FIFTEEN
CAIDEN
I’ve been standing in arrivals for long enough that I’m starting to look suspicious, pretending to read the notices on the wall, pretending I don’t already know exactly what I’m looking for. The board clicks over behind me; names and numbers update with mechanical indifference. A family spills through the doors, laughing too loudly, and a businessman talks into a headset with the strained patience of someone already late for something else.
And then — there he is. My body reacts to him before my brain catches up; it’s like muscle memory at this point.
Ari stands near the barrier, one shoulder leaning casually against a column, his hands in the pockets of a dark coat that looks better on him than it could on any model. His hair is longer than the last time I saw him, half tied up in a messy bun. I immediately want to run my fingers through it. He looks… ordinary. Or rather, he looks like someone who could pass as ordinary.
He’s watching the flow of people with the same alert stillness I’ve seen a hundred times on base. Relaxed, but only because he’s chosen to be.
He’s waiting for me.
I don’t wave, and I don’t smile. I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and walk toward him, keeping my pace steady and unremarkable. I stop an arm’s length away,close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, but not close enough to touch him.
“Lance Corporal Varrik,” he says, his tone neutral, his mouth curving just slightly like the formality amuses him.
“Sergeant Zakirov,” I reply automatically, because habit is a hard thing to kill and it gives me something to say that isn’t “fuck, you’re real.”
For a second, we look at each other. There’s a lot I want to do in that moment. None of it is appropriate for an international airport full of strangers, cameras, and people who might recognise one of us, even here.
“How was your flight?” he asks.
“Not bad,” I say. “Yours?”
“Long, but efficient,” he answers with a smirk.
We turn together and head for the exit, falling into step without touching. Outside, the air is cold and damp, and taxis idle at the curb in a neat line. Ari steps ahead of me, opens the door of the first one, and speaks to the driver in fluent, unaccented Dutch. I pause halfway into the car. The driver nods, pulling away from the curb when the door closes behind me. “You speak Dutch?”
He glances at me, his expression unreadable, then shrugs. “A little bit.”
“That didn’t sound like a little bit.”
“It’s easier than English,” he says mildly. I don’t know why I’m surprised, but I snort before I can stop myself and look out the window, watching the city come into focus as we drive.
The taxi is warm, the windows slightly fogged, and the driver hums along to something low on the radio. Ari sits close, close enough that our knees touch when the car turns a corner sharply.
Neither of us moves away.
The city slides past, and with it, the anxiety coursing through me loosens. I hadn’t realised how tightly wound I was until now, until I was here, anonymous, just another man in a taxi with another man, no rank on my shoulders, no one looking twice.
The driver says something in Dutch, glancing at us in the rear-view mirror. Ari answers smoothly, and the conversation flows easily and comfortably. I don’t understand a word of it, but I catch the tone — light, casual, normal.
At a red light, Ari’s hand shifts slightly, and his fingers brush the inside of my thigh. It’s barely there and could easily be played off as an accident.
My breathing stutters, but I keep my eyes on the window, my heart jackhammering inside me. Ari’s fingers linger, then retreat, then a minute later they come back. This time, he doesn’t brush. He rests his hand there, his thumb pressing lightly into the muscle.
It’s possessive without being obvious. Hidden in plain sight.
My pulse kicks in, and every nerve in my body lights up, screaming in awareness. I don’t move or react. I just let ithappen. The pressure of his hand is grounding and destabilising all at once.
The city keeps moving. People walk along the canals, laughing and holding hands openly. I even see a couple kissing on a bridge without thinking about it — must be nice.
The next couple I notice are walking hand in hand along the canal. Both men, they’re leaning into each other as they talk. There’s no tension in their faces or quick glances over their shoulders.
There’s another pair, this time women, standing close at a crossing, one tucked half under the other’s arm. They share a quick kiss before the light changes. No one reacts, no one stares. Traffic flows, and life goes on.
It doesn’t sit right. I’ve trained myself not to look for years. On base, in pubs, in cities where you never quite know who’s watching or why. You catalogue exits, mirrors, reflections. You keep your hands to yourself even when everything in you wants the opposite.
