Page 90 of Break Me Open
“Always,” I say. “It’s the only intelligent conversation I get.” He snorts and looks away. I keep my face neutral, my body steady, and my head filled with the kind of thoughts that will absolutely get me killed if I let them show.
That night, I don’t practice Russian. I just lie there and stare at the ceiling and think about the difference between hunger and restraint.
Before the cabin, there was hunger. It was easy to explain and blame it on adrenaline, tension, and proximity. Now it’s restraint — and restraint is a choice. Ari is choosing it. Which means he’s choosing something else, too. Distance, ending it,punishment, I don’t fucking know. I just know the door is shut and I’m standing on the wrong side of it.
I fall asleep eventually because my body gives up. The next morning, I wake up and do it all again, because that’s what soldiers do. We take whatever we’re given and we carry it like it doesn’t weigh anything.
Even when it does.
Even when it’s a man with grey eyes who won’t look at you properly anymore, and when you start to realise you might have built your entire remaining time around someone who can disappear behind a uniform with one breath.
By the end of the tenth day, the base feels smaller, the corridors feel narrower, and the shadows feel like they’re laughing at me.
I don’t reach out again, I’ll be damned if I give him another chance to say no. And that, I realise, is the real damage. Shutting me down wasn’t the problem; it’s the fact that he did it so easily that I’m now scared of trying again.
I sit on my bunk that night, notebook open in my lap, pen hovering uselessly over the page. The Russian word I was going to write is stuck in my throat like a splinter. I close the notebook, shove it back under the mattress, and stare at the wall, all humour gone — because there’s nothing funny about this anymore.
Ari has pulled away, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to chase him, let him go, or pretend none of this ever happened. I don’t know which option keeps us alive. I just know I’m tired of guessing, and for the first time since the cabin, I let the thought sit in my head.
If this is what he wants, he could’ve just said so. But Ari doesn’t say things. He shuts doors. And leaves you standing in the corridor, wondering when the rules changed.
Thirty-Four
Arseny
I don’t touch Caiden for days. I don’t brush past him in corridors, lean in close enough for anyone to mistake it for instruction, and I don’t look at him longer than regulation allows. Sergeant Zakirov is impeccable, neutral, cold, and exactly what I am supposed to be.
On the inside, I am barely holding the line.
It’s worse because I know why I’m doing it. I know exactly how this ends. He leaves. The base absorbs the absence like it always does. Life continues. And I am left with something I don’t want to be alone with. So, I pull back.
I tell myself it’s discipline, foresight, and I even tell myself I’m doing him a favour. I tell myself a lot of lies.
Caiden notices. He notices everything, eventually. He still does his job, jokes with the others, and looks when he thinks I’m not looking, just long enough to check if something’s changed. I don’t give him anything — no tells, warmth, or invitation.
It starts eating him alive.
I see it in the way his humour is practically non-existent today, and in the way he gets quieter when we’re in the same room.
I catch myself staring when he isn’t aware of it. Across the mess hall, through glass, and through mirror reflections. I watch the way he stands, listens, and the way he pretends this doesn’t matter because pretending is something he’s very good at.
And I hate myself for it.
Eventually, he tries. It’s subtle, of course; he’s not stupid. He catches me alone near the admin offices and tries to talk, and I shut him down with no emotion whatsoever. Then I walk away before I do or say something stupid. That night, I don’t sleep.
It’s the end of the week, and I’m done pretending this is restraint and not fear. I find him in the corridor outside the offices, late enough that the base has gone quiet. He’s walking, coming down the corridor opposite me, and I stop in front of him, blocking him. “Come with me,” I say.
He doesn’t move or look at me. “No,” he says, and tries to step around me.
“This is not a request,” I say, sharp enough to feel like myself, blocking him again.
“Funny. Sounds exactly like one to me.”
I step closer but I don’t touch him. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?” he asks, finally looking at me. There’s something guarded there now. Hurt, badly disguised. “Because you’ve been very clear this week.”
“You’re misreading the situation.”
