Page 88 of Break Me Open
Which is hilarious, because Ari himself is mostly acting like I don’t exist.
I see him in the corridor outside supply, and he’s coming the opposite way. He doesn’t look up, but as we pass each other — close enough that I could reach out and shove him — he says, very quietly, “Your strap is twisted.”
He doesn’t look at me as he says it. He reaches out, his fingers catching the strap of my kit bag, tugging it back into place. How professional. His knuckles brush my side, justabove my hip, a pressure that lasts maybe a second or two, and my skin lights up as if someone set me on fire.
For fucking fuck's sake.
I keep walking because if I stop, I’ll do something idiotic, like grab him and ask him what the fuck we’re doing. He keeps walking because he’s Ari, and Ari doesn’t show his hand unless he has to.
Five minutes later, I’m in an equipment cage signing out radios, and I’m still thinking about the way his fingers felt. He’s still... there, not pulling away completely. He’s just— Just what? Just being careful? Just being Ari? Just making sure we don’t die?
The issue is, I don’t actually know his rules, I only know mine, and mine have always been — don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t get caught, and for the love of God, do not fall for anyone who can ruin you.
We’re doing brilliantly so far.
That night, I lie in my bunk and stare at the underside of the bed above me, listening to the pipes and the distant thud of boots in the corridor. It should be easy to sleep — I’ve slept in worse places than this — but my brain has decided the real threat is a Russian Sergeant who won’t look at me properly.
I’m an idiot.
I roll over, punch my pillow, and decide to do something productive with my stupidity. That’s when the Russian starts. I’m not planning some grand gesture — I’m not that sort of person. I’d rather eat my own boots. And also... fuck him.
It started because I was sick of being the one who didn’t understand. Sick of hearing him mutter something under his breath and having to guess if it’s a threat, compliment, or both. Sick of being caught on the outside of his language like it’s another wall between us. So, I dig out the tiny notebook I’vebeen keeping hidden under my mattress, like it’s contraband. Which, honestly, it might as well be.
The first page is pathetic. It’s a list of words, written in block capitals, half of them misspelled because my ears are British and apparently refuse to accept the existence of certain sounds.
I started simple. It wasn’t the phrases he’s said to me or anything that would make me blush so hard I’d set off the fire alarms. Just basics.
Hello. Goodbye. Please. Thank you. Sorry. Yes. No. Numbers. Days of the week. Then I moved into the ones that actually matter. Come here. Quiet. Hurry.
My tongue feels clumsy as I whisper the words quietly, because if anyone hears me muttering Russian in my bunk, the rumours will get creative in about twelve seconds.
“Spasibo,” I whisper. It sounds like a sneeze. I scribble it again, practice it again, and keep going until my jaw aches and my brain stops trying to loop back to Ari’s tongue in my —
Hell no.
By the next day, Russian becomes my new coping mechanism. Brilliant. Add it to the list. I’ve got sarcasm, compartmentalisation, and now language acquisition as an emotional support crutch.
During the day, I do my job and keep my head down. I don’t chase Ari, I don’t seek him out, and I don’t give anyone a reason to look too closely.
It feels like the smart thing. It also feels, slowly, like punishment. The thing is, the more careful I am, the colder he gets. There are no more doorways, no dragged-into-shadow moments, or midnight summons at the motor pool. I tell myself it’s because we’re both busy — because we are. Base life isn’t designed for emotional crises or secret affairs. It’s designed forroutines, discipline, and pretending you’re fine until you either get promoted or you break.
But the absence is growing.
By day... whatever, I start doing that thing I hate — the soldier, inventory, and counting thing.
How many times has he looked at me properly?
How many times has he touched me on purpose?
How many times has he said my name?
I hate myself for it. I hate that I’m tracking him like a problem set. If I gather enough data, maybe I’ll find the answer. But there isn’t an answer, there’s just Ari, and Ari is a man who’s survived by being unreadable.
That afternoon, I catch him in the admin block, leaving a room with two officers and a clipboard. He’s laughing at something one of them says, but it’s not the laugh he gives me. It’s the polite one he uses to make people underestimate him. He steps into the corridor, sees me, and the laugh drops off his face like a switch. He gives me a short professional nod, “Varrik,” he says, and I stare at him, because what the fuck? That’s what he calls me when he hates me.
“Sergeant Zakirov,” I reply, because apparently we’re doing this now.
“You’re needed in comms,” he says. No warmth or teasing in his tone. Just... instruction.
