Thirty-One
Caiden
The first thing that I realise after the shower is my legs; they are, in fact, a betrayal.
It sounds as dramatic as it feels. When people have said they were fucked until they couldn't walk straight — honestly, now I get it. In the practical sense, my thighs protest when I walk, my lower back sends a polite but firm complaint, and I have to pretend I’m not walking as if I’ve been in a bar fight with gravity.
Ari’s acting as if nothing happened — which is infuriating, because everything happened.
It happened with his mouth on my neck like he was marking territory, and his hands grabbing my hips so hard it was like he was clinging on for life.
Now he’s in the kitchenette like he didn’t just ruin my ability to function.
Joggers, bare feet, one of my shirts hanging off him like it’s his now; his hair is damp, messy and curling slightly at the ends. Just... beautiful.
He’s moving around the little stove with that same menace he has on base, except here it looks softer.
Not kinder, exactly. Just less sharpened for war.
My menace gremlin is still in there. I can see it in the way he picks up the pan and flips whatever’s in it with unnecessary confidence — show-off bastard.
But there’s something else too, something I don’t think I’ve seen before.
Arseny Zakirov, the man.
The one who makes coffee without being asked. The man who’s quietly taken notice of what I like and filed it away in his memory like it matters. The thief who’s wearing my shirt and pretending it’s nothing, while doing something domestic enough to make my brain stall.
I stop just inside the area, the towel still in my hands, and watch him for what most people would call an unhealthy amount of time.
His arms flex when he reaches for the mugs.
When he turns, the hem of my shirt rides up just enough to show the hard line of muscle in his stomach above the waistband.
The infuriating part is that none of it is on purpose. Everything Ari does on base is purposeful. It has to be — no accidents, always on guard, and keeping everything hidden. But here, everything’s different.
He’s different.
It’s those accidental moments that catch me by the throat and threaten to choke the life out of my sanity. He glances over his shoulder like he can feel me staring. “What?” he says, flat and smug at the same time.
“Nothing,” I answer automatically, which is a lie, and we both know it. His mouth curves — it’s not a full smile. Ari doesn’t hand those out often — but it’s close enough to make my brain trip.
“You look like you’re about to say something intelligent,” he says. “I’m frightened.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, walking in properly. “I’m just assessing the damage.”
He raises an eyebrow. “To you or to my kitchen?”
“You’ve stolen my shirt again.”
He looks down at himself, as if noticing clothing for the first time in his life. “Stolen is the wrong word, it was just there.”
“It was in my bag,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
Ari huffs a laugh through his nose and turns back to the stove. “Your British brain is very cute in the morning, detka.”
“Don’t start.”
“You started it,” he shoots back.
I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t help. He slides a mug across the counter toward me without looking.
The coffee is aggressively strong, borderline violent.
Exactly how I like it. And how I like my men too, apparently.
He goes back to flipping whatever’s in the pan again, like it requires his full attention, and my existence doesn’t alter the orbit of his world.
Ari finally glances at me, just a flick of grey-blue that pins me in place. “Drink.”
I take a sip, and it’s hot enough to reset my nervous system. Bitter and perfect. My shoulders drop by a fraction. Ari sees it, but he doesn’t comment; he turns the stovetop off and plates up breakfast like he’s done it a hundred times.
I sit, and he sets a plate down in front of me, then takes the chair opposite.
He sits with his legs spread under the table, relaxed in a way he never is on base, and starts eating like he’s been starving for days, again.
I watch him chew, the way his throat moves when he swallows, and the way his eyelashes make shadows on his cheeks when he drops his gaze to his plate.
I’ve seen him in every other form — the soldier, the threat, the myth, the arsehole who smirks like he’s won before the game starts. I’ve seen the violence in him, I’ve seen how quickly he can go cold, and how easily he can become nothing but a weapon with a face.
But this version, I’ve decided, is my favourite.
Here, he’s just Arseny.
