Delulu

"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.

Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—

"Y'need'a get laid, boss."

John's hands immediately froze.

That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.

His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.

"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."

Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.

The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.

And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.

Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.

And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.

His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.

"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."

Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.

"I jus' think—"

"OUT."

The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.

Then he squared the stacks again.

——

Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.

"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"

"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."

"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.

"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.

Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.

Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.

"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.

"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"

"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"

"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"

Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.

His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.

The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.

"That's my phone."

"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.

Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"

"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.

"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"

"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles. 

"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"

"Christ," Johnny snickers.

John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.

"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.

"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.

John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.

"Think I'll stand."

"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.

Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.

"What's Hinge?"

"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.

A dating app….

Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.

Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.

There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.

"This is you, then?"

"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.

"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"

"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."

Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"

"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."

John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen. 

"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"

"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.

"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.

"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."

Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."

John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.

"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."

It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.

Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace. 

So… he pulls out a chair.

Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.

"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross. 

Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.

The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.

"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."

"I smoke cigars," John protests.

"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"

"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.

"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.

"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."

Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"

That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.

"Consultant," Simon offers.

"Civil servant," Kyle tries.

"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.

Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.

"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.

Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.

"What've you lot got on yours, then?"

The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.

"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.

"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.

"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.

"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"

"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"

"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.

When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—

"What's Feeld?" John asks.

"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."

"It's not for you," Simon adds.

"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."

"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.

The rest goes quicker.

"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."

"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.

Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.

His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).

He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out. 

There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.

After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.

"I'll do these myself."

This time, Kyle hands the phone over.

The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night. 

Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.

John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.

When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.

"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."

The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.

"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"

"No."

The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.

So is the one after. X.

A woman in her work scrubs. X.

A woman holding a child. X.

A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.

It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.

"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"

"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.

"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"

"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.

"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."

"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."

Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—

His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.

Huh. 

There you are.

Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.

John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.

You're very pretty.

For the first time, John taps the profile open.

30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out. 

There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.

Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.

And at the bottom:

The best way to ask me out is by: using words.

I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.

John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.

Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.

John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:

IT'S A MATCH!

"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.

"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.

"Careful," John warns mildly.

Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.

John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.

Better in person.

Yeah. He'd bet you are.

"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."

"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.

"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."

John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.

"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"

Silence.

"I mean, when you put it like that…"

"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.

He's already typing, screen tipped away.

"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."

"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."

He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.

——

Four miles away, a phone lights up…

——

Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.

Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.

The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.

Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore. 

A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.

A man whose photos are all group shots. X.

A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.

Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.

The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.

He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.

John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.

Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.

You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.

His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.

Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.

The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.

Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.

You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.

It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.

But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.

You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.

On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.

Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!

HINGE: You and John matched!

HINGE: 1 New Message

You open it.

Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?

You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.

i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.

friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?

You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.

Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.

you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.

They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.

What movie are you watching?

You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.

You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.

you're not allowed to judge me.

Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.

You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.

it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.

The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.

Twelve times? Must be decent.

it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol

Dead?

it's a twist. it's festive!

You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.

You smile.

so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?

Not a thing.

hours in freezing water for zero fish?!

The fish aren't the point.

do tell, what's the point?

The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.

It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months. 

You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.

that actually sounds really peaceful.

i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.

That the trail from your photo?

it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.

Doesn't show.

Good photo of you.

Beautiful, actually.

You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow. 

Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.

oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol

No it didn't.

— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.

well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.

Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending. 

how long have you been on hinge?

It's my first night, actually.

first night???

Profile's about two hours old.

yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?

Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.

——

John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.

He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.

What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.

"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."

He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.

"Need another, Cap?"

"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.

A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."

"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."

Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"

John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.

"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."

"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.

"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."

They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.

Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.

He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.

did the football finish? who won?

He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue. 

Couldn't tell you.

omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!

I got distracted.

by what? 😇

I think you know by what.

Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.

anyway!

Anyway.

He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.

The cat in your photo. Yours?

yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.

Good name.

she prefers men that ignore her.

Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.

It goes on just like that: easy.

You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.

He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself. 

How's the average Friday held up?

certainly improved

Mine too.

He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.

——

The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.

He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.

He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.

He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.

He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic. 

By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.

He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.

He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is. 

It's a stupid fuckin' rule.

The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.

The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.

By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.

That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.

spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.

thought of you on the tube home

He reads the second message again.

Thought of you. 

He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.

are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.

And there's the sarcasm. 

Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.

Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.

Thought about you as well.

He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.

I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.

lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.

don't really see myself getting married anyway.

the dresses were stunning though!

He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction. 

Nothing wrong with that.

Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?

successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.

what about you, how was your saturday?

He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.

Quiet. Nothing worth typing.

hm. sounds like you should ring me then…

He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.

For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.

Could do.

Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.

Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.

Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.

Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.

for logistics.

He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.

He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.

——

You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.

Unknown Number. Local.

“John?”

“Evenin’.”

Fuck. 

His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.

You set the bottle down before you drop it.

“So you actually do ring,” you manage.

“Said so on the profile, I think.”

“I half thought it was a bit.”

“I don’t really do bits.”

“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”

The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.

“That meant to be me?”

“It’s uncanny, I know.”

The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.

“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”

“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”

“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”

“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”

“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”

The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.

“No?” you tease.

“I had imagined I’d see your face.”

“Been imagining, have you?”

You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns

“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”

“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”

You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.

“Is that what it’s come to?”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.

“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”

Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.

“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.

“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”

Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.

“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”

“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“I could do a weeknight? After work?”

There’s a pause on his end.

“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”

You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.

“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”

“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.

“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”

“It is,” he agrees, smiling.

The conversation should end there but it doesn't.

You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.

Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.

Eventually, you yawn.

“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”

“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”

“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”

“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”

“Lie-in, according to my profile.”

“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”

A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.

“Night, John.”

You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.

——

Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.

good morning. how was the lie-in?

Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.

the lie confirmed!

He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.

The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.

survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.

Regards received. Sleep well.

——

Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it. 

good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?

[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]

You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.

His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.

Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.

His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.

Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.

“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.

“Fine.”

“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”

It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.

Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”

John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.

"Have a date Friday. Drinks."

Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.

"That's great. Same woman or…?"

"The same."

“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.

“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.

"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words. 

He turns the phone back over.

Promote you, he types.

You look lovely.

Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.

well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x

He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.

——

The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.

Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.

———

You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.

The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.

The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels. 

You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.

“It’s just a pub,” you tell her. 

She doesn’t seem convinced. 

———

The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.

You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties. 

The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait. 

You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.

It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling. 

You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.

You don’t have to wait much longer for him. 

He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.

He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you smile.

He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.

“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”

You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”

The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.

“What’ll you have?”

“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.

He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.

“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.

You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.

He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.

The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.

“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.

Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.

“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.

You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”

“The lads — your guys from work?”

“Yeah.”

“They what, talked you into it?”

“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”

“And what made them do that?”

He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.

“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”

“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.

“Their exact words were a bit different.”

“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”

“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”

Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”

He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.

“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”

He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”

“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”

“Away?”

“Away.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Doing…?”

“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”

“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”

“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”

“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”

You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.

“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”

He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it. 

“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”

You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.

The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.

The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”

It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.

The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.

“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”

“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”

His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.

“No—I know. I just—”

“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”

“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.

“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”

“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”

And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.

The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.

It’s going well.

It’s going suspiciously well.

And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.

He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.

You look at the seat opposite.

Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.

You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.

“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.

“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.

The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—

“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”

“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.

“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it. 

“Say it out loud anyway.”

“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”

“Ten.”

“Mm.”

“A whole decade.”

“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”

“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”

“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”

“Mm.”

“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug. 

“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.

“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.

The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.

“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”

“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue. 

You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face. 

“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”

“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”

“Yeah? And what was the answer?”

“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”

Something in your chest slides sideways.

“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.

“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”

You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.

“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”

You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.

Neither of you leans back.

And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.

You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—

“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you grin.

“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”

“I suppose I could be patient.”

“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.

His jaw shifts. 

“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.

And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.

You two make it out the door.

The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.

Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.

He moves you.

One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.

Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.

He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.

“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.

“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.

You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.

“Walk me home?” you ask.

“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”

You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”

“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”

He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth. 

——

The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.

The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth. 

The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he— 

You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.

He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.

The dashboard glow makes everything blue. 

You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?

"So," you say.

"So…”

You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.

"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says. 

"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"

"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"

"Keen?"

"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.

And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.

"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."

“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.

"I want to ask you up."

"Mm."

