Nicholas Pov;
Eight Years Ago
The barracks were quieter than usual. Most guys were packing up, laughing about getting a few days off. Someone had stuck a paper Christmas tree on the common room wall — crooked, but it made the place feel less like concrete. Greg was sitting on his bunk, head bent as he tied his boots even though we weren't going anywhere.
"You doing anything for the holidays?" I asked. He grunted. "Sleep."
"Exciting." He shot me a look.
"Not everyone's got a family to go play house with." I hesitated, leaning against the doorframe.
"You could come with me." His hands stilled.
"To your place?"
"Yeah. My mom's cooking enough to feed a battalion. My brother's never shut up unless there's someone new to pick on. You'd fit right in." He snorted. "Right. Because I just scream Christmas spirit."
"I'm serious, Greg." He finally looked up, his brow furrowed, like he was trying to read whether I meant it. I did. After a moment, he sighed.
