No. Absolutely not.
This is about sex, that’s all. Purely physical and strategic. I keep telling myself that as I start walking again, cutting through the side entrance and up the external metal stairs toward my barracks.
Sex. Pressure valve. Outlet. Nothing more.
It’snotabout the way he watches me fight, as if his body belongs under mine. It’snotabout the way he breathes my name. Not rank, not “sir,” just Arseny,like it’s something precious.
It’snotabout how I think about him too much, too intensely, and too often in ways that have nothing to do with the way he tastes.
No. It’s not about any of that.
I reach the top of the stairs, open the door, and step inside. My room is empty, and Niko is nowhere in sight. Good. He doesn’t need to see me like this. I close the door with my boot and rest my forehead against it for one long, shaky minute.
What the hell am I doing?
I told him to pack a bag. Which means Ihave to pack a bag and actually follow through. Meaning I have less than six hours to become a sane, functioning adult who can share a confined space with Caiden Varrik without climbing him like a tree.
I push away from the door and rake both hands through my hair. It doesn’t help, nothing helps, my brain keeps replaying his face in those split seconds after I whispered to him... that stunned, hungry, already-obedient tilt of his chin.
He’ll come, I know he will.
He’ll meet me at 1900 with a packed bag and that infuriating, earnest look he gets when he wants something too badly to hide it. I shouldn’t be anticipating the moment he steps onto that transport ramp or planning how quickly I’ll pin him against the cabin door once we’re out of uniform.
But I am. Because I’m broken. Because he’s breaking me more.
I drag open my locker and stare at it, mentally checking items off. Clothes, knife kit, spare cigarettes. Definitely not enough to pack for whatever I just committed to.
I told him before, that I’d find someone else if he didn’t want it, which was a blatant lie. I don’t want anyone else. I haven’t wanted anyone else since I shoved him into that broom closet and he touched me the way that he did. And that, that is the problem. Wanting someone is a weakness. Needing someone is death. And yet here I am, shoving clothes into a bag while imagining what Caiden will sound like when he’s under me with no base regulations to stop us.
I zip the bag halfway, pause, then stare at the floor.
This is dangerous — Not the sex, or the secrecy. Those I can navigate, manipulate, and weaponize. It’s him. The way he looks at me like there’s still something under all the shit I’ve built on top of myself, the way he doesn’t flinch from the worst parts of me — he matches them, answers them, fights them, wants them.
The way I almost kissed him last time —
The way I wanted him to —
I close my eyes, inhale slowly, and exhale even slower. I’m not falling for him. I’m not. I refuse. This is mission relief. Tension outlet. A weekend of getting whatever’s been simmering between us out of our systems. I shove my stuff into the bag, slam the locker shut, and force my face into something smug and composed. He’ll think I’m calm and in control when I see him.
Good, that’s what I want him to see. He doesn’t get to know what he does to me. He can want me. He can chase me. He can fall if he wants to. But I’m not falling.
Not for him.
Never.
Twenty-Seven
Caiden
Of course I’m early. Fifteen minutes early in fact, standing by the row of transport jeeps like an over-trained dog waiting for a command. My bag’s slung over my shoulder, my pulse has been jackhammering in my throat for the last hour, and I’ve changed my shirt three times — which is pathetic, because Ari is the last person on Earth who gives a damn about what I wear.
I’m standing here waiting for what feels like hours before I check my watch again. Now he’s late. Not by much, but by Ari’s standards, late is practically punctual.
It’s long enough for my brain to start staging small rebellions. What if he was joking? What if he changed his mind? What if he’s testing me? What if—
I hear footsteps behind me, stopping my brain mid-spiral. Ari’s energy hits the air, sharp, smug, predatory and irritatingly magnetic. “Packed, detka?” Ari drawls.
I turn. He looks— Fuck. Of course, he looks ridiculously hot. Dressed all in black, his field jacket unzipped, his gloves shoved into one back pocket, and his hair a little mussed like he’s just run a hand through it — which he probably has — wearing that smirk, that infuriating half-tilt of his mouth that already has me halfway undone.