"And I'm having a whole debate about it."

"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."

"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."

He's quiet for a second, lips pursing. 

“Can I look at you now?” he tries.

“Yeah.”

"You want to know where I'm actually at?"

"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."

“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”

The badly goes straight between your thighs.

“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”

“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”

“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”

“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”

“When you put it like that…”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”

And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you. 

“Would you like to come up?”

——

The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.

John is a gentleman.

John has been a gentleman all night.

John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.

Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.

"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."

"Sensible."

And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:

"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"

"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side. 

"Water? I'm gonna have water."

"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering. 

He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean. 

So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.

 Your pace. Your move.

You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“Not at all.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”

He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.

He likes that. 

He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.

Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.

When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you. 

You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.

In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.

Good.

You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.

“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”

“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.

“Definitely not.”

The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.

“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”

“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”

You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.

He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.

Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.

“Can I?”

“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”

His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.

You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.

“Oh my god— okay— okay—”

“Mm.”

“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.

“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.

“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”

He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—

"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."

"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"

He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."

"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.

He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"

"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"

"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”

"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"

John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.

Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.

He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you. 

"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"

"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”

"—okay maybe move a little—"

He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts. 

“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek. 

“Don’t think, then.”

It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.

He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.

You don’t think.

He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—

“Harder?” he asks against your ear. 

"Yes, please."

He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.

He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.

"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob. 

"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."

He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves —  it takes you under, and you pull him with you.  

He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—

How good—

How gorgeous—

You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—

It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.

When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.

Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.

He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going. 

He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.

"John?" Small, against his throat.

"Mm?"

"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."

He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.

You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.

He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.

"You're staring," he says, not looking up. 

"You're tidying me."

"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."

"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."

He huffs into your hair.

Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.

There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.

She stares at John.

John stares back.

"We have an audience," he says.

You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."

Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.

"That went well," you say, overly pleased. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

"Well, consider me chuffed."

Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak. 

"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."

And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside. 

He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.

"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.

“No?” you ask. 

"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."

You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it. 

“Alright," you agree. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”

"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.

At the door he stops. 

"C'mere."

You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts. 

"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.

"Goodnight."

"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."

——

The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.

Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares. 

“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”

The amount of fear that ran through Hiccup when Drago yelled out his bone chilling scream, waving his staff around in the air… it was immeasurable. The aggression that the throaty sound held in it sent a chill down Hiccup’s spine. He knew at that moment, that he was in serious trouble.

The ground shook with each step that the bewilderbeast took towards them, and rather than the calm awe and serenity that Hiccup felt when he met his mothers bewilderbeast, looking into the eyes of this one made him feel a fear that he couldn’t get rid of.

“No dragon can resist the alpha’s command.” Drago said lowly, his voice scratching its way out of his throat. “So, he who controls the alpha, controls them all.”

A hint of rage settled in Hiccups veins as Drago spoke, pointing his staff towards Toothless.

The rage nearly dissipated, a low sound emitting throughout snow and ice covered land. The sound came from the bewilderbeast, it’s pupils narrowed at Toothless. Toothless began shaking his head, making a noise of discomfort. “Toothless?” Hiccup said worriedly.

Toothless continued to whimper, shaking his head around. “T-toothless, you okay, bud? What’s going on?” But all of the words leaving Hiccups mouth did nothing.

Drago’s voice sounded again. “Witness true strength. The strength of will over others.” Drago was holding up his staff again, the pointed end pointing to Toothless, who suddenly rose, ever so still. “In the face of it… you are nothing.”

When Hiccup realized he was now looking at the end of the staff, it being pointed directly at his chest, he knew that trouble was arising. Toothless slowly turned towards him, pupils as narrow as the bewilderbeast’s were. “Uh,” Hiccup slowly backed away from his dragon, “What did he just tell you?”

Toothless got low to the ground, snarling as he slowly crept over towards his rider, who kept backing away. “Toothless, come on. What’s the matter with you?” He felt the desperation begin to tear at his heart, knowing that there was almost nothing he could do. And sudden moves or sounds could result in the controlled Toothless to pounce on him, resulting in his demise. Even if Hiccup could get a hit in, how much would that break his heart? Would he be able to hurt his best friend?

“No, no, no, no. Come on. What are you doing? Knock it off.” Hiccup knew he was being backed up into ice, and soon he would have no where to go. “Stop!” He yelled out, “snap out of it!” But the attempt was useless, as Toothless kept his slow, creeping pace.

The world around his became almost meaningless. It was just him, Toothless, and mountains of ice trapping him in. “Toothless, no! Toothless.”

Toothless hissed, preparing to launch a heated breath of fire at him, and he felt his heart drop. “Don’t!”

He almost didn’t hear the broken cry of his name being shouted, his eyes remaining on Toothless’ sharp ones. “Stop!”

“Hiccup!” The voice shouted again, and with wide eyes, he looked, and his heart sunk further. You were running right towards him, determination and fear in your eyes. The painful realization of what you were doing came all too quick, and his fear that was once reserved for himself was now almost entirely for you. “Y/n! No!”

But it was too late, you were right next to him, and then crashing into him. Hiccup slid across the snow covered ground, gasping in fear of what he’d see when he looked at you.

He looked just in time to see the blast of fire miss you—just in time to see it hit the ice behind you, breaking a peace of it off as it came crashing down onto you.

“No!”

He startled himself with the cry that left his lips. The world around him faded out again. It was only you, him, and his shallow breaths. “No…” He said again, the disbelief strong in his tone. This couldn’t be happening.

He ran over to you, feeling like he was going to collapse. He was by your side in seconds—he was by your side and there you were, covered in shards of teal-blue ice. Your eyes were shut; your breathing was barely there. He feared every one of your breaths would be your last.

He groaned as he pushed the ice off of you, piece by piece. As each shard slid off, an already growing bruise was left in its wake wherever your skin was visible.

The despair was crushing him; engulfing him; making a home into his heart that was sinking even further as it buried itself into the ever so cold snow beneath him. He grabbed and pulled at your left arm, pulling you off of your side and onto your back. “Y/n!”

Hiccup hardly paid attention to his mother dropping by his side, and his father close behind her. Your breaths were still so shallow.

“Y/n… Oh, my Gods.” His breath caught in his throat, and he faintly felt his mothers hand rest on his shoulder. For the better of his own sanity, he pressed to fingers to your neck, sighing in relief at the slow and weak feeling of your heartbeat beneath his fingers. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Wake up… please wake up.” He ignored every sound around him, including the sound of his friends arriving to the scene. He couldn’t help but to wrap his arms around you, being ever so careful and gentle with your injured form. He felt like he had already lost you, the thought making tears roll down his face. He couldn’t believe that you had gotten hurt instead of him: the target.

You—the younger sister who came into his life when he was just 4 years old. The sister who listened to him when everyone turned a blind eye and pretended like he didn’t exist. You were always there, and as he held you close, he couldn’t get rid of the fear that soon you would be here no longer.

All of his attention was on you, until he heard a low coo from his very own dragon: the dragon who did this.

As Toothless’ snout brushed up against your hand, he couldn’t help the anger that enveloped him. Deep down he knew it wasn’t Toothless’ fault, but something else told him he needed something to be angry at. After seeing the way Toothless’ had unknowingly injured you, his emotions got the best of him. “No! Get away from her!” Hiccup harshly shoved Toothless away, feeling guilt at the way his dragon whined in response, but Hiccup was spiralling.

He stood to his feet, looking down at Toothless. “Go on! Get out of here!”

Toothless took a small step forward, his eyes holding sadness at being shouted at, but Hiccup shouted again. “Get away!”

Hiccup was a mix of emotions as Toothless coward away and ran off.

“It’s not his fault.” Valka said softly, her sadness making her voice wobble only slightly. “You know that.”

And Hiccup did know that. He fell to his knees again, fresh tears rolling down his face as he looked at you. Your eyes were still closed.

The bewilderbeast roared out, but Hiccup almost didn’t hear it as his mother spoke. “Good dragons under the control of bad people… do bad things.”

“Come on!” Hiccup heard someone shout, along with the sound of Toothless whimpering. He looked up, and Drago was riding a once again controlled Toothless, leading him away. “Gather the men and meet me at Berk!”

Hiccup felt an urgency rush through him, and he jumped up onto his feet. “Toothless!” He cried out to him, but Valka held him back. He felt useless as the alpha roared out, and Drago’s men prepared to leave the island.

