“That is just his face. If he really hates you, you will know. There would be lots of screaming.” He waves a hand vaguely. “You’re fine.” Easy for you to say, I think. He’s not tracking you like you’re a faulty piece of equipment.
We go back to it, stance, grip, reaction speed, all the things I’m supposed to be focusing on instead of the weight of my own thoughts. Niko corrects my footing with a boot tap and my guard with a brush of his knuckles. His guidance is precise. “Too tight here,” he says, nudging my elbow. “You choke your own reach. Relax. You’re not a piano wire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Again.”
We go through the sequence until my muscles ache and sweat trickles down my spine despite the cold. Every time I start to drift, my thoughts skid toward the ring on his chain, and the way his face softened when he talked about his son. Idrag myself back, focus on the work, the pattern, and the count. This is what I’m good at. Not feelings or whatever mess is currently trying to occupy my headspace. “Better,” he says eventually, stepping back and nodding in approval.
The rest of the session blurs into repetitions, corrections, and I move on autopilot, muscle memory taking over when my brain threatens to spiral. When he finally calls a halt, dismissing us to shower and get food, my body feels wrung out. I offer him a quick, “Thank you, sir,” because he’s earned it and I’m trying to be a normal human being, not just a bundle of neuroses in uniform.
He claps my shoulder once with a solid, friendly thump. “You did well today, Caiden,” he says. “You push hard. I like it.”
“Just trying not to make us look bad, sir,” I say, aiming for a light reply.
He smirks, then turns to yell something in Russian at one of his men who’s dropped a piece of kit in the snow. I shake myself, turn, and trudge off toward the barracks with the others.
On the outside, it’s simple — joint training and skill exchange. Another cold morning on another cold base in another year that will blur together with the rest. On the inside, I’ve just learned that the man I’ve been quietly, stupidly half-crushing on since we met is engaged, weeks away from becoming a father, and completely, thoroughly, blissfully straight. And yet I still can’t stop thinking about the way his hand felt when it closed around mine and pulled me to my feet.
I shove my gloved hands into my pockets, hunch my shoulders against the wind, and mutter to myself, low enough no one else can hear, “Get a grip, Caiden.”
The wind slaps me in the face, and honestly, I deserve it. Because deep down, under all the logic and self-preservationand the mental lists of reasons this is a terrible fucking idea, one small traitorous voice won’t shut up.
It keeps replaying the unguarded softness in his expression when he talked about his son. The way he said my name made it seem like it meant something. Then the way he said,“Inside is safer,”and had no idea how true that was for me.
Over all of it, a quiet, resigned truth takes hold, which is highly inconvenient.
Yeah. This isn't going away.
Six
Arseny
There are many deeply stupid things in this world — war, bureaucracy, British boiled food. But the stupidest thing currently happening is the way Lance Corporal Caiden Varrik keeps orienting himself around my brother.
I’m supposed to be doing something useful this morning. Equipment checks, inventory, and pretending to care if the supply logs match reality.
The usual theatre.
Instead, I’m standing on the edge of the training field with a clipboard I haven’t written on once, staring across the snow like a feral raccoon watching a picnic.
Because something is wrong.
Not ‘there’s a sniper’ wrong. Worse. Soft wrong. Feelings wrong. Niko is out on the field running drills with the British liaison team. Standard stuff. Normal behaviour. Zero threat. He’s moving through them as if he were born in command. His sharp voice, that easy grin, and that annoying ‘you’re safe when I’m here’ aura that makes men follow him into hell.
But Varrik won’t stop looking at him.
It’s not ‘I’m assessing my superior officer’ looking. Not ‘respectful, professional admiration’ looking. No. It’s the soft, warm, ‘oh fuck I like him’ kind of looking. He’s trying to hide it; I’ll give him that. His eyes are mostly forward, with the whole good soldier act.
But attraction bleeds.
The way he goes too still when Niko laughs and how his gaze snaps over every time my brother moves is really starting to get under my skin. What. The fuck. Are you doing?
Niko is shouting encouragement and insults in the same breath. And Varrik — the idiot — is orbiting him like a planet.
They finish a set of sprints, then switch to hand-to-hand. Niko corrects his footwork with barely a touch, and I watch the British idiot’s whole spine snap up a little straighter, and a visible hitch runs through him like he’s been struck by a bad idea.
Oh, fucking great.
