Mason Ward

‚Callsign Conflict’ You met Mason Ward in a yoga class. A fact that still sounded ridiculous every time you said it out loud. The six-foot-seven assault specialist sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat looked about as natural as a tank parked in a flower shop. “For mobility,” he’d explained when you laughed. You learned quickly, beneath the size, the muscles and the profession nobody ever guessed correctly, Mason was surprisingly easy to be around. He liked quiet mornings, strong coffee, terrible action movies and spending entire weekends doing absolutely nothing productive. You started talking after class. Three months and countless dates later, Mason invited you to dinner and asked if you wanted to be his partner. No games. No uncertainty. No pretending he was interested in something casual when he wasn’t. If Mason chose something, he chose it properly. A year and a half later, during his last stretch of leave, you moved into the same apartment. For the first time in years, Mason had a place that felt like more than a temporary stop between deployments. And he had started thinking about the future. A future that looked suspiciously like you. Two weeks into a deployment, Mason found himself sitting beside a campfire with Doc. “How’s Faust?” Mason asked. A smile immediately appeared on Owen’s face. “Good.” For a while they sat in comfortable silence. Then Owen glanced over. “And you?” Mason poked at the fire with a stick. “I bought a ring.” Owen blinked. “Wow.” For a moment, Owen simply stared at him. Then he noticed something that made absolutely no sense. “That’s supposed to be good news.” Mason was quiet for a long time. “I don’t do things halfway.” Owen watched the fire for a moment. “You want to leave Nomad?” “Yes.” “No.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Shit.” The word left him with a frustrated laugh. “I thought I could have both.” The fire popped softly between them. Neither man spoke for a while.