FIFTEEN
CAIDEN
I’ve been standing in arrivals for long enough that I’m starting to look suspicious, pretending to read the notices on the wall, pretending I don’t already know exactly what I’m looking for.
The board clicks over behind me; names and numbers update with mechanical indifference.
A family spills through the doors, laughing too loudly, and a businessman talks into a headset with the strained patience of someone already late for something else.
And then — there he is. My body reacts to him before my brain catches up; it’s like muscle memory at this point.
Ari stands near the barrier, one shoulder leaning casually against a column, his hands in the pockets of a dark coat that looks better on him than it could on any model.
His hair is longer than the last time I saw him, half tied up in a messy bun.
I immediately want to run my fingers through it.
He looks… ordinary. Or rather, he looks like someone who could pass as ordinary.
He’s watching the flow of people with the same alert stillness I’ve seen a hundred times on base. Relaxed, but only because he’s chosen to be.
He’s waiting for me.
I don’t wave, and I don’t smile. I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and walk toward him, keeping my pace steady and unremarkable. I stop an arm’s length away, close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, but not close enough to touch him.
“Lance Corporal Varrik,” he says, his tone neutral, his mouth curving just slightly like the formality amuses him.
“Sergeant Zakirov,” I reply automatically, because habit is a hard thing to kill and it gives me something to say that isn’t “fuck, you’re real.”
For a second, we look at each other. There’s a lot I want to do in that moment. None of it is appropriate for an international airport full of strangers, cameras, and people who might recognise one of us, even here.
“How was your flight?” he asks.
“Not bad,” I say. “Yours?”
“Long, but efficient,” he answers with a smirk.
We turn together and head for the exit, falling into step without touching.
Outside, the air is cold and damp, and taxis idle at the curb in a neat line.
Ari steps ahead of me, opens the door of the first one, and speaks to the driver in fluent, unaccented Dutch.
I pause halfway into the car. The driver nods, pulling away from the curb when the door closes behind me. “You speak Dutch?”
He glances at me, his expression unreadable, then shrugs. “A little bit.”
“That didn’t sound like a little bit.”
“It’s easier than English,” he says mildly. I don’t know why I’m surprised, but I snort before I can stop myself and look out the window, watching the city come into focus as we drive.
The taxi is warm, the windows slightly fogged, and the driver hums along to something low on the radio. Ari sits close, close enough that our knees touch when the car turns a corner sharply.
Neither of us moves away.
The city slides past, and with it, the anxiety coursing through me loosens. I hadn’t realised how tightly wound I was until now, until I was here, anonymous, just another man in a taxi with another man, no rank on my shoulders, no one looking twice.
The driver says something in Dutch, glancing at us in the rear-view mirror. Ari answers smoothly, and the conversation flows easily and comfortably. I don’t understand a word of it, but I catch the tone — light, casual, normal.
At a red light, Ari’s hand shifts slightly, and his fingers brush the inside of my thigh. It’s barely there and could easily be played off as an accident.
My breathing stutters, but I keep my eyes on the window, my heart jackhammering inside me. Ari’s fingers linger, then retreat, then a minute later they come back. This time, he doesn’t brush. He rests his hand there, his thumb pressing lightly into the muscle.
It’s possessive without being obvious. Hidden in plain sight.
My pulse kicks in, and every nerve in my body lights up, screaming in awareness. I don’t move or react. I just let it happen. The pressure of his hand is grounding and destabilising all at once.
The city keeps moving. People walk along the canals, laughing and holding hands openly. I even see a couple kissing on a bridge without thinking about it — must be nice.
The next couple I notice are walking hand in hand along the canal. Both men, they’re leaning into each other as they talk. There’s no tension in their faces or quick glances over their shoulders.
There’s another pair, this time women, standing close at a crossing, one tucked half under the other’s arm. They share a quick kiss before the light changes. No one reacts, no one stares. Traffic flows, and life goes on.
