Page 56 of Break Me Open
Also, I want to do it again.
That’s the worst part. Not the danger, the guilt, or the fact that I broke every one of my own rules in about thirty seconds. It’s the way my body keeps replaying it like a highlight reel and going, ‘yes, God. More of that, please.’
By the time morning actually shows up, the base is already awake, my eyeballs feel like sandpaper, my head is buzzing, and my whole body has that weird light feeling you get after sprinting for too long.
I drag myself out of bed. The lads in my bunk room don’t notice anything off. Why would they? There’s the usual half-awake swearing, jostling and arguing over whose socks smell like they died in 1983. Nobody looks at me twice — which is good. Great. That’s what I want.
I pull on my uniform, putting everything in its place. Nothing about me says “I let Sergeant Arseny Zakirov suck me off in a supply cupboard last night.” Except all of me says it, on the inside.
I catch sight of my reflection in the tiny scratched mirror above the sinks. I look like I’ve spent the night either crying or violating the Geneva Convention in some way. “Pull it together,” I mutter at myself. The mirror, unhelpfully, doesn’t answer.
The day starts the same as any other: cold that hurts, drills that hurt more, and officers pretending they’re not tired. Niko is out on the training field when I get there, bundled in his jacket, his breath steaming, and his clipboard tucked under one arm. He’s talking to one of his sergeants; his expression is serious until he sees me, and it switches into a grin. Something in my chest eases just from that look. Stupid, I know, but there it is. “Morning, Lance Corporal,” he calls. “You look like shit.”
“Feel like it too, sir,” I say. “Nice to know it’s showing.”
“We’ll run it out of you,” he snorts, clapping my shoulder once. “Form up.” Simple. Normal. Safe. I latch onto it like a lifeline.
Lines form, and orders are barked. We move, run, drop, repeat until my muscles burn, and I throw myself into it with more force than strictly necessary. It helps a little. Pain is easier to manage than thinking. Keep your form, keep your breathing steady, and don’t think about...“Fuck, Caiden...”don’t think about that. I push harder, and we switch to combatives. Pairs, pads and strikes, then we rotate. By the end, my knuckles ache, and the ache in my chest just sits there, being fucking stubborn.
If I don’t look for him, maybe the universe will be nice to me and keep him away. That thought lasts about twelveseconds. I feel him in the air, same as always. It’s like my body’s radar tuned itself to ‘Arseny Zakirov, danger, do not approach.’ He’s over by the equipment sheds, going over something on a clipboard with another sergeant, his head bent over, his hair falling forward over his face.
He’s out of the training rotation this morning, apparently. Someone said something about equipment inventories. Which is good because I don’t think I could handle him in my personal space right now without doing something incredibly stupid.
Like last night. You know, for example.
I tear my gaze away and focus on the drill when Niko shouts my name, and I snap back into it. Time fractures into small, manageable pieces, thirty-second bursts of effort, corrections, then water breaks. Through all of it, I can feel him on the edge of everything — the way you know where the nearest exit is without looking.
When we change stations, I glance toward the sheds again. His head is up now; he’s watching the field, watching us. He doesn’t look at me directly, there’s no obvious tension, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think nothing had changed. It’s like the broom cupboard never happened.
There’s a petty, wounded part of me that wants to march over there and say, ‘hey, remember how you came apart on my hand? Or did we file that under ‘just another Thursday’ in your personal chaos log?’ I don’t move. Obviously.
Niko calls a break, and people scatter for water, cigarettes, and stretching out whatever aches. I end up sitting on a low concrete block at the edge of the field, my head tipped back, sucking cold air into my burning lungs.
Boot steps crunch to my left, and for one wild second, I think it’s him. Mason plonks down beside me with a groan. “Thought my legs were going to fall off back there,” he mutters.
“Pity it wasn’t your mouth,” I say automatically. He snorts and nudges my shoulder. We talk shit for a minute about the Russians’ obsession with cold-weather drills, just as Collins comes over to sit with us.
“Zakirov looks pissed,” Mason says, squinting past me. My heart, unhelpfully, tries to climb up my throat. “Other one,” he clarifies quickly. “The younger one. The feral goblin.”
“That’s just his face,” I say, before I can stop myself.
Collins barks out a laugh. “You’ve got a death wish, mate, talking about a Russian NCO like that.”
“He said ‘goblin’ first,” I point out.
“Yeah, but you’re meant to be the responsible one.”
God help them all.
I risk a glance toward the sheds. Ari’s still there and still watching the field. Our eyes meet, and I swear I feel it in my chest, that little jolt of recognition. His gaze is cool, flat, and unreadable from this distance.
He doesn’t look away quickly, which somehow makes it worse. He holds my stare, then shifts his attention to something over my shoulder, says something to the sergeant beside him, and walks away.
My stomach twists as Collins is still rambling on about home leave. I nod in what I hope are the right places, but my brain’s miles away. What did I think was going to happen? That he’d be hovering round me, prowling, snarking, and demanding a repeat performance behind the nearest locked door?
I’ve noticed that Ari doesn’t chase, not really. He circles, he pushes, and pokes until people chase him. It shouldn’t sting that he’s suddenly normal, professional, and distant. Except it does, because now I’ve seen the part under the teeth, jokes andthreats. I’ve seen the hunger in his eyes and the way his breath stuttered when I touched him. But now he’s just... fine? Like he’s decided to slam the door and leave me standing there with my hand still half-raised. It’s safer this way. I tell myself that on repeat for the rest of the morning and don’t believe a word of it.
By lunchtime, I’m frayed. Outwardly, I’m the picture of ‘fine.’ I eat, I report, and I follow orders. If anyone looked at me, they’d see a slightly tired Lance Corporal doing his job. Inside, though? It’s a mess.
