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.