It doesn’t sit right. I’ve trained myself not to look for years. On base, in pubs, in cities where you never quite know who’s watching or why. You catalogue exits, mirrors, reflections. You keep your hands to yourself even when everything in you wants the opposite.
Here, it feels different.
The driver says something else. He’s amused, gesturing briefly at a group of people crossing the street. Ari laughs under his breath and replies. I catch one word this time — “druk,”— and it feels surreal, sitting here listening to him banter casually in a language I didn’t know he spoke.
His hand shifts again, causing heat to curl low in my stomach, but I keep my eyes on the window, watching a man lean down to kiss his partner’s temple outside a café, unbothered by the people passing inches away.
“Do people ever—” I start, then stop, unsure how to finish the thought.
Ari tilts his head a fraction, eyes on the street ahead. “Ever what?”
“Care?” I say finally. “Here.”
He considers that. I can feel it in the way his thumb pauses and the way his breathing shifts. “Some do,” he says. “Most don’t.”
We pass another canal, this one lined with houseboats lit warmly from inside.
Through one window, I see two men standing close together, one passing the other a mug, their shoulders brushing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Ari follows my gaze without turning his head.
“No one knows us,” I say quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
The taxi slows at a light, and Ari’s fingers flex once, then relax again. “No,” he agrees, his voice calm. “They don’t.”
The light changes, and the taxi moves on.
The car lurches to a stop outside the hotel, and Ari’s hand brushes mine as he reaches for the door handle.
Just a graze, but it’s enough to send a jolt straight to my balls.
I swallow hard, adjusting myself as subtly as I can before climbing out after him.
The night air is cool, but my skin feels like it’s on fire.
We don’t speak as we check in; we don’t even glance at each other.
The clerk slides two keycards across the counter, and Ari takes his with a nod, his fingers lingering just a second too long on the plastic.
I watch the way his biceps flex under his t-shirt and the way his jeans cling to his arse when he turns.
The need to touch him is almost overwhelming.
The elevator ride is torture. Ari leans against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on the floor, numbers lighting up one by one. I stand as far from him as I can without making it obvious. I force myself to focus on the numbers ticking upward.
When the doors open, I step out first, not letting myself look back. “Room twelve,” Ari says behind me.
“Fourteen,” I reply.
We stand there, keys in hand, the air between us charged and heavy, and I watch him walk away down the hall.
I force myself to stop, and enter my room. Once inside, I lean my forehead against the door after I close it, breathing hard like I’ve just run a mile. My hands are shaking now. I press them flat against the wood until they stop.
I drop my bag, strip off my jacket, then my shirt, and toss them aside.
I don’t even bother unpacking properly. I yank my bag open, digging out the lube I stashed at the bottom.
I sit on the bed, running my hands over the comforter, imagining Ari’s grip there instead, his fingers digging in as he fucks me senseless.
Then there’s a knock, and my head snaps up.
I’m on my feet before I process it, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
I swing the door open, and there he is, filling the frame, his eyes dark with hunger.
He doesn’t say a word. He steps in, the hotel room door clicks shut behind him, and before the lock even engages, Ari’s hands are on me — rough, demanding, like he’s been waiting too long to touch me.
He spins me around, his fingers digging into my hips, yanking me back against him, and I can already feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing into my arse through his jeans.
My breath hitches, my own cock twitching against my bottoms, and I don’t even have time to think before his mouth is on my neck, his teeth sinking into the skin just below my ear.
“Fuck,” I gasp, my head tipping back against his shoulder.
His tongue flicks over the bite mark, soothing the sting before his lips crash onto mine.
I melt into it, my hands gripping his wrists where they’re still locked around my waist, my fingers tracing the veins that stand out against his skin.
He tastes like smoke and something darkly sweet, and I can’t get enough.
My cock is throbbing, leaking, as I grind back against him, desperate for friction.