He couldn’t help but to continue to cry. He just lost his best friend, and he looked down at you, worried that he would lose another. He dropped down beside you again, feeling like the entire world was against him. He felt lost and scared. He couldn’t lose you. He doesn’t know what he’d do without you.

“Hiccup…” Stoick said from behind him. Hiccup could already picture the look on his face based of the sadness in his voice.

“No, Dad.” Why were they acting like you were already dead? You just had to wake up.

As the tears kept falling down his cheeks, his friends backed away and watched from a good distance, as he needed his space. His parents stayed close behind him.

“We have to— we have to do something. Why isn’t anyone doing anything? My sister is dying and you’re all just standing around waiting for—“ Waiting for her to die.

“Hiccup,” Gobber said softly, a pained sigh leaving the man’s lips, “there’s not much we can do, right now. Not here. Back home, maybe things would be better. But we don’t have our dragons to get there, Hiccup.”

Hiccup remained looking at you, still. “So, why are you all acting like you don’t care?” Maybe that was harsh, but he was still spiralling.

“Hiccup, of course we care.” When Astrid spoke, Hiccup looked at her and found a world of sadness in her eyes. Maybe she was worried for you; maybe she felt guilt and pity for him; maybe it was both. The the look in her eyes made him feel less alone.

Hiccup was silent for a few moments, and then, “There’s nothing we can do?” He chose to ignore the way his voice cracked with emotion.

His father sighed, and removed his helmet, holding it to his chest. “Nothing we can do but pray that she wakes up.”

Hiccup inhaled deeply. “I need a second alone with her.”

He didn’t receive a response, he only heard the sound of footsteps slowly backing away.

With a shaking hand, he took your hand into his, watching a teardrop fall down and land on your fingertip. The desperation in him had been making a slow incline, and he wasn’t sure how much of this he could take.

“You have to wake up.” He whispered, falling back down to wrap an arm around you. “Come on. Wake up.”

But as your breathing remained slow, he felt the tears roll down a little faster, and he couldn’t help the sob that slipped past his lips. “Wake up. Come on, what are you doing? Get up…”

A hitch in your breath.

As the sound reaches his ears, and he feels the pattern of your breath change for only a moment, his head snaps up. Your face is neutral, a scrape and bruise on your right cheekbone.

“Y/n?…”

He’s filled with a sense of hope, and just as it feels like it was a trick of his mind, your breath catches again, and your brows move the smallest amount.

“Oh, my Gods.” Hiccup breathes out. “Y/n? Hey… wake up, come on.”

Your eyes began to flutter open and it’s like Hiccup and finally breathe again. He leans forward so that you see him, and your eyes meet his. “Hiccup?”

Hiccup laughs, light and airy, and nods. “Yeah, I’m here. You’re okay.

Your face scrunches up a little as you become aware of the pain running across your skin. Hiccup notices and a slight frown lands on his face.

Your hand squeezes his, “I’m glad you’re okay, Hiccup.”

Hiccup can’t help the shock that runs through him. “You’re glad I’m okay? I’m glad you’re okay…” he then sighs, thinking about how he nearly lost you. The ache in his heart was still there, like a poison latching onto him, killing him slowly. He couldn’t believe how close to death you had gotten. “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

And then he was hugging you again, being as gentle as possible. He felt you wrap an arm around his back, but he could tell that by the way your arm was shaking, it was taking more of a toll on you than you’d like to admit. Hiccup pulled back. “Don’t strain yourself.”

Your eyes were still only about half open and he wouldn’t be surprised if you passed out soon. “Don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine. I promise.”

But his words could only be heard so clearly as the world began to fade once again. It had taken so much of your energy to stay conscious as long as you did.

“No, no, no. Keep your eyes open, okay? Stay awake, stay awake— Dad!”

The last thing you saw was your brother and parents hovering over you, and then you were welcomed into a deep sleep once again.

⿻

The rest of the day went by so fast, yet so slow. Hiccup felt pride for him and Toothless—who he had since forgiven and apologized to—for being able to fight against Drago and the alpha. After this, it was clear that Toothless had earned his place as the alpha. However, as all of this had been happening, you were the only thing on Hiccup’s mind. He was fighting for everyone, and most importantly to avenge you. This was Drago’s fault—all of this. Hiccup had to do something about it, and he did.

It was likely clear how much he was worrying for you, because not long after the bewilderbeast had dove into the water, taking Drago with him, his mother was at his side. He knew from the look on her face alone that she was saying he should go to you. He didn’t waste a second.

He ran up to his house, passing by people cheering and shouting out of glee, and he pushed open his front door and ran straight to your room. There you were, under the care of Gothi, tucked into your bed and bandaged wherever needed. It was honestly a wonder that they were even able to get you to Berk while you were unconscious, but they managed. Hiccup was just glad to see you now, alive and breathing.

Gothi nodded at him, making her way out of the room. Hiccup remained still for a moment, looking down at you. It pained him to see you like this.

Eventually he sat on the edge of the bed, and looked down at his hands. He felt so guilty about you getting hurt. It felt like it was his fault, somehow. You had jumped to save him, and this is where it brought the both of you. Surely, he was partially at fault for this outcome.

“You’re not blamin’ yourself, are you?”

At the sound of your voice, Hiccup whipped his head around, eyes wide and burning with tears that haven’t even quite built up yet. “You’re awake.”

You nodded lightly, looking down at your bandaged and bruised body. You didn’t regret a thing you did.

“Why… did you do that?” Hiccup started slowly. He didn’t expect this to be what he decided to talk about, but he got to thinking and his mouth was moving before he even realized it. “I mean… save me—“ He took a deep breath, brows furrowing at the topic at hand.

“What else did you want me to do?” You said. You sounded determined, strangely enough.

“I—“

“I couldn’t just… stand there.”

“I wanted you to.”

You sighed this time. “And what? Watch you die? You could’ve.”

Hiccup saw tears begin to form in your own eyes, and he somewhat felt bad for bringing this up right now. “You could’ve, too.”

“I know.” You stated. There was a brief pause as you both collected your thoughts. You didn’t want to argue about this. Neither of you wanted to make anger out of grieving for someone who hadn’t even died. “I care about you, Hiccup. You looked just as scared as I felt. Even if you don’t want to admit it. I don’t know what I would’ve done with myself if you got hurt, or worse. I love you, but I’m not sorry for what I did. I’d rather be hurt than you be hurt instead.”

Hiccup gazed down at you and realized in that moment that you were just like any other Haddock—stubborn as hell. Hiccup and his father were some of the most stubborn people on Berk, if not the most stubborn, and he wouldn’t be surprised that if he got to know his mother a little more, she would turn out to be the same.

Having such a quality can be unbearable at times, but it made for some pretty promising trust with the people you love.

“Well,” Hiccup broke into a smile, chuckling lightly. “I would do the same for you.”

You laughed softly. “I’d hope so.”

Hiccup was shocked when you started pushing yourself up on the bed all of a sudden. “Hey, woah, woah, woah. What are you doing?”

“Relax. I know my limits.” You snickered, and then winced. All of a sudden your arms were around Hiccup and Hiccup wasn’t sure if it was the stupidest or sweetest thing you’ve ever done. Probably both.

Hiccup hugged you back, his eyes closing as it felt like the day was finally calming down. “Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

An amused scoff, and then, “no promises.”

Definitely a Haddock.

The breeze tousled your hair, crisp and clean in your nose. Your hair? You didn’t remember taking off your helmet. Shaking fingers made their way up to your head, passing through where the helmet would be to simply comb through hair. You pulled your fingers away, the swimming image of your hand in front of you showing the tips of your gloved fingers shining crimson. You didn’t quite notice that your gloves were shredded to bits, part of your palms visible and raw beneath.

It was enough to send a shock through you, your breath coming out so harshly that you actually let out a sound. It was swallowed by the rest of the noise going on around you, shouting and honking and cars driving by. The commotion surrounding you was far too loud, the quality of it like you were swimming underwater.

You stood on shaky legs, grabbing onto a street sign to pull yourself to standing as you fought vertigo. Everything was moving so slowly. You felt like you had to get to your feet, get off the traffic median.

Your vision was clearing. You could see a few people running around and chattering, their frantic gestures seeming all too slow to make sense. Your helmet was in the road, the buckle flapping open from where you must have ripped it off, there was a flat spot from where your head dragged across the rough pavement.

Simon’s motorcycle was on the curb, on its side and banged up in a few areas—he’d be cross to have to fix it.

Simon.

Where was he?