A man in joggers, eating eggs, wearing my shirt. My brain tries to do something dangerous with that thought, and I shove it away with the flat of my mind like it’s a weapon I’m not allowed to touch.
Ari looks up mid-bite. “What?” he says again.
“I didn’t say anything,” I reply, quickly.
He chews slowly, his gaze fixed on me as if he’s deciding whether to push. “You are loud,” he says. “In your head.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
He swallows. “That one is my favourite lie.”
I stab a piece of egg with my fork harder than necessary. “Shut up and eat.” His mouth twitches, and he moves his foot forward under the table until it bumps mine. It’s a soft, deliberate press, toe to ankle — a small, stupid, tiny touch.
I look up, caught, and Ari’s eyes are on me with the faintest glint of satisfaction. He doesn’t smirk because he doesn’t need to. He’s already won. “You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.
“I enjoy many things,” he says smoothly. “Your suffering is one.”
“Charming.”
“I’m very charming,” he agrees, completely unbothered. I huff a laugh and take another sip of coffee to hide it. Across the table, Ari watches me like he’s memorising every reaction, every crack in my restraint, as if he’s collecting them.
He finishes eating, setting his fork down, and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head like he’s trying to kill me on purpose — that damn shirt lifts again. He catches my stare, and his smile turns lazy and dangerous. “Eat,” he says.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
He tilts his head. “You like it when I do.” I almost choke on absolutely nothing.
Ari laughs, like my embarrassment is a hobby he’s committed to long-term, and I throw a crust of toast at him.
It hits his shoulder and drops to the floor.
He looks down at it, then back at me. “Violence,” he says, deadpan. “In my own home.”
It’s absurd how much I want to grin. It’s worse how much I want to kiss him.
Ari stands, collects the plates, and starts rinsing them at the sink.
His sleeves are pushed up; his damp hair dripping onto the back of my shirt, his forearms working as he scrubs.
The domesticity of it makes my brain short-circuit all over again.
I get up and drift behind him like a magnet.
The cabin is warm now. The fire is down to a steady crackle, and outside the window, the snow sits heavy on the trees.
It feels like the world has been muffled.
Like we’re the only two people alive in the world.
Ari glances back at me over his shoulder, and I’m close enough that his breath hits my cheek. “Go away,” he says.
“No.”
His mouth twitches. “Caiden.”
I shrug. “You’ll miss me if I do.”
He snorts softly and turns back to the sink. “You’re delusional.” I lean forward until my chest rests against his back. “You are doing that on purpose,” he murmurs.
“Doing what?” I ask with fake innocence.
He turns slightly, enough that his mouth is near my ear. “Breathing on me.”
“You like it.” I grin.
He shuts the tap off with a sharp twist, drops the dishcloth on the counter, and pivots.
Now I’m backed against the counter with his hands planted on either side of me, trapping me without even trying.
He’s damp, and still warm from the shower, his skin smelling like soap and heat and something unmistakably Ari.
His eyes flick down to my mouth and back up. “You’re provoking me,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I answer, honestly, because what’s the point in pretending. Ari’s gaze holds mine a moment longer, then his mouth curves.
“Good,” he whispers. And then he kisses me. My hands go to his waist automatically, my fingers curling into the shirt, my shirt, bunching it in my fists to stop myself from pulling it off him.
Ari makes a quiet sound against my mouth, approval, maybe, or satisfaction, and he presses in harder. My back hits the counter properly, causing the mugs to rattle, the kettle to wobble, and I laugh into his mouth, because it’s ridiculously perfect, and he’s so close I can’t breathe right.
Ari pulls back just enough to look at me. “What’s funny?”
“This,” I say. “You,” I gesture weakly at him, “playing house.” Ari’s expression turns offended in a way that would be comical if it weren’t still dangerously attractive.
“I’m not playing house,” he says.
“What are you doing then?”
He leans in again, his mouth brushing my lips. “I am keeping you busy.”
“You’re insufferable,” I tell him, because it’s the only line I have that feels safe.
