You make it eighty-eight days, same as your fake birth year, before suggesting a movie. Blonde Carrie says yes and you thank a non-Goa'uld God she doesn't giggle like the schoolgirl she is. Hand holding. Kissing. Onto baseball metaphors you're too old for. You moan her name.
"Who's Carter?"
You apologize and leave. The gay rumor starts and that's fine. You bury yourself in textbooks, ah the irony.
Have you kept your number? One day you'll call. Chain of command? Crap excuse. Stop wasting time. You've lost thirty years and any chance. You both shouldn't… he shouldn't lose Sam too.