It wasn’t like Simon to not be glued to your side. Sometimes you joked that he was more guard dog than boyfriend, snarling and snapping his jaws at anyone that got too close for comfort. The fact that he wasn’t next to you right now made your blood run cold.

You rubbed your eyes on the back of your hand, blinking.

You heard him before you saw him. You’d never heard Simon scream like that, your name—your real name, not calling you “pet” like he normally did—ringing through the air like a thunderclap.

—

He couldn’t believe it. That fucking sod ran a red light, completely blew through it, and hit the bike hard enough to make him lose control.

He heard you scream, the sound of it muffled by the helmet covering your head. Simon’s heart was in his throat, hardly recognizing the pain as the bike dragged him across the road, his thigh trapped beneath the vehicle as his pants got shredded down to the skin. His jacket was destroyed, the leather hot where it scraped across the asphalt.

The driver was getting out of his truck, shouting his useless apologies as other good samaritans stopped to see what was going on.

It didn’t matter, none of it mattered as Simon shoved his bike off his leg like it was a toy and heard it crumple as he stood. The blood soaking into his pants was nothing—child’s play compared to the torture he’d experienced at work. Getting hung on a meat hook really makes any other form of pain look like a paper cut.

It was like he had tunnel vision, the panic of not being able to immediately spot you making him think the worst. You were a little thing compared to him, far too fragile for his comfort.

The people who had gotten out of their cars surrounded him in a swarm of too-loud voices and concerned gazes, trying to get him to sit down and wait for the ambulance. The driver got in his face, apologizing and claiming he didn’t see the two of you on the motorcycle. If Simon wasn’t busy worrying about you, he probably would’ve battered the idiot on the spot.

He simply brushed him aside, shouting your name in a bid of desperation. Despite all the near-death situations he’d lived through, the terror he felt at the pit of his stomach was more intense than anything he had ever experienced before.

The image of your mangled body on the asphalt filled his mind, imagination running wild. What if you’d been run over? Broke your damn neck?

His world was already falling apart as he took a few staggering steps.

Then he spotted you, all the way on the median and clutching a sign as you leaned against the metal pole. Your helmet was sitting on the ground nearby, cracked and part of the shell entirely scraped off. You must have taken it off in your shock.

Blood was running down your face, matting in your hair and following the contours of your features. Simon was running before he could think, mowing down any person that stupidly stood between the two of you. There was a sting of pain shooting up his leg with each step, but he hardly noticed.

You looked so dazed, your normally sharp gaze floating as you heard him shout your name. Fear and relief surged through Simon at once—you were bleeding, but you were standing and around and undeniably alive.

He wasn’t thinking enough to remember to be careful about crossing the last open lane of traffic, almost getting plowed through by a truck. A shout was barked at the driver as a big hand smacked the hood, Simon continuing his beeline to you. It was instinct at this point, like blinders had been fitted over his eyes to only see you.

His helmet skittered across the road where he threw it off, needing to see your face without the tint of the visor. Everything got exponentially louder without his helmet.

The tension was clear in your stance, shock making your spine ramrod straight and your hands clench at your sides. He approached carefully, tilting his head a little so he was closer to your height and his gloved hands outstretched. The spark of recognition in your gaze comforted him further, starting to placate the gnawing anxiety in his stomach.

Neither of you said anything as Simon gathered you up in his arms and held you close to his chest, a big hand cupping the back of your head. Your hands twisted in his shirt beneath the jacket, pulling him toward you as a shudder ran through you. He pressed his nose to the crown of your head and inhaled deeply.

He could care less about the chaos going on behind him, the sirens of an ambulance in the distance as insignificant to him as chirping birds.

Fingertips gently pressed into the side of your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him. The blood was smeared across part of your face, but it looked like the bleeding was starting to slow. Your eyes were wide and a touch vacant as you looked up at him.

“You with me, pet?” Simon asked, his head crowding in close to yours as he tried to block out the rest of the world. He held his breath while waiting for your answer.

You nodded—albeit shakily as you looked him over. “Si, your leg.” Your voice was soft and wavering as you spoke. He watched your brows furrow with concern, lips parting.

“S’okay, don’t worry about me,” he said immediately, nudging your chin to look back up at his face. He didn’t even bother to look down at his leg. It didn’t hurt, the adrenaline fueling him enough to not feel it quite yet.

His thumbs smoothed over your face, his careful gaze focusing on the cut hidden in your hair as he took every detail of you in. Your jeans were ripped along your knees and up your thigh, your shirt a bit askew, your gloves torn. You had some road burn, some scrapes, hit your head pretty damn good, but you were standing and talking to him.

He could cry. Simon choked as he pulled you back into his chest, not wanting you to see how wet his dark eyes became. Fuck. There was a moment there that he thought he’d gotten you killed. The best thing in his sorry excuse for a life, dead in the road because he couldn’t protect you.

But you were here, you were in his arms and you were breathing. The panic receded, he took deep breaths as he looked up at the gloomy sky to try and get his head back on his shoulders.

The siren of the ambulance made his splitting headache worse, police cars following and the lights flashing in his eyes. It was only when they were parked near his destroyed motorcycle that he moved, keeping you clutched in the cage of his arms as he limped back across the street toward them.

The driver that hit you had the audacity to approach again, citing apologies and claims that he didn’t even see the motorcycle. Simon shoved him away, snarling like an animal. “Get the fuck away from us,” he hissed, voice low. “Got half the mind to kill you where you stand.”

You grabbed Simon’s wrist, grip soft. “Stop, Si,” you murmured, dragging him with you to the ambulance. There were already some people talking to the police that showed up, telling them what happened.

Simon made them tend to you first, worried you were concussed or had internal injuries. He fussed over you, staying close to you as the EMT shined a flashlight in your eyes and asked you soft-spoken questions. Price was already on his way to come grab the two of you, the fossil of a flip phone in his pocket still working unlike your smashed device.

He didn’t even know that there was a part of the meat of his calf that got burned and torn up from the bike landing on top of him until one of the medics started to force him onto a stretcher. He’d need stitches, something he could do himself if the ridiculous EMTs weren’t trying to corral him like a wild horse.

He would’ve fought it if you didn’t make him lay down, only soothed by the fact that Price showed up. You weren’t injured badly, thankfully, just some roadburn and a cut on your head that bled worse than it needed to.

Simon finally relaxed onto the stretcher after you kissed his scarred cheek, promising him that you were okay and you’d see him at the hospital. The adrenaline rushed out of him as soon as he was loaded up into the back, his dark eyes fluttering shut as he let out a soft groan.

She sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving, her posture frozen as if the slightest shift might shatter the fragile dam holding back her emotions. The house was quiet now.

Too quiet. No sound of boots thudding across the floorboards. No steady presence in the next room, no reassuring shadow cast by the lantern's glow.

No low voice correcting her stance or telling her to try again, his gravelly tone laced with that mix of pride and impatience she had come to rely on.

Just silence, thick and oppressive, wrapping around her like a shroud.

Her hands rested in her lap, fingers interlaced but betraying her inner chaos. They were shaking, a subtle tremor that started in her fingertips and rippled upward, defying the strength she had always prided herself on.

Y/N stared at them, brows pulling together as if she didn’t understand why, as if sheer willpower could command them to still, her gaze fierce and unblinking in the dim light.

They didn’t.

A tear slipped down her cheek, landing softly against her skin, warm and insistent. Then another, tracing a path that blurred the edges of her vision.

“I don’t…” she whispered, voice catching on the jagged edge of grief. “I don’t want to lose him…”

The words broke apart as soon as they left her lips, dissolving into the air like fragile smoke, leaving her hollow.

Her chest tightened painfully, each breath uneven and labored as more tears followed—falling faster now, unstoppable, carving salty trails over her flushed skin.

Not him. Not her dad, the unyielding anchor of her world, the man whose absence already carved a void too vast to fathom.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head like she could push the thought away, dislodge it from the recesses of her mind where it had taken root.

But it was there, unyielding and vivid.

That image. Him not coming back, his silhouette fading into the haze of battle, leaving only echoes.

The empty house, its rooms vast and lifeless, stripped of his quiet strength.

The silence that would never end, an eternal companion to her solitude.

A small, broken sound escaped her as she folded forward, elbows on her knees, hands clutching at her hair with desperate fingers, pulling just enough to ground the spiraling pain.

“No… no, no, no…”

She had already lost her mother, the memory a raw wound that time had only scabbed over, never fully healed.

