“You don’t get to use old stories to disrespect me in front of my men.”
George studied him for a moment, and something like sadness moved through his pale eyes.
“No,” he said. “You did that part yourself.”
A chair scraped somewhere across the room. Someone coughed and stopped immediately.
Miller’s face darkened. His hand left the chair and moved toward George’s lapel instead.
It was not a strike. It was not even fully a grab yet.
But in that suspended inch between intention and contact, every person nearby understood what was about to happen.
Davis moved before he finished deciding.
He came out from behind the serving line so quickly that a cook shouted after him, but he barely heard it.
His shoes squeaked on the polished floor, embarrassingly loud in the frozen room.
“Petty Officer Miller,” Davis said, and hated how his voice cracked on the name.
Miller turned slowly, disbelief spreading across his face before anger could fully return.
Davis stopped three steps from the table, suddenly aware of every rank, every rule, every consequence standing between them.
He was nineteen. His apron still had chili on it. His name tape was crooked.
“What did you say?” Miller asked.
Davis felt the entire mess hall looking at him now, and the attention was almost worse than Miller’s stare.
“I said, Petty Officer Miller,” Davis repeated, forcing the words through a dry throat, “please don’t touch him.”
No one moved.
