Chapter 17: The Weight of the Rain
The sky turned a bruised purple by late afternoon. When the rain finally came, it wasn't a drizzle; it was a vertical wall of water that turned the COP into a mud pit. Most of the men retreated to the bay to play cards or sleep, but the humidity in the barracks was suffocating.
I headed for the gym—a primitive setup of rusted iron weights and a pull-up bar under a corrugated tin roof. I needed the burn. I needed the physical pain to drown out the noise in my head.
I was mid-set on the pull-up bar, my muscles screaming and my ribs aching, when a shadow blocked the grey light. I dropped to the ground, panting, to find Captain James standing there. He was in his PT gear—a simple grey shirt that showed the hard, corded muscles of his arms. It was the most "un-Commander-like" I had ever seen him.
"Your form is flagging, Ramírez," he said. His voice was different here—not the whip-crack of the field, but something lower, more intimate.
"It’s been a long week, Sir," I gasped, wiping sweat and rainwater from my forehead.
He walked over to the rack and began loading plates onto a barbell. The clink of the iron was rhythmic and grounding. "The mission doesn't care about your week. The mountain doesn't care if you're tired."
"I know that, Sir."
He stopped, holding a forty-five-pound plate in mid-air. He looked at me, his eyes tracking the white patches on my shoulders and collarbone that were visible in the sleeveless shirt I wore.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly. "Before the cave. Why let them call you a witch?"
"Because if I told you, I'd be 'The Girl with the Skin Condition.' If I didn't tell you, I was just the RTO. I wanted to be a soldier first, Sir. I didn't want your pity."
James set the plate down with a heavy thud. He stepped into my space, the scent of rain and cedar hitting me like a physical blow. He reached out, his hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before his fingers grazed the white patch on my shoulder. His skin was hot against mine.
"I have never pitied you, Coraline," he whispered, his eyes dark with a hunger he’d been starving for weeks. "I have admired you. I have been terrified for you. But I have never, not for one second, pitied you."
The rain hammered on the tin roof, drowning out the rest of the world. For a moment, the rank on his chest and the radio on my back didn't exist. He moved his hand to my jaw, his thumb tracing the porcelain line of my vitiligo. I leaned into his touch, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Sir..." I breathed.
"I know," he said, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "I know we can't. But God, I wish we could."
He pulled away abruptly, the "Ice King" mask sliding back into place so fast it made my head spin. He turned back to the weights without another word, leaving me standing in the rain, my skin still burning where he’d touched me.