She couldn’t—

She wouldn’t—

Let the war steal him too, ripping away the last thread of family she clung to.

Her breathing hitched sharply as she forced herself upright again, wiping her face with the back of her hand, the calluses rough against her tender skin.

Her gaze dropped back to her palms, studying the familiar ridges and scars.

Calloused. Steady—when she needed them to be, battle-hardened from hours of practice under his watchful eye.

Hands he had trained, guiding her through forms until muscle memory became instinct.

Hands he had trusted with a blade, placing steel in her grip with a nod of quiet approval.

Slowly… they stopped trembling, the shakes ebbing away as resolve seeped in, cold and clarifying.

Y/N inhaled shakily, drawing in the room's musty air. Then again. And again, each breath a deliberate reclaiming of control.

Her tears didn’t stop—but something else changed, a shift from despair to determination.

Something steadier. Colder, like the first frost of winter hardening the earth.

Her fingers curled. Tight. Fists, knuckles paling under the pressure, channeling fear into fuel.

“I can fight,” she whispered, voice still fragile—but firmer now, edged with the defiance he had forged in her. “You know I can…”

He had said survive, his final command a plea disguised as order.

He had told her to stay. To hide. To wait, barricaded in this fragile sanctuary.

Her jaw tightened, the line of it sharp and unyielding.

“No.”

The word was quiet. But certain, resonating in her core like a struck bell.

She looked up, eyes still wet—but burning now with something stronger than fear, a fierce ember that promised action over acquiescence.

“I’m not staying here.”

Her heart pounded harder as the thought settled in, taking shape with unshakeable clarity, a path illuminated amid the darkness.

Tonight.

She would wait until Peggy slept, the old woman's rhythmic breathing her unwitting signal.

She would take what she needed—her blade, supplies, anything she could carry without slowing her stride.

And then—

She’d go. Find the camp, trace the roads scarred by marching feet. Find him, before fate could intervene.

Because if there was even the smallest chance—

If there was even one moment where he needed her, her blade at his side—

She wouldn’t be sitting in some safe little room, waiting for bad news to arrive, carried on the wind like a death knell.

Her grip tightened further, nails pressing into her palms, drawing faint pinpricks of blood that mirrored her resolve.

“I’m coming, Dad,” she whispered, the vow soft but ironclad, laced with the love that overrode every warning.

The room stayed silent.

But this time—

It didn’t feel suffocating.

It felt like the calm before something began, the hush preceding a tempest.

Night had settled heavy over the village, draping it in velvet darkness, the stars mere pinpricks against the endless void.

No voices murmured in the distance. No movement flickered in the shadows. Only the distant rustle of wind through the fields, like restless spirits, and the faint creak of old wood groaning under the night's weight.

Peggy’s house had long gone still, the fire reduced to glowing coals, the air thick with the scent of cooling ashes.

Y/N waited.

She sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed in worn tunic and breeches, boots clutched in her hands, listening—counting the quiet breaths between sounds, each interval a test of her patience. Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure it would give her away, a thunderous rhythm echoing her defiance.

But nothing came.

No footsteps creaking on the stairs. No voice calling her name, soft with concern.

Just silence, her ally in the shadows.

Slowly… carefully… she stood, unfolding her limbs with the precision of a hunter.

Every movement was deliberate. Controlled. The way Simon had taught her, his lessons etched into her bones: stealth as survival, haste as folly.

She slipped her boots on, the leather whispering against her skin, grabbed the small bundle she had prepared—a satchel of provisions, a cloak for the chill—and crept to the door, her steps silent on the threadbare rug.

Her hand hovered on the handle for a moment, the brass cool and unyielding beneath her fingers.

This was it.

No turning back, no retreat to the warmth she was forsaking.

She swallowed hard, throat tight with the weight of choice—

Then opened it.

The night air hit her cold and sharp as she stepped outside, carrying the bite of frost and the promise of trials ahead.

She didn’t look back.

If she did, she knew she might stop, the pull of safety too strong to resist.

And she couldn’t afford that.

Not now.

Not ever.

Her house stood just as she remembered it—dark, still, waiting like a sentinel in the gloom.

For a moment, she hesitated at the door, her hand lingering on the latch.

It felt… different. Empty, as if the life had already leeched from its walls, anticipating the void to come.

Like it already knew he was gone, the forge cold and silent within.

Y/N pushed the thought aside and stepped inside, the door sighing shut behind her.

The familiar scent hit her instantly—iron from the anvil, wood from the beams, smoke lingering from the hearth.

Home.

Her chest tightened, a pang of nostalgia warring with urgency.

“Focus,” she whispered to herself, the word a sharp command in the quiet.

She moved quickly.

No hesitation now, her purpose a guiding flame.

She grabbed the sword from where it rested against the wall—the one he had trained her with, its hilt worn smooth from her grip. It felt right in her hand. Solid. Real, an extension of her will.

Then—

She stopped.

Her eyes lifted.

The mirror.

It hung slightly crooked, just like always, its surface tarnished but true.

For a moment, she just stared at herself, the reflection a harsh judge.

Long brown curls falling past her shoulders, wild and untamed. Tear-stained cheeks, flushed with emotion. Eyes still red, shadowed by doubt.

A girl.

A liability, soft curves and vulnerability that the world would exploit.

A target, marked by her very existence in a time of war.

Her grip on the sword tightened, the leather creaking under her fingers.

She exhaled slowly, steadying her breath.

Then stepped closer, the floorboards cool beneath her boots.

“You’re not staying,” she murmured to her reflection.

Her hands were steady now. Completely steady, the tremor banished by the fire of purpose igniting within her, each finger sure and unyielding as they gripped the hilt of the blade.

She lifted it, the steel catching a faint glint from the moonlight filtering through the cracked window, casting a silvery edge along its length.

Paused only for a second—her reflection holding her gaze, a silent challenge in those determined eyes—

Then—

Slice.

The first lock fell, a heavy curl of brown tumbling to the worn floorboards like a severed tie to her past, soft strands scattering in the dim light.

Her breath hitched—but she didn’t stop, the sharp intake fueling her resolve rather than faltering it.

Cut.

Another, the blade whispering through the air with practiced precision, severing more of the wild mane that had always marked her as unmistakably feminine.

Cut.

And another, relentless now, each snip echoing in the quiet room like a declaration of war against her own vulnerability.

Her curls dropped to the floor one by one, pooling around her boots in dark, tangled heaps, until they no longer framed her face the same way, no longer softened the sharp angles of her jaw or veiled the intensity in her stare.

Until the girl in the mirror started to disappear, fading with every falling strand, replaced by something forged in necessity.

She kept going. Shorter. Rougher. The cuts uneven in places, jagged from the haste, but enough to alter the silhouette staring back at her.

Finally, she lowered the blade, the weight of it settling in her palm as her chest heaved with controlled breaths.

Silence enveloped the room, broken only by the faint rustle of her uneven hair brushing against her neck.

Her chest rose and fell slowly as she looked up again, forcing herself to confront the change.

The reflection staring back at her was different now. Sharper, the short crop framing a face that seemed etched with newfound hardness, shadows playing across her features to accentuate the illusion.

Harder, the vulnerability stripped away with her locks, leaving a guise that could blend into the ranks of soldiers marching to war.

Not quite a boy— the subtle curves of her form still lingered beneath the surface—but close enough to deceive at a distance, to slip through the cracks of scrutiny.

Y/N reached up, brushing a hand over the shortened strands, fingers threading through the unfamiliar stubble that prickled against her skin. It felt strange. Wrong, like shedding a skin she had worn too long.

But necessary, a armor woven from sacrifice, essential for the path she had chosen.

Her gaze didn’t waver, locked on the transformed figure before her, a nod of grim approval passing unspoken.

“Good,” she whispered, the word a quiet affirmation, sealing the first phase of her reinvention.

She moved again, faster now, momentum carrying her forward like a current she couldn’t resist.

Pulling on darker clothes—loose tunic and breeches of rough wool, practical and unadorned, nothing that would catch the eye or cling to her shape at a glance, blending her into the night’s anonymity.

Then she grabbed the bandages, strips of clean linen scavenged from the chest, their texture coarse against her palms.

Her hands slowed just slightly, not from doubt creeping in, but from the stark awareness of what this entailed.

This was the final step. The line she couldn’t uncross, a binding not just of cloth but of her very identity, committing her to the deception.

She inhaled deeply, drawing in the musty air of the room, steeling her nerves against the discomfort to come—

Then began.

