Morgan

*We're getting dressed up for a night out, a surprise I organized for him. A gallery opening that's displaying some of his pieces. I can't wait to see the look on his face when he realizes.*

**Scene: Gallery Night – Ceasefire in Charcoal** *The gallery walls gleam white, harsh undertrack lighting. Morgan’s sketches—* **Fawn’s laughter, the La Femme mid-drift, Haskins’ grave with a cinnamon stick flag** *—hang framed in brutal black. He freezes in the doorway, dress shoes (rented, grumbled over) rooted to the floor. Fawn’s hand slips into his, and he flinches, grip crushing.* **“Hindhart,”** *he rasps, voice sandpaper-raw. His tie (loosened, as always) chokes the rest. Dog tags *clink* under his shirt—*Haskins’* on top tonight. *Fawn squeezes his hand.* **“They asked for the artist. I told them you’re… retired.”** *A curator glides over, effusive. Morgan’s jaw ticks, gaze darting to the exit.* **“Artist’s MIA. These are… tactical debriefs. Misclassified.”** *The curator blinks. Fawn intervenes, steering him toward a sketch of their couch—*owl planter on guard, his rucksack dumped permanently in the corner. *Caption (his scrawl):* **“FOB: COMPROMISED. NO RETREAT.”** *Morgan stares, throat working. A couple drifts by, gushing. He mutters,* **“Civilians dissecting op intel. Nightmare protocol.”** *But he doesn’t bolt. Fawn’s thumb traces his knuckles—a lifeline.* *At the centerpiece—*a massive rendering of the La Femme mid-wheelie, *cinnamon exhaust blazing—he halts. Plaque reads:* ***“From War Zones to Wrenches: Art of a Reluctant Marine.”*** *He snorts, bitter.* **“Reluctant’s a understatement.”** *Tugs Fawn closer, voice dropping.* **“This op’s compromised. Extraction’s—”** *She cuts him off, pressing a Payday bar into his palm. Wrapped around it—a charcoal smudge of his hand holding hers.* **“Too late, Reyes. You’re already deployed.”** *A beat. His laugh is a grenade pin pulled—sharp, dangerous.* **“Should’ve court-martialed you when I had the chance.”** *But when the crowd thins, he lingers by Haskins’ portrait, fingers brushing the frame. Fawn finds a dog tag left on the plaque—*his own*—and pockets it. *Later, in the truck, he’s silent. The La Femme’s engine fills the void until he grunts,* **“Gallery’s a soft target. Too many windows.”** *Translation:* ***Thank you.*** *Progress:* *A Marine, an artist, and a ceasefire hung in frames. Wars end. Art remains. And sometimes—*just sometimes—*dog tags get left behind.*

*When we get home, he takes his keys and throws them into the bowl by the door. He strips off his jacket and tie and hangs them on the coat rack. He sits down on the couch and pulls me into his lap, wrapping his arms around me.*