Page 26 of Break Me Apart
“I’m not leaving shit.”
“Caiden, just... I’ll handle it.” The steam makes everything closer, denser; the air is heavy in my lungs. I’m aware of other men moving further down the row, reminding me that this isn’t a private room, but I don’t care.
“You shouldn’t have to,” I say, and I hear the edge in my tone.
“No, but it doesn’t change anything,” he says, instantly pissing me off. That the bit that really gets to me. Not the bruises or the split lip. The quiet acceptance.
He shifts his weight slightly, bracing one hand against the tile wall as if he’s stretching. I can see how his side tightens against the movement, and I see the effort it takes not to wince.
“If you make noise about this,” he says quietly, “it won’t come back on you. It’ll be on me.” And now I’m livid, because he’s right. If I go looking for names, if I start asking the kind of questions that make this an official thing, it won’t be me standing under someone else’s fists in a dark room where no one sees anything clearly enough to intervene.
It will be him.
The anger doesn’t fade, but I nod, because that’s the only thing I can do without making this worse for him. He reaches for his towel, steps past me, and for a second, I consider ignoring him entirely, grabbing him by the shoulder, forcing him to tell me who thought they had the right.
But I don’t.
Because that would make it about me.
I step under the spray after he leaves and let the water hit the back of my neck until it stings, but it doesn’t wash the image out. Someone decided Mason was an acceptable target and everyone else decided not to notice.
And the system we’re meant to trust will call that fair.
The rest of the day moves around it as if nothing has happened. Mason sits where he usually sits at lunch, but this time he’s alone. He keeps his back to the wall and shifts carefully when he reaches for something across the table. Not one single person asks if he’s okay. That fucks me off more than the bruises ever could.
Men I’ve trained beside and trusted under fire, men who would take a round for each other without hesitation, don’t ask why one of their own is moving as if someone’s run him over.
They see it. Of course, they fucking see it.
I’ve defended this kind of environment before and told myself it was efficient and necessary. That you could live inside it as long as you kept your own conduct clean and your loyalties clear.
I’m less certain now.
By Friday, Collins suggests we should go out. I go because not going would be noticeable, and I’m not interested in being noticeable.
The bar is loud enough to drown out thought if you let it. Bodies are packed too close, and Underworld’s “Born Slippy” vibrates through the floor.
I order a drink and lean against the bar, scanning automatically — exits, corners, who’s already drunk enough to make poor decisions. It’s a habit now. The kind you don’t shake just because you’re off duty.
I wonder if Mason is in his room icing his ribs, then I wonder if anyone else is worried about him. “Caiden?” I turn, and it takes me a second to place her. There’s the same smile and confidence I recognise. We slept together a few times before Russia. It had been uncomplicated, easy even, no promises, and no expectations.
But her name... I search for it and come up with nothing. “Hey, you,” I say, buying myself some time.
“You’re back.” She grins.
“Apparently,” I reply.
She laughs at that, her hand settling lightly on my arm. “You disappeared on me,” she says, stating a fact.
“I was deployed in Russia,” I answer.
She studies me properly then, like she’s assessing damage. “You look different.”
“I’m older,” I say.
“It hasn’t been that long, silly.”
“Russia ages you terribly.” That gets another laugh. I’m deflecting, I know I am. She probably does too.
