

"Is that what you think we are?" Corey stopped. He stopped so abruptly Paul almost tipped over.

"Whoa, easy with the cargo," Paul said, trying to laugh. He looked up at Corey’s face. The humor died in his throat.

Corey looked angry. No, not angry. He looked wrecked. The stoic mask had slipped, revealing something raw and jagged underneath. His eyes were dark, searching Paul’s face as if looking for a code he couldn't crack.

"You really don't remember," Corey said softly. It wasn't a question. It was a condemnation.

"I told you," Paul said, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "I remember the briefing. I remember getting in the van. Then... white noise. And then I woke up looking at a nurse who looked like a bulldog."

"You don't remember the safe house," Corey pressed, stepping closer. He didn't let go of Paul’s waist. If anything, he pulled him in tighter, eliminating the air between them. "You don't remember what we talked about while we were waiting for the exfil."

Paul swallowed. The salt air felt thick, hard to breathe. "We talked about the mission?"

"No," Corey said. He raised his free hand, the one not anchoring Paul to the earth, and brushed a thumb over Paul’s cheekbone. The touch was electric. searing. Paul flinched, not from pain, but from the sheer overload of sensory input. His knees felt weak, and for once, it wasn't because of the hopping.

"We talked about quitting," Corey whispered. "We talked about running."

Paul’s eyes widened. "We... what? That’s treason, Corey. That’s a burn notice. We’re seventeen. We can't just... run."

"You wanted to," Corey said, his eyes dropping to Paul’s mouth, then back up. The intensity was unbearable. "You said you were tired of being a ghost. You said you wanted to be real. You said..."

Corey stopped. He looked away, out at the black, churning ocean. His jaw worked.

"What did I say?" Paul whispered. He felt a phantom ache in his chest, a memory pressing against a locked door.

Corey looked back at him. The vulnerability in his eyes was terrifying. This was Corey the stone wall, Corey the perfect soldier, looking like he was about to shatter.

"It doesn't matter," Corey said, his voice rough. "You forgot it. Maybe that’s for the best. Easier to leave if you don't know what you're leaving."

"That’s not fair," Paul snapped, a sudden flare of anger cutting through the confusion. He pushed against Corey’s chest, but Corey didn't budge. He was solid rock. "You don't get to hold that over me. You don't get to be the keeper of my secrets just because my brain decided to reboot. Tell me."

"Why?" Corey challenged. "So you can mourn it? So you can spend the next six months in Nebraska missing something you can't even picture?"

"Yes!" Paul shouted. The sound was small against the vastness of the beach. "Yes, you idiot! Because I feel it anyway!"

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the hiss of the waves retreating over the stones. Paul was breathing hard, his chest heaving.

"I feel it," Paul said, quieter now. "I look at you, and I feel like I’ve lost a limb. I wake up in the middle of the night reaching for someone who isn't there. I know... I know we weren't just partners. I know that. But I don't have the pictures, Corey. I just have the feeling. And it hurts. It hurts like hell."

Corey stared at him, stunned. The wind whipped his hair across his eyes, but he didn't blink.

"You reach for me?" Corey asked, his voice barely audible.

Paul looked down at the broken sandal in his hand. "Metaphorically. And physically. I punched the wall last night thinking it was your shoulder."

A small, dry chuckle escaped Corey. It was a broken sound, but it was real. "You always were a violent sleeper."

"See?" Paul gestured with the sandal. "Data points. You have them. I don't. Share."

Corey let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. He shifted his grip, his hand moving from Paul’s waist to the small of his back, warm and heavy.

"We were at the safe house," Corey began, speaking to Paul’s collarbone. "The heating was broken. It was freezing. We huddled under this gross, moth-eaten blanket on the sofa."

Paul listened, transfixed. He tried to force the image into his mind, but it was just words. But the feeling... the feeling was right.

"You were shivering," Corey continued. "You wouldn't stop talking. About everything. About how much you hated the taste of freeze-dried coffee. About how you wanted a dog. A golden retriever named Baron."

"Baron?" Paul wrinkled his nose. "That’s a terrible name. I have no taste."

"You said you wanted a normal life," Corey said. "And then you stopped talking. Which never happens. And you looked at me. And you said... you said, 'If we get out of this, I’m taking you to the beach. A real beach. Not for a mission. Just to sit.'"

Paul looked around at the grey, miserable coastline. "Well. Technically, I delivered. Sort of."

"You did," Corey said. "And then you kissed me."

The world seemed to stop spinning. The waves froze mid-crash. Paul stared at Corey, his mouth slightly open.

"Oh," Paul said. A brilliant, intelligent response.