Wrapping them tight around her breasts, layer by layer, the fabric pulling firm against her skin, compressing and flattening, hiding the soft swells that betrayed her gender.

It wasn’t comfortable, the pressure a constant ache that bit into her ribs and restricted her breaths to shallow pulls.

It wasn’t meant to be, a reminder of the cost, the endurance she would need to survive what lay ahead.

She tied it off with a firm knot, adjusting her shirt over it, the loose fabric falling to conceal the bindings, then checking the mirror again with a critical eye.

Her silhouette changed, the once-gentle lines now obscured, angular and unobtrusive.

Less noticeable in the dim light, less her—the girl left behind in the scattered curls on the floor.

More… something that could pass muster among the rough company of men, slipping unnoticed through checkpoints and camps.

Her jaw set, a muscle ticking with determination.

“Good enough.”

She gathered the rest—small supplies bundled into a worn satchel: dried meat, a waterskin, flint and tinder— the chain Simon had given her, its cool metal links slipping over her head to rest against her chest, tucking it safely beneath her clothes.

Close to her heart. Always, a talisman of his faith in her, now her anchor in the storm.

Then she stepped toward the door, satchel slung over her shoulder, sword at her hip.

Pausing only once, her hand on the latch.

Her eyes flicked around the room, taking in the familiar contours one last time.

Every corner held a memory: the scuffed bedpost from roughhousing as a child, the faint smoke stain on the ceiling from late-night stories by the fire.

Every shadow felt heavier now, laden with the weight of farewell, the ghosts of laughter and lessons lingering in the air.

“I’ll come back,” she whispered, the words hanging soft and tentative in the stillness.

She didn’t know if it was a promise.

Or a lie.

The stables loomed dark and still under the veil of night, the air thick with the scent of hay and lingering manure, every creak of wood amplifying the hush that had settled over them.

Too quiet, the absence pressing in like a held breath, a stark reminder of the exodus that had stripped the village bare.

Most of the village horses were already gone—requisitioned by the men who had vanished before the first light, driven by a mix of desperation and resolve. Only a few remained, their hooves scraping softly against the straw as they shifted restlessly in their stalls, eyes gleaming white in the gloom.

Y/N moved carefully, her boots padding silently over the packed earth, murmuring low reassurances as she approached one—a sturdy brown gelding she recognized from years of shared paths and quiet rides.

“Hey… easy,” she whispered, her palm pressing flat against the warm muscle of its neck, feeling the steady pulse beneath the coarse hide.

It huffed softly, a warm puff of breath against her wrist, but didn’t pull away, its ears flicking forward in tentative trust.

Good.

She worked quickly, hands steady despite the thunderous beat echoing in her chest, each motion precise and ingrained.

She hefted the saddle from its rack, swinging it onto the gelding's back with a soft thud, then threaded the reins through the bit, tightening the girth with firm pulls, checking the fit, adjusting the stirrups—

everything Simon had drilled into her during those long, sun-dappled afternoons that now felt like distant dreams, every lesson surging back with vital urgency.

Within minutes, she was mounted, the leather creaking under her weight as she settled into the saddle, the horse's flanks rising and falling beneath her.

For a brief second, she sat there in the enveloping dark, fingers curling tight around the reins, the reality crashing over her like a wave.

This was real. No turning back, the threshold crossed in the span of a heartbeat.

Then—

She kicked forward, heels digging into the gelding's sides with a sharp nudge.

The world blurred into shadows and wind, the stable doors swinging open as they burst into the open, the rush of cool air whipping past her ears.

Cold air stung her face, biting at her exposed skin as the horse carried her down the narrow path, away from everything she had ever known—the familiar rooftops, the shadowed fields, the life she was leaving in fragments behind.

Fields stretched wide and empty under the starlit sky, vast expanses of dark earth swallowing the horizon.

The village disappeared behind her, its lights fading to pinpricks, then nothing, erased by the distance.

And ahead—

Only uncertainty, a yawning void of what-ifs and dangers lurking in the unknown.

Y/N leaned forward slightly, her body molding to the horse's rhythm, urging it on with a low click of her tongue and a gentle squeeze of her thighs.

“I’m coming,” she murmured into the night, the words lost to the wind but etched deep in her resolve, a vow carried on the gallop.

By the time the camp came into view, the moon hung high and unyielding, its pale glow washing over the sprawl like a judgmental eye.

Torches burned along the perimeter, flames sputtering and dancing in iron braziers, casting flickering light over rows of canvas tents pitched in haphazard lines and the ceaseless movement—lots of movement, shadows shifting as men hauled gear and barked orders into the chill.

She slowed the horse to a trot, heart racing as she took it in, scanning the chaos for threats, her pulse a frantic drum in her throat.

Men still arriving, stragglers on foot or horseback weaving through the edges, their silhouettes blending into the throng.

Good.

She exhaled quietly, a measured release of tension, forcing her shoulders to relax.

It won’t look suspicious. Just one more face in the flood.

Blending in—that was the goal now, her new skin, her survival woven into the anonymity of the crowd.

She dismounted with a fluid swing of her leg, boots hitting the muddied ground, then tied the horse alongside others to a rough post, the leads knotted secure before she pulled her hood lower, shadows concealing the sharp lines of her face, and stepped into the crowd.

No one looked at her twice, eyes sliding past the hooded figure as if she were no more than a gust of wind.

Just another late arrival. Just another boy, the disguise holding firm in the press of bodies.

There was a line forming near a wooden table where a man sat, hunched over stacks of parchment, his quill scratching names onto the yellowed sheets under the wavering lantern light.

A second commander, by the look of him, his uniform crisp despite the disarray around, insignia glinting faintly.

Y/N slipped into place at the end, keeping her head slightly down, shoulders squared the way she’d seen the others do, broad and unyielding, mimicking the posture of reluctant recruits.

One by one, names were called out, voices rough and varied, from gruff barks to mumbled replies.

Given. Spoken into existence amid the murmur.

Written. Ink bleeding into the page, sealing fates.

Stamped into something official. A heavy seal thudding down, permanent, unyielding.

Her stomach twisted, a knot of nausea rising as the line inched forward, each step closing the noose.

Then—

“Next.”

She stepped forward, gravel crunching under her boots, the commander's gaze lifting briefly.

The commander barely glanced up, his eyes bleary from hours of tedium. “Name?”

Her mind blanked, thoughts scattering like startled birds.

For half a heartbeat, panic flared, hot and sharp in her veins, threatening to choke her words.

Then—

“Kai,” she said, the syllable pushing out low and steady, forged in the fire of necessity.

The word came out before she could second-guess it, hanging in the air like a shield.

The man nodded, already dipping his quill, the scratch resuming.

“Kai… what?”

Y/N hesitated—just slightly, a fraction of a second where doubt clawed at the edges.

“Riley,” she said, the name rising unbidden, a tether to the man she sought, slipping free like a confession.

It slipped out without thinking, natural as breath, binding her to his legacy.

The man didn’t question it, his expression unchanging, just a grunt of acknowledgment.

Just scribbled, the ink flowing swift across the page.

“Move along.”

And just like that—

She existed.

Not as Y/N.

But as Kai.

The camp hummed with subdued murmurs of voices blending into a constant drone, the metallic clink of armor being adjusted and weapons sheathed punctuating the air, and the far-off snap of flames devouring wood in scattered fires, sending sparks dancing upward.

Y/N navigated the throng at a deliberate pace, her gaze sweeping over each weathered face hardened by anticipation, every twitch of limbs as men shifted packs or tested straps, every lurking shadow cast long by the erratic glow of lanterns swaying from poles.

Dad…

Yet the press of bodies was overwhelming, a crush of forms in drab uniforms.

Too many soldiers jostling for space amid the tents.

Too many unfamiliar figures whose stares held no warmth or welcome.

She couldn’t spot him amid the multitude.

Not yet.

A knot formed in her chest, squeezing tight—but she pressed on, threading through the gaps with quiet resolve.

She had time before dawn broke fully.

She just needed to—

Thud.

A forceful collision jarred her from the side, expelling the air from her lungs in a whoosh as a solid mass—body or gear—crashed against her.

She reeled backward—

And slammed into the dirt, the impact jarring her spine against unyielding ground.

“—oh shit!”

Laughter rang out overhead, coarse and immediate.

“Watch where you’re go—oh… wait—"

“Dude, sorry!”

Y/N shoved herself upright in a rush, annoyance igniting like a spark. “Watch out!” she barked, her tone laced with a rough edge.

