THIRTEEN
CAIDEN
Mason’s door looks the same as every other door in this corridor. Beige paint, cheap number plaque, scuffs at the bottom from boots, kit bags and people who don’t care what they damage as long as it isn’t their face.
I knock, there’s a pause. Then the bolt slides back, and he cracks it open just enough to look at me through the gap.
He’s got another bruise blooming under one eye that wasn’t there yesterday. His mouth is split again, not as bad as the showers a few weeks ago, but it’s fresh enough to look like it stings when he smiles.
He sees my expression, and his shoulders lift like he’s bracing for impact. “Can we not do this right now?” he asks, pre-empting whatever I was about to say.
“Move,” I answer. I don’t raise my voice, but it comes out harsh. “Before I kick the door in and make it everyone’s problem.”
He snorts because he knows I’ll do it, then steps back and lets me in. He shuts the door behind me and leans against it with his arms folded, like he’s trying to look casual.
But it doesn’t work.
“Sit down,” I say.
“Why?” he fires back immediately.
“Because you look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”
He rolls his eyes — pure Mason, pure stubborn — then pushes off the door and drops onto the edge of the bed.
He’s quick about hiding the wince, but I see it anyway.
It takes all of my self-control not to do something stupid.
Like, put my fist through his wall, or go looking for names.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask, pointing at his face.
He stares at me for a second, then looks past my shoulder like the answer might be written on the flaking paint. “Drop it,” he says.
“Connor—”
“I said drop it.”
“And I’m saying no.”
“Why? What’s the point? You can’t do anything about it,” he says, glancing at the door.
“Watch me.”
His eyes snap back to mine, and there’s something hard there that looks suspiciously like a warning. “Caiden,” he says, slower, “If you start swinging your dick around, if you start asking questions, you know who it lands on.”
“On Harris? It's him, isn't it?” I say, because I’ve been thinking it since the showers, and it’s been rotting in my brain ever since.
Mason goes still, and that’s my answer. I take a breath through my nose and taste rage like metal. “Say it,” I press.
He exhales. “Fine, it’s him,” he admits finally, and his voice goes flat the way it does when he’s trying not to crack. “It started as a joke. You know what he’s like. Always got an audience and something clever to say.”
I can hear it without him even having to paint it. Harris, with his shit eating grin and his easy charm, making it sound harmless, like banter even. Making sure everyone laughs so no one has to ask whether they agree with whatever crap he’s spouting.
Mason keeps going, staring at his hands like he can keep it contained if he doesn’t look at me. “First time I told him to pack it in, it was... quiet. Then in the corridor, a shoulder into the wall, just enough to make a point.”
I feel my hands curl. “And then?”
Mason’s eyes lift sharply. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That…” He gestures at me. “That interrogator thing. You’re not my CO.”
“No,” I say. “I’m your mate.”
He gives me a look like he wants to laugh and punch me at the same time.
“It’s been… a couple months,” he says, and the way he says it tells me it’s longer.
“Not every day. Not always obvious. Sometimes it’s just…
pressure. You know. Cornering me in the gym.
Little comments. ‘Careful where you look, Mason.’ That sort of thing.
And then sometimes it’s fists, because he’s got lads who’ll stand nearby and pretend they didn’t see. ”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He blinks, incredulous. “Because what, you’ll ride in like some bloody hero and fix it?”
“I might,” I say.
“You won’t,” he answers. “You’ll make it worse for me.” I take another breath and pause. I hate that he’s right and that the rules work exactly as designed, not to protect, but to keep the machine running without noise.
“I can put in a report.” A report to who? The CO who is also his dad? Probably not but I say it anyway, because I need to say something rather than resort to violence. “I can—”
“No,” he cuts in, and I stop. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his eyes sharp now. “Promise me you’ll leave it.”
