Seven
Caiden
Something is wrong with me. Not physically.
Physically, I’m fine, just tired, sore, half-frozen, and entirely convinced Russian oxygen has something personal against me, but otherwise operational.
No, the real problem is my brain. My brain is malfunctioning because it hasn’t shut up about him all day.
Ari. Arseny Zakirov. Sergeant problem and walking hazard symbol.
I can’t get the sound of his voice out of my head. All I hear is that lazy, sharp drawl and sarcasm sharpened to a blade.
The way he looked at me this morning was like I’d done something unforgivable simply by existing in his line of sight. I can’t get the image out of my head.
I lean forward on the narrow barracks sink, gripping the metal edges like I need help standing up straight. Cold tap water drips steadily into the basin, and each drop sounds loud in the cramped washroom. The fluorescent light above me flickers — does nothing on this base want to function?
I splash cold water over my face again, hoping to shock some sense into myself.
Water drips off my jaw, darkening the front of my T-shirt, and I brace both hands on the sink.
“Get it together,” I whisper to the mirror.
It doesn’t listen; instead, it reflects a man who has no idea how to stop spiralling.
Earlier, when I passed him in the hallway, I pretended I was checking something on the clipboard I was carrying, needing something to focus on. Later, when he walked across the yard in front of me, I turned the other way so fast I nearly slipped on the ice.
It’s pathetic really.
I towel my face dry and pace the row of sinks because standing still makes my thoughts louder. He talks to me like he’s testing whether I’ll break, and watches me like he’s dissecting my weaknesses.
Something about me clearly irritates the hell out of him.
I can’t blame him, though. If he saw even the faintest flicker of what I felt when Niko smiled at me earlier, then I’m already on thin ice.
I’m trying to bury it. But the idea of him having seen something I shouldn’t feel — something I’m not allowed to feel — makes my chest vibrate with dread.
I press a hand over my sternum, trying to steady my breathing.
He hates me. I’m almost certain of it. That look he gave me on the training field — the deadpan, cold, assessing one — felt like a verdict.
I don’t even know why I want his approval.
I shouldn’t. He’s chaos wrapped in uniform.
He’s rude, disruptive, and makes my heart rate spike for all the wrong reasons.
Brilliant. Just brilliant.
And now there’s sparring coming up. Joint-team drills, hand-to-hand, pairing with unfamiliar partners and body contact.
Which means there’s a chance I end up face-to-face with him again.
Close enough to feel his breath, see the way his eyes fix on me, and for him to notice the exact moment I lose coherence.
My stomach drops violently. I can’t be anywhere near him during sparring. Not with my head this messy. It already feels like he’s one second away from shoving me into a wall for existing wrong.
I tug my shirt straight, grab my jacket, and step out into the hallway, only to immediately freeze.
He’s right there.
Across the corridor, five metres away, leaning against the wall. He has one foot propped, his arms crossed, and his head tilted like he’s been waiting for someone to walk out.
Waiting for me.
My stomach lurches.
He’s talking quietly to another Russian soldier, but his eyes slide to mine the second the door clicks shut behind me.
I swallow hard; my throat is suddenly dry.
He raises one eyebrow, it’s a very slow, very deliberate lift, and something about it says, ‘Why are you running?’ I force my gaze downward to my feet, the floor, anything.
I can’t do this.
Not with him looking at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and exactly how much it’s driving me mad.
I quickly walk away and turn down a different corridor, pretending I absolutely meant to go that way. I can feel his eyes on my back until I turn the corner. I walk toward the training hall, my chest won’t unclench, and my feet drag more with each step.
He’s going to say something. He’s going to call you out. He’s going to make a comment, and you’re going to turn red in front of everyone like a complete idiot. My brain screams at me.
A group of soldiers pass me, laughing and shoving each other over some joke. I nod at them, defaulting to professionalism, but I feel like I’m underwater and drowning quickly.
I’m not usually like this. I don’t... obsess. But he got under my skin so fast I didn’t even see the knife go in. Every atom in my body reacts when he’s around, every warning instinct buzzes when he looks directly at me, and every emotion I’m trying to bury keeps clawing its way up my throat.
I hate it. I hate that I want... No. I refuse to finish that sentence.
I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and walk faster until the training hall looms ahead. I stop at the door, my hand on the handle, but I don’t move because inside might be Ari.
If he corners me with that same voice he used when he called me a ‘good boy’... I’m fucked.
My breath shudders, and I rest my forehead against the cold metal door. My heart keeps pounding, so I think of Niko — steady, warm, uncomplicated in all the ways Ari isn’t, and I try to calm myself. He believes in me, trusts me, and treats me like I’m someone worth teaching and talking to.
That should help right now, but it doesn’t.
My brain immediately jumps to the moment Ari muttered something to him this morning, then swung his gaze to me while irritated. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to take a deep breath.
I have to survive this sparring session. Just survive it and move on. Don’t get paired with Ari, don’t look in his eyes, and don’t let him say anything in that tone that goes straight under my skin.
Don’t fucking crack.
My hand tightens on the door handle, and I take one more breath. Then I push the door open and step inside, hoping to God he’s nowhere near me. Please don’t let him realise I’ve spent the entire day trying not to think about him. Because if he does? I’m screwed.
And not because of the sparring.
Because of him.