Three lads loomed before her.

About her age, perhaps a touch senior.

One advanced promptly, extending a hand without pause.

“Yeah—sorry about that,” he offered, his words steadier than his companions’. “Didn’t see you.”

Y/N paused for the briefest instant—

Then clasped his hand.

His hold was solid, hauling her smoothly to standing.

That’s when she truly took him in.

Dark curls tumbling in disarray. Angular jaw and cheekbones. And those eyes—

Piercing blue, like chips of winter ice.

He locked eyes with her briefly, probing as if searching for hidden truths.

Then released.

The pair behind closed in swiftly.

“Sorry, man,” one muttered. “Didn’t mean to knock you flat like that.”

“Yeah,” the second chimed, scratching at his nape. “Camp’s chaos tonight.”

They shared resemblances.

Not twins—but kin, unmistakably.

Brothers.

The initial one waved loosely. “I’m Hesh,” he introduced. “That’s my younger brother, Logan.”

Logan dipped his chin in acknowledgment.

Then the blue-eyed one added his piece.

“Keegan.”

Y/N shifted her weight, eyeing them all, posture even.

Composed.

Impassive.

“...Kai,” she replied. The alias sat oddly on her tongue. Yet it fit, somehow.

Hesh cracked a subtle smile. “Kai, huh? You just get here?”

“Yeah.”

“Same,” Logan murmured softly.

Keegan’s expression stayed neutral. He simply observed her a beat too long.

Not hostile. Merely watchful.

Y/N sensed the scrutiny.

And willed herself still.

“Try not to get run over again,” Hesh quipped mildly.

Y/N snorted. “Try not to walk into people.”

That drew a quick chuckle.

“Fair enough.”

For a fleeting instant—

It seemed ordinary.

Nearly.

A remote yell cut through the camp then, diverting gazes elsewhere.

The veil of illusion tore away.

War.

Drills.

Endurance.

Y/N’s fingers grazed the concealed chain under her tunic.

Dad…

She scanned the vicinity once more.

No trace of him still.

But now—

She wasn’t isolated.

And for the first time since slipping away—

That lightened the load, however slightly.

Even if just a little.

Dawn arrived with brutal swiftness, the chill wind slicing deeper into her weary frame than the village's milder breezes ever could, seeping into bones deprived of rest during the fitful night.

Y/N—now fully Kai—lined up amid the ragged rows of fresh recruits, her posture rigid with squared shoulders and a subtly lowered chin, mirroring the tense stances around her.

Nearby, lads fidgeted with unease, some exchanging hushed words laced with doubt, others frozen like carved stone, their faces pale under the strengthening light.

She held her silence, lips pressed thin, mind racing with the peril of exposure.

The camp transformed under the sun's glare, sprawling vast and unforgiving, its edges sharp with reality's bite—no longer the shadowy haven of night but a sprawling beast of mud and canvas, alive with the grind of impending conflict.

At the forefront rose a weathered platform, officers clustered atop it, though one detached from the group, authority etched in his every stride.

The commander. His bark shattered the low hum instantly.

“Listen up!” The noise evaporated, dropping like a guillotine's edge.

“From this moment on, you are no longer villagers, farmers, or sons of whatever small lives you came from.” His stare raked across the assembly, piercing as a blade, and Y/N felt it skim her, her pulse quickening—does he see through me already? 

“You belong to the kingdom now.” Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding subtly; this was no game, no childish rebellion, but a desperate thread to reclaim her father, Simon, from whatever fate had snared him. The man resumed his measured prowl along the platform's edge.

“You will be trained. You will obey. And if you survive long enough—you might even become soldiers.” Scattered nervous laughs bubbled up, fragile and short-lived, smothered by the weight of his presence.

“Now,” he pressed on, tone icing over,

“rules.” A subordinate advanced, unfurling a parchment with deliberate care.

“First—” the commander snapped, voice like cracking whip,

“women and girls are strictly forbidden within the ranks.” Y/N's gut plummeted, a cold void yawning inside; 

they know, they always know, one slip and it's over. Her fingers twitched, curling into tight balls at her hips, nails biting palms to anchor the surge of panic.

"Any found disguising themselves or attempting to enlist will be—” He halted, letting the suspense coil. “Banished.” Whispers stirred like wind through dry leaves across the ranks. “Not just removed,” he amplified, eyes narrowing to slits.

“Banished. Marked. Shamed.” His glare intensified, drilling into the crowd.

“Your family name will carry that disgrace.” Y/N's ribs constricted, breath shallow; visions flashed—her father's stern face twisted in humiliation, Peggy's kind eyes dimmed by scandal, the village turning its back on the Riley line, all because of her defiance. 

I can't let that happen. Not to him. Not after everything. She fixed her gaze forward, unblinking, willing her body to stone—don't twitch, don't breathe wrong, blend into the dirt. 

“Second,” the officer intoned, voice flat as he scanned the scroll,

“any lies given during registration—false name, false origin—will result in immediate punishment and removal.” Y/N's heart thundered, a war drum in her ears; Kai Riley, that's all they have, hold it together. 

“Shame upon your family. Your name struck from record.” Her mouth parched, tongue sticking to the roof as dread coiled tighter—if they dig, if they question, Simon's legacy crumbles with mine. 

“Third—disobedience.” The commander's timbre swelled once more. “Failure to follow orders. Questioning authority. Acting without command.”

He ceased his stride, pivoting to survey them all. “Banished. Shamed. Forgotten.”

The quiet thickened, oppressive as chains, pressing down on every soul. Y/N drew a measured inhale through flared nostrils, steadying the tremor in her limbs—invisible, that's my weapon now, shadows and silence. 

“You are here to serve. Not to think you’re special. Not to prove anything.”

His attention snagged on the greener faces, the youths like her.

“Most of you will fail.” No retorts rose; the air hung leaden.

“Some of you will die.” A beat of stunned hush.

“And the rest—” His pitch dipped to a grave rumble. “Will wish you had.”

Icy dread rippled through the formation, Y/N's skin prickling as the words sank in—death or worse, but turning back means losing him forever, I chose this path. 

She gulped against the lump in her throat, knuckles whitening in her clenched fists, yet her stare remained locked ahead, defiant in its stillness.

No quiver. No retreat. She couldn't afford it. Not with the chain's weight against her bound chest a constant reminder of Simon's lessons, his absence a void she aimed to fill.

One misstep—exposure, disgrace—and it all shattered: her quest, his honor, their fractured bond. The commander retreated a pace.

“Training begins now.”

The ranks dissolved in a frenzy of barked commands, sergeants herding the fresh meat into clusters with rough shoves and pointed fingers, shuffling them like pawns across a bloodstained field, assigning duties and partners with the efficiency of a butcher portioning cuts.

Y/N clung to the periphery of the familiar trio—Hesh, Logan, Keegan—shadowing their steps without crowding, her gaze darting to ensure no one marked her as an outsider in this sea of strained faces and hunched postures.

A grizzled sergeant prowled the forming lines, flinging polished wooden staves into outstretched palms with curt snaps of his wrist, the wood thudding into grips slick with morning dew and nerves.

“Take one. Move!” Y/N snagged hers mid-air, the smooth grain settling familiarly in her callused fingers, its heft featherlight compared to the steel blades her father had once pressed into her hands during endless dawn drills, yet the center of balance evoked those grueling sessions, the way Simon's voice had drilled precision into her bones—strike true, or don't strike at all. 

Her digits flexed, curling around the shaft instinctively, muscle memory igniting like a spark in dry tinder.

Opposite her, Keegan twirled his stave in a fluid arc, the motion testing its swing weight with the ease of someone born to the rhythm, his sharp blue eyes lifting to meet hers across the packed dirt.

“Guess we’re paired,” he said, voice low and steady amid the rising clamor.

Y/N dipped her chin in a brief acknowledgment. “Looks like it.”

Off to the flank, Hesh slapped Logan's shoulder with a resounding smack, his grin wolfish.

“Try not to cry when I knock you flat.” Logan snorted, rolling his eyes skyward.

“You wish.” For a fleeting heartbeat, amid the grind of boots scraping earth and the metallic tang of fear-sweat in the air, it skirted the edge of ordinary—sparring banter like village scuffles, not the prelude to slaughter—but the bindings chafing her ribs and the phantom ache of her cropped hair yanked her back, a stark reminder that normalcy was a luxury she'd bartered away for this deception.