I stare at him. “Con—”
“Promise.” There’s a moment when I feel my own pride push back, demanding I refuse on principle, demanding I claim this as my fight. Then I look at his lip, and the way he’s holding himself is like a man trying to stay invisible. So, I swallow it.
“Alright,” I say. “For now.”
His stare holds mine for a second, then he eases back, because he knows that’s as far as I’m going to bend without breaking. “Fine,” he mutters. “Just... don’t. Not yet. Let me handle it.”
“You’re handling it brilliantly so far,” I say, dryly.
“Cheers,” he says, huffing a laugh.
I rub my hand over the back of my neck. “Right.”
Mason’s brows lift. “Right, what?”
“We can either sit here and pretend I didn’t come to your room to talk, or we can talk.”
“We’ve just talked.”
“That wasn’t talking,” I say. “That was you telling me to shut up while you bleed quietly.”
He looks like he wants to argue, then thinks better of it. “Alright. What do you want then?”
I latch onto the safer thing first, because I can’t stay on Harris without losing my mind. I nod toward his bedside table, where there’s a pub coaster from The World's End. “The bartender,” I say. “Still seeing him?”
Mason’s face shifts so fast it almost makes me laugh. “Christ,” he says. “You’re subtle,” he adds sarcastically, his mouth quirking.
“Answer the question.”
“I am.” He shrugs, acting casual.
“Does he have a name, or should I keep calling him ‘the bartender’?” I ask, because I’ve been carrying it around in my head since the email, and it still feels strange, like a door I shouldn’t open.
“Cillian. His name is Cillian.”
“Right.” I knew it was something like that. I’m seriously terrible with names.
He squints at me. “Why are you asking like you’re filling out paperwork?”
“Because you’re a mess,” I say. “And I’m trying to figure out if it’s a romantic mess or a being-punched-by-Harris mess.”
“Both,” he says immediately, then laughs. “But Cillian’s... good. He’s not—” Mason waves a hand like he’s trying to find the right word and can’t be bothered. “He’s not daft.”
“Neither are you,” I say.
“Depends who you ask,” he says jokingly.
I lean against the desk because if I stay planted in the middle of the room, I’ll start pacing. “How did it happen then?”
Mason’s mouth twists like he’s bracing for ridicule. “I was drunk.”
“That sounds like you.”
“Shut up.”
“Was it a dramatic thing?” I ask. “Or did you just fall over him and panic?”
Mason stares at me. “Do you want the truth, or do you want a story that makes me sound like I’ve got dignity?”
“The truth, obviously.”
He exhales. “The pub was closing, and I was hammered. I’d been sitting there ages while he was cleaning up. I... started talking too much. Said things I probably shouldn’t have said.”
“I’m shocked,” I deadpan.
“Fuck off.” He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand like he can erase the memory. “I kissed him, like an idiot, and then he pulled away and told me no because I was drunk.”
“No way.”
“Yep,” Mason says, and his eyes go distant for a moment. “He wasn’t judging me or anything. And he didn’t act like it was... disgusting.”
“It’s not disgusting.”
Mason’s gaze snaps back, searching my face. “You’ve been...” he starts slowly, and then stops, as if he’s just had a thought he doesn’t want to have.
“What?” I ask.
He leans back on his hands, studying me the way you study a mate when you realise you’ve missed something obvious. “You’ve been different,” he says. “The last couple of months. Not... happy, because you’re you, but... less like you’re going to bite someone.”
“Charming,” I mutter.
“I mean it,” he says. “You’ve been smiling. Properly. Like an idiot.”
“I don’t smile.”
“You do,” he says, smug. “I’ve seen it. Horrible sight.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach tightens because I know where this is going, and I’m not sure I’m ready to let him drag it into the open. “Who is it?” Mason asks, his head tilting to the side.
I blink. “What?”
“Don’t play thick,” he says. “You’re not thick. Who’s got you walking around like you’ve been let out on day release?”
“No one,” I lie instantly.
