Page 27 of Brass
I grab a hand basket and move systematically through the aisles. Practicality first. Two T-shirts, sweatpants, socks. For me, plain and functional. I don’t care about appearances. The clothes need to serve their purpose—cover, comfort, mobility.
Then women’s clothing. And here, despite myself, I slow down.
Growing up with three older sisters has its occasional advantages. I know how to shop for a woman without looking completely lost. I know sizes, fabrics, what’s comfortable versus what looks good.
For Celeste, I select practical but flattering options. Soft cotton T-shirts in deep green and navy that won’t irritate her injured ribs but will complement her coloring. A zip-up hoodie in charcoal gray for warmth. Leggings that will be gentle on her knee. My sisters’ voices echo in my head, providing commentary on fabric and fit.
Clare would approve of the color choices. Melissa would nod at the practical considerations for her injuries. And Diane would roll her eyes, thinking I wasn’t considering style enough.
I smile at that. It’s been years since I’ve gone shopping with any of them, but some lessons stick.
Then I reach the lingerie section and pause.
This feels more invasive somehow, more personal than picking out shirts and pants. But she needs everything, and I’m not making a second trip.
I study the options clinically, assessing her build from memory. The curve of her waist when I grabbed her in the tunnels. The swell of her breasts beneath that sodden blouse when she was pressed against the wall. She’s slender but curved. B-cup, maybe C. Erring on the side of comfort, I select the C.Then, instead of the practical cotton I should choose, my hand reaches for a black lace bra.
Inappropriate. Unprofessional. Completely unjustifiable from a tactical standpoint.
I put it in the basket anyway.
If I’m being honest—and why not, since no one’s in my head but me—I’m selecting what I’d like to see her in. What I’d like to peel off her in a different context, under different circumstances. My preferences, not what makes the most tactical sense.
Same with the underwear. I bypass the sensible cotton briefs for a pack of bikini-cut lace-trimmed ones. Black, deep blue, and a dark purple, colors I imagine would suit her complexion.
The practical part of my brain—the part that’s kept me alive through three combat tours and countless operations—argues this is tactical suicide. Letting attraction cloud judgment. The rest of me tells that part to shut the fuck up. Just this once.
There will be no scenario where this matters anyway. By tomorrow, we’ll be focused on staying alive, not—whatever this is. So where’s the harm in small indulgences of imagination? In acknowledging the spark between us, even if we’ll never act on it?
In the toiletries aisle, I grab the basics: toothbrushes, toothpaste, and deodorant. Then I pause at the shampoos, realizing I don’t know what Celeste prefers.
Except I do. That citrus scent.
I very quickly uncap bottles one by one, sniffing each until I find it—a grapefruit and mandarin blend that instantly conjures her face. The companion conditioner also goes into the basket.
Diane would laugh herself sick if she could see me now, standing in a pharmacy at midnight, smelling hair products for a woman who tried to ditch me thirty minutes ago. But there’s something oddly satisfying about finding the exact right scent. About knowing she’ll recognize the effort.
When I reach the feminine products section, I don’t hesitate. My sisters cured any awkwardness about this years ago. The list Celeste gave me included tampons, specifically heavy flow ones. A message meant to make me uncomfortable.
I grab the box, along with a selection of pads. If she’s trying to unbalance me with basic biology, she’s underestimated my upbringing. Three sisters and a nurse mother left no room for squeamishness.
I remember Melissa sending me to the store when we were teenagers, giving me absurdly specific instructions to see if I’d get flustered. I came back with exactly what she asked for, plus chocolate. The look of surprise on her face was worth every second of the cashier’s raised eyebrows.
The first aid supplies are next: antibiotic ointment, bandages, Ace bandages for her knee. I add a cold pack for her ribs and butterfly closures for the cut on her temple.
I mentally assess her injuries as I shop. The ribs aren’t fully broken—her breathing is labored but not the shallow panting of a punctured lung. Her knee is sprained, not torn—she can bear weight, albeit painfully. The head wound is superficial, and there are no signs of concussion in her pupils or speech patterns.
She’s hurting but functional. Tough. You don’t get that kind of resilience from an easy life.
As I turn toward the checkout, I pass the hair care aisle and stop. Her appearance is distinctive. The men hunting her will have a description. Long, dark hair, approximately 5’7”, slim build.
I backtrack to the hair dye section. Changing her appearance isn’t just about disguise—it’s about survival. I scan the options, selecting a warm auburn shade that will alter her look without appearing unnatural against her skin tone.
I consider her complexion—olive with golden undertones. The auburn will complement that, bring out the flecks of gold Inoticed in her brown eyes. It’s a practical consideration. Purely tactical.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I add a pair of shears to the basket. I’m no hairstylist, but I’ve cut my sisters’ hair in emergencies. I can manage a basic length reduction and some face-framing layers to change her silhouette.
