Page 89 of Break Me Open
“Am I?” I ask because I’m British and therefore physically incapable of not pushing when someone pushes me.
His gaze cuts to mine, and it’s sharp enough to draw blood. “Yes.” I hold it for what feels like minutes. Then he steps past me, his shoulder brushing mine, and it’s nothing. My stomach turns over anyway.
That night, I learn the Russian word for “idiot” because it feels appropriate.
I’ve stopped pretending this isn’t bothering me. Outwardly, I’m a functioning soldier who laughs at jokes, does his drills, and doesn’t stare at Russian sergeants like they’re the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.
Inside, I’m half feral. Not because I need sex. I’ve had plenty of that. I’m a grown man, I can manage. It’s the whiplash that’s doing it. Cabin Ari — hands, lips, all-in. Base Ari — clipped, controlled, pretending I’m a statistic.
The difference between the two makes my head feel like it’s full of broken glass. So, I decide to do something I hate even more than counting. I decide to reach out first. It feels wrong in my bones, like stepping into a minefield voluntarily. But I’m running out of ways to rationalise this without turning into a full-time paranoid.
I pick a moment where it’s safe — late afternoon, shift change, and a corridor that isn’t empty but isn’t crowded. There are enough eyes that he won’t do anything dramatic, and enough cover that he can answer me without suspicion.
He’s coming out of supply again, his hair tied back, and expression set. He looks tired in the way he only gets when he’s carrying something invisible. I step into his path casually, as if I’m just another soldier who needs a signature.
“Zakirov,” I say.
“Varrik.” I hate that it’s last names and that I can’t call him Ari here without risking both our throats.
“Got a minute?” I ask, keeping my voice normal, like I’m asking about a radio frequency.
He pauses, long enough for me to see a little flicker of internal calculation, then the mask slides back into place. “No,” he says.
One syllable, no apologies, simply no.
My brain does that stupid buffering thing again, like it can’t compute the simplicity of it. “No?” I repeat, because I’m still an idiot.
His gaze sharpens, like he’s warning me without raising his voice. “Not now.”
“I wasn’t asking for—” I start, then stop, because what am I doing? This is a corridor, and there are people ten metres away.
Ari leans in a little so only I can hear. His voice is quiet, controlled, and almost bored. “Drop it,” he says. Notplease,later,ortonight.
Drop it.
I feel my face go hot, partly anger, and partly something worse that I refuse to name. “Right,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. My humour shows up like an unwanted bodyguard. “Good chat. Really warm and emotionally available, as always.”
His eyes glint for the briefest second, like I hit a nerve. Then it’s gone. “Go do your job,” he says flatly, and steps around me.
That’s it. No touching, coded correction, or a tiny brush at my hip. Nothing. He walks away like I’m nothing, and I let him. I stand there like a statue while my brain tries to rearrange itself around the fact that I just got shut down by a man who had his—
Fucking fuck right fucking off!
I make myself move, forcing my feet to carry me away before anyone sees that I’m standing in a corridor looking like I’ve been punched.
By the time I get back to comms, my face says I'm fine. Inside, I’m a mess. Because now I don’t know what the rules are again. Was the cabin the mistake? Is he regretting it? Did Ido something? Did I not do something? Is this about the base? Is it about Niko? Is it about his own head? Is it about mine?
I hate questions I can’t answer; they itch under my skin until I want to claw them out. So that night, I learn more Russian, because apparently my coping mechanisms have unionised.
I write the word for “tomorrow” and then cross it out, because it feels like a lie.
I write “stay” and stare at it until my eyes burn.
The next day, I see him once. Only once. In the yard, he’s running a drill, his voice is sharp, and his face is hard. Someone makes a mistake, and he corrects them with the kind of controlled irritation that makes everyone straighten instinctively. His eyes sweep the line, land on me, and hold for a second. Then he looks away and keeps talking.
I laugh under my breath because what else can you do when you’re losing your mind over someone who is committed to giving you nothing? “Brilliant,” I mutter, adjusting my grip on the rifle. “Absolutely brilliant. Love this for me.”
Mason glances over, confused. “You talking to yourself again?”