Mason stares at me, and I stare back. “Oh, my God. Is it—” he starts, points at me, then stops, then starts again like he can’t decide if he’s taking the piss.
His eyes widen slowly, like watching a door swing open.
“Mate,” he says. It’s half horror, half glee.
“No. You too? That’s why you’re so curious about Cill. ”
I inhale sharply through my nose. Fuck. “Don’t—”
“Caiden,” he says, voice going softer, more careful. “You’re serious?”
I glance at the door like someone’s going to walk in and ruin my life. Then I look back at him. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m serious.”
Mason drags a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
“You can stop at any point,” I mutter.
He lets out a laugh that’s half disbelief.
“Right. Okay. Alright.” He sits forward again, elbows on his knees.
“So, who?” I hesitate, because once I say it, it becomes real.
He watches me with that rare stillness he gets when he’s not performing or deflecting and trying to joke his way out. “You can trust me.”
“I know,” I say.
“Then?” he asks, his brows lifting.
I exhale. “He’s... Russian.”
Mason’s face does something complicated. “Russian?” he repeats, like he’s trying it out for size. “Hang on. You mean—”
“Yeah,” I say flatly.
“Which one?” he asks, eyes going wide again.
“Arseny.”
He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Zakirov?” he whispers, as if the name itself might manifest a demon. “Russian special ops Sergeant Arseny Zakirov?” I don’t answer. I just hold his gaze. He makes a strangled sound and leans back like he’s been physically pushed. “Oh my—”
“Stop.”
He laughs again in disbelief. “You absolute bastard. I’m sorry, but—” he says, still laughing, still horrified. “I mean... him. That’s—” He shakes his head hard. “That’s not a little thing, mate.”
“I’m aware,” I say dryly.
A grin creeps in across his face. “So...” he says slowly, and I can see the intrusive gears turning. “Right. Important question.”
“Here we go.”
He points at me, deadly serious. “Top or bottom?”
I stare at him. “Get fucked all the way off.”
Mason laughs, delighted. “Bottom then.”
“Shut up.”
“You are,” he insists, leaning forward like he’s uncovered state secrets. “I can see it on your face.”
“You can see nothing.”
Mason gestures at me broadly. “Look at you. Mister ‘I’m not emotional,’ but you’re sitting here confessing about your Russian boyfriend like you’ve swallowed a romance novel.”
“He’s not my—” I stop, because the word is too loaded, and Mason clocks it immediately.
“Ohhhh. Yeah. He’s your boyfriend,” he teases, giving me a wicked grin.
“I will hit you.”
“Zakirov tops you into the mattress, and you thank him for it. Oh fuck, does he make you call him ‘sir’ while he does it?”
“Connor—” I warn.
He cackles, then wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, still grinning like a man who’s just discovered the world’s funniest joke, and I bark out a laugh before I can stop it.
His face softens a fraction at the sound.
Then, slowly, the laughter drains out of him as he looks at me properly.
“Does he—” he starts, then pauses. “Does he treat you alright?”
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. “He’s... him. But yeah, he’s amazing,” I say, unable to keep the huge smile off my face.
Mason nods, absorbing it. “Right,” he says. “So that’s why you’ve been happier.” I don’t argue with the word. He exhales, then looks up at me with something like awe and pity mixed together. “You’re fucking mad.”
“Probably.”
“Do you—”
“Love him?” I finish for him. “Yeah, I do.”
Mason watches me, then nods slowly. “Yeah, fair enough.” Then he looks away. “Don’t go after Harris,” he says, quieter. “Please.”
The anger flares again, but now it’s threaded with something else — fear, because I can see how this ends if I make one wrong move.
“Alright,” I say, exhaling slowly. Mason shifts carefully on the bed, his ribs clearly complaining, and I hate it all over again.
I gesture at him with my chin. “If you need me—”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I know you will. That’s why I’m telling you not to. Because I know you’ll do something stupid.”
I don't answer. I just nod, because what else can I do?