“And yet,” he murmurs, stealing my words from earlier, “here you are.” I make a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh and shove at his shoulder; he doesn’t move. Instead, he hooks an arm around my waist and lifts me so I’m sitting on the counter like I weigh nothing.
“Excuse you?” I blink at him.
He looks up at me, calm as sin. “Better angle.”
“You’re—” I start, then forget the rest of the sentence because his hands slide to my hips, his thumbs pressing into the bruises he left like he’s checking his work. I inhale sharply, and Ari’s eyes narrow, pleased.
“Mm?” he says, like he’s filed that reaction away for later torture.
“This is harassment,” I manage.
Ari’s mouth curves. “This is you being dramatic.”
“I’m dramatic?”
He leans in, kissing my jaw. Once. Twice.
A slow line toward my ear. It makes my brain go blank.
“You have two settings. Loud and dramatic.” I grab him by the back of the neck and drag him in for another kiss.
This one is messier, clumsier in the best way.
Like we’re both trying to devour the moment before it evaporates.
Ari’s hands tighten at my hips, holding me still while his mouth takes its time.
When he finally pulls back, I’m breathing so hard I'm practically panting. He studies my face like he’s reading something, and I’m suddenly aware of the quiet again. The fire, the wind, the snow, the clock, and the damn countdown to going back to base tonight.
I don’t want to deal with it. Not yet.
“Bed?” Ari asks, like it’s an innocent suggestion. I don’t ask how long we’ve got. I already know the answer, but I want to keep pretending I don’t.
I snort. “We’ve done hardly anything but bed.”
His eyes flick to my mouth. “Yes.” I roll my eyes, and Ari shrugs like that’s not his problem.
“Come,” he says it like an order. He sets me down like I’m something fragile — which is unfair — and tugs my wrist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
We make it three steps before I yank him back.
Ari turns, his eyebrow lifted. “What?” he asks, already smug. I grab the front of my shirt and pull him in for one more kiss. “Just shut up,” I mutter against his mouth.
Ari huffs a laugh. “Da,” he says, as if he’s humouring me. Then he drags me back to the bed like we’ve got all the time in the world. I’m half-laughing when he shoves me, and I stumble onto the mattress.
“Careful,” I say. “You’ll damage the merchandise.
” He snorts and follows me down, crowding my space immediately, all elbows and knees.
We roll, clumsy and lazy, limbs tangling until I end up on my back with him hovering over me, his forearms braced on either side of my head.
He looks down at me like he’s deciding something, then leans in and kisses me.
I kiss him back, one hand coming up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. He hums quietly, pleased, and shifts his weight so I have to turn my head, laughing when his mouth follows mine anyway. “Greedy,” I mutter, and he laughs lightly.
At some point, it stops being about the way his hand moves, or the weight of his body on top of me, or the way he smells faintly like coffee and smoke.
He’s looking down at me, not smirking or provoking, just watching me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. His hand pauses on my waist, like he’s caught himself touching something he shouldn’t be, and for a second, he looks almost unsure.
And that’s when it slaps me in the face.
Not like a thunderclap or anything as dramatic. It’s a clean, horrible clarity. The thought pushes through before I can stop it. It’s undeniable, and my stomach drops like I’ve stepped off something high, and now I’m free-falling.
I’m in love with him.
I don’t say it, I don’t even let it show on my face. I lie there with it, breathing it in and out, letting it exist quietly inside me where no one can take it from me yet. He bumps his forehead lightly against mine. “You’re thinking again,” he murmurs.
“I’m not,” I lie automatically. He smiles like he knows better and kisses me once more, and I close my eyes, keeping the truth to myself.
We end up sideways, with his back against the headboard, and me half sprawled across him. His thumb traces slow, idle circles on my ribs as if he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
I press my face into his shoulder, breathing him in, and feel him relax under me, like this — this stupid, gentle closeness — is something he understands better than words.
For a while, we exist just like that, in the quiet knowledge that we’re here, together, and no one’s taking this moment from us yet.