Halfway through, he leans a little closer. “You’re stronger than you look,” he whispers.
“Shut up,” I pant, and he laughs wickedly.
I finish the carry and then plant him back down on the frozen ground. He steps in close. “You keep touching me like that, and I’ll start thinking you enjoy it, Caiden.” I open my mouth to speak. I don’t know whether I’m about to deny it, confirm it, or just give up and throw him into the snow.
But he gives me that infuriating half-smile, then walks away, leaving me standing in the cold, breathing as if I’ve just been shot, wanting him so much I could scream.
I can’t stop staring at his back as he goes, or thinking about the way his breath sounded in my ear, and the way his voice dipped when he said my name.
Fucking God help me, I want him, bad, and I’m running out of excuses not to.
The changing room in the communal showers is a long concrete box with benches, hooks, and nowhere to hide. Steam ghosting the far end where the showers are already running.
I tell myself I’ll be quick, in, out, shower, done. I push through the door with the rest of my unit, peel off my gloves, flex my cold fingers, and start working my way out of my kit.
My hands are clumsy with the zips and buckles, and I tell myself it’s just the cold. Then Collins elbows me. “Are you good, Cai? You look like someone nicked your last cigarette.”
“I don’t smoke,” I mutter.
“Exactly,” he says, like that proves something. I roll my eyes and strip down to my shorts. I’ve showered with a hundred blokes in worse conditions than this without blinking. But I hear the familiar Russian from my right, and my whole body goes hot and cold at once.
Of course he’s fucking here.
Ari’s laugh cuts through the noise; it’s low and unmistakable. He’s stood with a couple of his own men, trading insults I don’t follow, and then he shrugs out of his top.
The universe hates me.
I keep my eyes on my locker. Iabsolutelykeep my eyes on my locker — except my peripheral vision is a traitor.
He peels the fabric off slowly, and the hem drags over his back, taking clumps of dried earth with it. Underneath, his skin is pale where the sun hasn’t got him, and golden where it has. My eyes fix on his shoulder blades, taking note of the compact muscles, and the scattering of old tiny scars. Then I quickly drag my gaze back to the metal in front of me. It’s dented, chipped, and uglier than sin. Good. Focus on that.
Locker. Not Ari. Locker. Not the line of his spine. Locker.
I hear fabric hitting the floor from Ari’s direction, but I don’t dare turn my head. My hands are sweating now because my body has decided that’s what we’re doing today. Brilliant. I grab my towel, wrap it hard around my waist, heading for the showers like I’m just another bloke who ran too hard and wants the mud off.
I pick an empty nozzle, hang my towel on the hook, and step under the spray. It’s too cold, then it becomes too hot within seconds, making my skin prickle. I’m watching the mudrun in little brown rivers down my chest as someone steps into the next shower along. I hear the familiar chuckle of amusement before I see him.
Of all the fucking places.
“Lance Corporal,” he says in that smooth, infuriating way, as if we’re meeting at a tea party. “Good form on the carry.”
I close my eyes for a second, then I open them and keep my gaze firmly fixed on the tiles in front of me. “Sergeant,” I say. My voice comes out clipped, functional and neutral. It doesn’t betray the fact that I can feel his presence like a heat lamp at my side.
He’s closer than is strictly necessary, as there’s another shower free further down the line. But he chose this one. Why wouldn’t he?
Water runs over my face and shoulders, and I focus on the feeling of it, on the cold biting my scalp, not on the knowledge that ten inches away, water is sliding over his skin. “You carried me all the way,” he goes on. “Didn’t drop me once. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t make a habit of it,” I say flatly, and he laughs under his breath. It’s maddeningly quiet, it’s low enough that the other lads don’t notice, but loud enough to vibrate under my skin.
“What if I want to?” he asks, his voice now a low whisper.
I can feel my pulse at the base of my skull. “Find someone else to wind up,” I snap.
“Oh, but you’re my favourite,” he says, sounding genuinely delighted by that fact, which is deeply unfair. I can’t see him without turning my head, and I absolutely refuse to turn my head. If I look, I’ll remember yesterday.
Heat coils low in my stomach. I scrub harder at my chest, dragging grit down my ribs, as if I can scrape the wholereaction out by force. “You’re doing it again,” he says casually.
“Doing what?” I ask, gritting my teeth.
