I’ve lasted more than a day. Which, frankly, is a miracle. One more day of pretending the broom cupboard incident never happened. One more day of acting like Sergeant Ari didn’t have me up against a wall with my hand around his cock. One more day of pretending I wasn’t still tasting his tongue in my mouth every time I swallowed.
After that, everything started to fray.
I avoid him as best I can — mostly that involves ducking into the nearest room if I hear his voice. If I feel his eyes on me in the mess, I focus so hard on my tray I’m surprised I don’t burn a hole through the beans.
On the training field, I manage a heroic level of pretending he’s just another Russian Sergeant and not the man whose hair was in my hand while he was doing things that could get us both shot.
Theoretically, this is sensible. Men don’t get caught doing what we did. I know it, he knows it, Niko knows it. Everyone here knows the rules, even if they’re not written anywhere. So, I avoid him because I have to. If I see him too much, I’ll forget why it’s a bad idea — at least that’s the story I’ve been telling myself. It’s not the full truth. The other part is, I’m scared of what I’ll do if I’m alone with him again.
I keep replaying it.
The taste of his lips, the low, broken sounds he made while he was trying to stay quiet, the way he’d looked afterwards, and then he’d done that infuriating Ari thing —smirked, straightened his uniform, said something glib and disappeared.
I don’t know what I wanted from him afterwards, but it wasn’t that.
But now, there’s no teasing in passing, no smug grin in the mess hall, only a brief encounter in a corridor and a look across the yard that seared through me and then slid off like nothing.
If I talk to him, I’ll either punch him in the face or beg; I can’t tell which anymore.
So, I throw myself into work instead. I spend extra hours in the comms room, re-checking frequency lists that don’t need re-checking. I offer to help one of the Russian techs repatch ancient wiring, and nearly blow my fingers off when a cable arcs. I sit through Niko’s briefings until my brain feels like mush, nodding in all the right places, and making notes I’ll never read. “Everything okay, Caiden?” Niko asks, frowning slightly.
“Fine, sir,” I lie. “Just tired.”
He looks at me for a long moment, like he knows I’m full of shit. Then he claps my shoulder. “Go sleep, then. Or eat. Or shout at a tree. Whatever British soldiers do to unwind.”
If only he knew.
By day three, I’m holding it together with willpower and caffeine. It’s late. It’s one of those dead hours where the base isn’t truly asleep, just turned down to a low hum. My shift in the comms room runs over while we troubleshoot a static glitch, and by the time I leave, my eyes ache, and I just want my bunk.
I head down the side corridor that cuts past the admin offices and back toward the block where the Brits are. It’s quieter than the main route, tucked between two offices withfrosted windows. I’m halfway along when a shadow moves on the wall beside me. “Evening, detka.” I jerk to a halt so fast, my knee twinges. He’s leaning against the door of one of the admin rooms, one foot braced behind him, and arms folded across his chest. He looks like he’s been there for a while, waiting, and the universe finally delivered his prey.
The low corridor light catches on the sharp edge of his jaw and the curve of his mouth. He’s out of his uniform, dressed down to his shirt and combat trousers, sleeves pushed up, and his forearms bare. My pulse slams up so hard, my vision narrows for a second. “Not tonight,” I mutter, turning on my heel. “I’m knackered.” His fingers catch my wrist; he’s not letting go.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he says calmly. Which is bullshit, because I can feel the tension in him through that grip. “We’re going to talk.”
“No, we’re not,” I snap, trying to yank my arm back. I glare at him, exhausted, pissed off and done. “We’ve done enough talking.”
“No,” he says. “We’ve done everything but talking.”
“Move, Sergeant,” I say, gritting my teeth.
“No.”
I take a deep breath through my nose and count to three.“Look, whatever you think that was in the broom cupboard—”
“Which part?” he asks, smirking.
“I’m not doing this in the corridor,” I bite out. He tilts his head, watching me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s seen all day.
“Good,” he says, and before I can process that, his hand shifts to my arm, and he knocks his shoulder into the door behind him. The latch gives, and the door swings open. “Inside, then.”
It’s a small admin office with two battered desks, filing cabinets, a corkboard with curling memos in Russian, and a single overhead strip light hums faintly. He steps back into the room and waits, holding the door open with one hand, his eyes never leaving mine. I should say “no, sir” go back to the barracks and pretend I don’t wake up at 0300 remembering the way his breath went ragged when I...
No fucking way.
But my feet move on their own, hello to my non-functioning brain. I walk past him into the room, and the door clicks shut behind me. The soft sound of the lock turning is like a gunshot.
I turn, leaning against the desk. It’s a crappy metal thing with a scarred wood top. There’s a stack of forms in one corner, a chipped mug with pens, and a dead plant in a plastic pot.