"Yeah. Oh," Corey echoed. He looked terrified. "And then the breach happened. The explosion. And... here we are."

Paul processed this. The missing piece clicked into place, not as a visual memory, but as an emotional truth. The gravity he felt around Corey. The safety. The terror of leaving.

"I kissed you," Paul repeated. He looked at Corey’s lips. They were chapped from the wind. He wondered what they felt like. He didn't have to wonder long.

"And?" Paul asked. "Did you kiss back? Or did you file a reprimand for inappropriate workplace conduct?"

Corey’s eyes softened, the dark intensity melting into something profoundly sad and tender. "What do you think?"

Paul didn't think. He dropped the broken sandal. It hit the sand with a dull thud. He reached out, grabbing the lapels of Corey’s windbreaker, and pulled.

It wasn't a smooth movie kiss. Their noses bumped. Paul stumbled on the uneven sand. But when their mouths met, the static in Paul’s head cleared. It was like tuning a radio and finally hitting the frequency. The familiarity of it slammed into him—the taste of Corey, the specific tilt of his head, the way Corey’s hand came up to cradle the back of Paul’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair, possessive and desperate.

It was a kiss of goodbye. It tasted like desperation and mint gum and the terrifying realization of exactly what was being lost.

Corey made a low noise in his throat and pulled Paul closer, lifting him slightly off the sand so Paul didn't have to balance on one foot. Paul clung to him, wrapping his arms around Corey’s neck, burying his face in the rough nylon of Corey’s jacket. He wanted to stay here. He wanted to live in this three-foot radius of warmth forever.

They broke apart, gasping, foreheads resting against each other. The wind was colder now, but Paul didn't feel it.

"I remember that," Paul lied. He didn't. Not really. But he would remember this. He would carve this moment into his brain so deep that no amount of concussion or trauma could scour it out.

"Liar," Corey whispered, but he was smiling. A small, sad smile.

"Okay, so I’m improvising," Paul said, his voice shaking. "But the sensory data is consistent."

Corey pulled back, just enough to look Paul in the eye. The moment of levity was fading, replaced by the crushing reality of the sunrise waiting for them.

"They pick you up at 0600," Corey said.

"I know," Paul said. "And you leave at 0700."

"If you say anything about this," Corey said, his thumb tracing Paul’s lower lip. "If you mention the... running away plan. They’ll scrub you. Completely. You know that."

"I know," Paul said. The playfulness was gone. "I won't. I’m a vault. A vault with a broken lock, but still."

Corey sighed, a long, ragged exhale. He bent down and picked up Paul’s broken sandal. He inspected it with mock seriousness.

"Total loss," Corey said. "You’re going to have to walk back barefoot."

"Cruel," Paul said. "Inhumane. Carry me?"

Corey looked at him. Really looked at him. As if memorizing the way the shadows fell across Paul’s face.

"Yeah," Corey said quietly. "I got you."

He turned around, crouching slightly. Paul stared at Corey’s broad back. It was such a teenage thing. A piggyback ride. It was ridiculous. It was childish. It was everything they weren't allowed to be.

Paul climbed on. Corey hoisted him up effortlessly, his hands gripping Paul’s thighs securely. Paul wrapped his arms around Corey’s neck, resting his chin on Corey’s shoulder.

They started walking back toward the compound, the lights of the facility visible in the distance like watching eyes.

"You’re heavy," Corey grumbled, but there was no bite in it.

"Muscle mass," Paul murmured, closing his eyes. He smelled the detergent on Corey’s collar. "Pure steel."

They walked in silence for a long time. The rhythm of Corey’s steps was hypnotic. Paul felt drowsy, the adrenaline crash hitting him.

"Corey?" Paul asked, his voice slurring slightly.

"Yeah?"

"If... if I forget again. If they wipe me. Or if I just... drift."

"You won't," Corey said firmly.

"But if I do," Paul insisted. "Find me. Okay? Even if I’m in Nebraska. Even if I’m old and fat and have that dog named Baron. Come find me and... I don't know. Trip me. Break my sandal. Something."

Corey stopped walking. He stood there in the dark, the waves crashing beside them. He turned his head, pressing his cheek against Paul’s hand.

"I’ll find you," Corey promised. It sounded like a vow. It sounded like a threat to the universe.

"Okay," Paul said. He felt tears leaking out of his eyes, soaking into Corey’s jacket. "Good plan."

"Best plan we’ve got," Corey said.

They continued walking, two dark shapes merging into one against the vast, indifferent landscape. They moved toward the lights, toward the separation, toward the future that would try to erase them. But for now, for this one mile of broken shells and cold sand, they were entirely, undeniably real.