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Salty water pooled around his eyes as Michael yawned yet again. He’d nearly finished cleaning his guns, humming softly to himself, when his melody drifted and his chin lowered to his chest.
He jolted awake with a muttered “fuck!” when the rifle clanged onto the floor.
A door creaked open. He turned with enough time to watch a groggy Mike stumble from his room.
“Michael, it’s four in the morning. What’re you doing up?” he slurred.
“Sorry, pard. Go back to bed.”
Mike plopped down in the adjacent chair, rested his forehead on Michael’s shoulder, and promptly fell back asleep.