Bulletproof

5a. Stella

He stares ahead at the horizon, dangerously oblivious to the footsteps behind him.

"Bang," you say as you seat yourself beside him on the edge of the roof. "You'd be dead on German shores with reflexes like that."

"I heard you," he responds simply.

You push his shoulder. "No you didn't." He shakes his head and chuckles under his breath. "What are you thinking about?"

"What do you think?"

"Nam, I can appreciate that this is your thoughtful spot, but I don't think I'll ever stop hoping that one day you'll use this place to think about beauty instead of problems."

But your sentiment might as well have fallen on deaf ears. "All those men," he continues, "they wanted to stay home and watch the rest of us fight."

You scan the horizon with him. "It's not always as simple as that. You know that."

"That's not the point." You watch his profile as he puts one foot on the ledge and rests an arm on his knee. "The recruits, if you can even call them that, that we get shipped out to meet tomorrow are going to have their own best interests at heart, patriots or not. They aren't in the right mindset for war. They don't think like soldiers, and if they never wanted to in the first place--you can't make a team out of a group of people like that." He rubs at a spot on his arm. "The President thought he was swelling our numbers, but all he's done is sentence a thousand civilians to a life as part of our death toll." He looks at you with hard, unforgiving eyes. "They're all going to die. Every single one of them."

You are quiet for a minute, judging what all the hidden thoughts racing around his skull might be. "It's your job to make sure they don't."

"I can't take responsibility for that. You should know that about me by now. I make messes--I never clean them up."

You roll your eyes. "God, will you stop that? Camouflaging fear behind the tough guy act doesn't actually work for your state of mind or your image. It's okay to just be scared that there's a bunch of people counting on you to keep a squadron of ill-prepared men alive. Just be scared, okay?"

He narrows his eyes at you for a moment before his lips curl in a genuine smile. You smile back, knowing that you are the only person in this place who can break the ice of his façade.

"I'm pretty sure West Point taught me not to be afraid, right?"

You laugh. "Yeah, you're right. From what my brother told me, that was kind of a requirement in Mrs. Owens' class." You cock your head and swing your dangling feet. "But it's just us right now, Namjoon. You can forget what the academy taught you for five minutes, okay?"

He nods and looks down at the pavement far below your feet.

"I don't think...I've ever been afraid of falling myself," he starts, his voice low and tired. "But how am I supposed to live with myself if I make a career, make a life, out of cutting down other men and watching them fall?"

You chew the inside of your lip and stick your legs out straight over the roof's edge. "I don't know. When I think about it that way, I don't know why you and my brother chose to accept spots at this school. I don't know how you're supposed to bear that burden and live." You stretch your arms above your head. "But if I think about the pictures of your mom and the pictures of me in my brother's room and all the pictures in yearbooks of all the people we went to high school with--you're protecting them. There are people out there who want to kill them. They don't even know them, and they think they should die just because they're American. It's not fair that you have to watch men and women die in battle, but I guess it's more fair than watching the innocents die at home."

"Yeah..." he murmurs. He is silent for a moment before he asks, "How many do you think we can get back in one piece?"

You suddenly want to lean against his shoulder and feel yourself move with the rhythm of his breathing. You want him to embrace you and say he'll miss you--and not just "miss" you, but miss you. After all, who knows how long it will be until you see him again? But you have never been as brave as your brother.

"A lot," you finally reply, praying he is among them.

Namjoon swings his body around and slides off the ledge to stand on the roof itself. He leans back on his hands, and his fingers are so close to yours, it is almost painful.

"You think you'll keep busy here on campus without this ass to entertain you?" His dark eyes crinkle in a smirk as he speaks.

"I'm not going to have to clean up after you for six months? I don't know how I'll ever get by with so much free time!" You both laugh loudly, but inside, you feel like crying.

When your brother had been accepted to West Point four years ago, back when you had been a frail sixteen year-old girl with failing health, Tyler had pulled every string he could to get you accepted into clinical trials with the academy's science department. They reluctantly agreed, but you knew the school was ready to evict you as soon as the opportunity arose. And with Tyler shipping out two weeks ago and the last person who would be willing to champion your cause shipping out tomorrow, it was only a matter of days before the administration brought down the hammer.

But even if Namjoon wasn't leaving, he would still be in the dark. He has no idea how much of a stretch it was for you to remain on campus as long as you had, and he certainly has no idea that your departure is as imminent as his.

You are so lost in remorseful thought you don't notice his shift toward you. All you know is, without warning, Namjoon's soft lips are brushing yours. You gasp, and the breath draws in the musky scent of him. His hand gently pulls the back of your head closer to him as his tongue searches for space beyond the break in your teeth. It escalates quickly, his palms running up the back of your shirt as your fingers trace his jaw and fumble with the buttons on his. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, and his strong arms hoist your light frame off the ledge.

Every breath feels like your last as bursts of joy overtake your body at the sudden revelation. You get to really say goodbye with all the silent words you always wanted to use, get to tell him he's got a reason to return, get to show him what he's fighting for.

He loves me. He loves me.

"I didn't know," he gasps, smiling, between your lips, "you loved me, too."

"Come back to me, Namjoon," you exhale shakily as his kisses trail lower down your neck, hot breaths tickling the skin over your ribs.

As the two of you entangle yourselves in a mass of limbs and last-chance love, casting his cleanly pressed blue shirt aside, he whispers one last wish.

"Wait for me."