“Listen up!” the instructor bellowed, striding between the pairs like a wolf among sheep, his boots kicking up dust clouds that stung eyes and throats.

“This isn’t play fighting. You swing like idiots—you’ll be treated like idiots. Understood?”

A ragged wave of “Yes, sir!” rippled out, voices overlapping in uneven harmony, Y/N's own murmur blending seamlessly into the chorus as she gripped her stick tighter, pulse steadying into the focused thrum of readiness.

“Good. Basic strikes. Basic defense. You mess it up—you run laps until you drop.”

He jabbed a thick finger toward the first duo. “Begin!”

The initial crack of timber on timber reverberated across the yard, a sharp punctuation to the haze of motion as bodies lunged and parried in clumsy rhythm.

Y/N surged forward without hesitation, her stance low and coiled, movements deliberate—not the frantic flailing of greenhorns but honed strikes flowing from years of clandestine practice in fog-shrouded fields, Simon's gravelly corrections echoing in her mind: 

footwork first, power follows. 

Keegan mirrored her advance, probing with a swift overhead chop that whistled through the chill air; she met it squarely, her stave rising in a crisp intercept, the impact vibrating up her arms like a tuning fork, jarring but controlled, her elbows absorbing the force without buckling.

He arched a single brow, surprise flickering in his gaze as he reset his guard.

“Not bad,” he muttered, circling to her left with predatory grace.

She offered no retort, merely pivoting on her heel to track him, weight shifting fluidly between her boots, eyes locked on the subtle twitch of his shoulders telegraphing intent.

He struck again, quicker this time—a lateral sweep from the left aimed at her midsection; Y/N twisted her hips, angling the block to glance the blow aside with a resonant thud, the wood humming in her grasp as she exhaled sharply through her nose.

He followed seamlessly with a rightward thrust, tip darting like a serpent's tongue; she yielded ground in a measured retreat, the stave slicing empty air inches from her tunic, then riposted with a measured jab toward his exposed flank—light, probing, not committing fully.

Keegan parried with a snap of his wrist, their staves colliding in a staccato crack that sent a faint shiver through the ground. They hung in that suspended beat, breaths syncing, assessing—his stance wider, hers compact, minds mapping weaknesses in the other's form amid the cacophony of grunts and thwacks surrounding them.

Then the dance resumed, Keegan pressing with augmented force, his swings chaining into a sequence: high feint dissolving into a low sweep, then a diagonal slash testing her reflexes;

Y/N countered each in turn, deflecting the feint with an upward flick, dropping her guard to halt the sweep at knee height with a solid brace, and weaving under the slash to tap his guard with her counter, the contact firm but restrained, her breaths even as sweat beaded on her brow.

She matched his tempo flawlessly—step mirroring step, parry echoing strike—her form slicing through the air with surgical sharpness, each motion a echo of Simon's relentless tutelage, the wooden clacks around her paling against the precision she'd forged in secret, muscles burning with the welcome fire of purpose.

Keegan clocked it immediately, his spins tightening as he orbited her position, gaze sharpening like a whetstone on steel.

“You’ve done this before.” Y/N lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug, feigning the casual shrug of a farm lad with occasional scraps.

“A bit.”

“Doesn’t look like ‘a bit.’” She sidestepped his probe, silence her shield, then exploded into motion—lunging with a sudden thrust that blurred the stave's arc toward his chest.

Keegan reacted on instinct, his block whipping up at the last instant, wood grinding against wood in a grating lock that tested their grips, arms straining for a heartbeat before they disengaged. A ghost of a smirk curved his lips, admiration glinting.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath.

“Definitely more than a bit.” In the adjacent pairing, Hesh and Logan devolved into a whirlwind of unchecked vigor, their bout a storm of wild arcs and desperate dodges—Hesh's stave whistling erratically as he overcommitted to a haymaker swing, Logan ducking clumsily and retaliating with a haphazard poke that clanged off his brother's guard.

“Stop swinging like that!” Logan snapped, frustration etching his features as he reset, sweat flying from his brow.

“You’re just slow!” Hesh fired back, his grin feral as he barreled forward in a reckless charge, staves smashing together in a chaotic din that drew sidelong glances from steadier pairs.

“Focus!” the instructor barked at them, voice slicing through their bickering like a lash.

“Trying!” Hesh called back, parrying a sloppy overhead with a grunt. Logan groaned.

Y/N and Keegan surged back into motion, the tempo escalating into a blur of accelerated exchanges, their bodies closing the gap with predatory intent, boots gouging furrows in the compacted soil as they wove through the intricate ballet of combat—each advance pulling them nearer, the air between them thickening with the scent of exertion and churned earth.

Their staves collided in a rapid-fire staccato, wood barking against wood in relentless succession: a high block absorbing Keegan's descending arc that hummed with latent power, followed by Y/N's riposte slicing low toward his thigh, met by his deft parry that sent vibrations racing up her arms; then a lateral step to the side,

her pivot turning into a sweeping strike aimed at his shoulder, which he deflected with a twist of his torso, countering instantly with a thrusting jab she sidestepped, her own follow-up a diagonal chop glancing off his raised guard in a sharp crack that echoed amid the grunts and thuds of surrounding pairs.

Y/N's breaths remained even, measured inhales fueling the precision of her form, her vision tunneling to the subtle cues in his posture—the flex of his knuckles whitening around the shaft, the shift of weight from heel to toe—

her mind a honed blade cutting through distraction, every sinew attuned to the rhythm they'd carved out.

For a suspended instant, the clamor of the training yard faded, the leering eyes of officers and the ironclad prohibitions against her kind dissolving into irrelevance;

she was adrift in pure kinetics, the seamless flow of reflex and discipline, echoes of Simon's gravelly commands resurfacing unbidden—

breathe through it, let the body lead—transforming the drill into an extension of those hidden sessions under starlit skies, where survival was etched into every feint and flourish.

Then Keegan shattered the trance, lunging inward with explosive speed, his frame compressing the space between them to mere inches, his stave whipping in a close-quarters hook that threatened to batter her defenses at point-blank range, the sudden proximity forcing a spike of adrenaline through her veins.

Y/N's instincts ignited without deliberation, her hips snapping in a fluid pivot that spun her weight onto her lead foot, her free leg hooking behind his knee in a swift, calculated sweep—

muscles coiling and releasing like a spring trap—yanking his balance from under him with unyielding leverage, the motion born from years of grappling drills Simon had drilled into her during those feverish nights of preparation.

Keegan teetered, arms windmilling for purchase as momentum betrayed him, his boot skidding on loose gravel before he toppled backward, hitting the ground with a solid thud that expelled a rush of air from his lungs and kicked up a puff of dust that settled on the watching recruits' faces.

A ripple of heads turned from nearby bouts, eyes widening in a mix of shock and envy at the clean takedown, murmurs threading through the din like sparks in dry grass, one lanky boy pausing mid-swing to gape openly while his partner lowered her—no, his—stick in confusion.

Y/N locked in place, heart slamming against her ribs, the stave heavy in her slackened grip as realization crashed in—too aggressive, too revealing, a flourish that screamed expertise far beyond a raw conscript's fumbling attempts, her bindings suddenly feeling like chains constricting her chest amid the exposure.

Keegan lay there for a beat, blinking up through the haze, dirt smudging his cheek, then exhaled a brief huff that bordered on amusement, the sound cutting the tension like a knife through fog.

“Well,” he said, bracing his palms against the earth to lever himself upright, shaking off the fall with a roll of his shoulders,

“that was new.” Y/N eased her stick downward a fraction, scanning him for injury, her voice threading steady despite the inner churn.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He swiped at the grime clinging to his tunic and trousers, rising fluidly before fixing her with a prolonged stare, his expression unclouded by doubt but laced with intrigue, those piercing eyes dissecting her form as if piecing together a puzzle half-solved, the moment stretching under the relentless sun beating down on the yard.

“You fight like someone taught you properly,” he said, the words hanging with quiet appraisal, probing without accusation.

Y/N's fingers clenched around the wood, knuckles paling as a flicker of panic tightened her throat, the weight of her alias pressing like a vice—Kai wouldn't know advanced foot sweeps, not from a village brawl. 

“…Got lucky.” Keegan's gaze lingered, skepticism etching faint lines at the corners of his mouth, unconvinced by the deflection but respecting the boundary, his nod curt as he retrieved his dropped stave from the dirt, twirling it once to reaffirm its balance before sliding back into guard stance, feet planting wide and ready.

“Alright, ‘Kai,’” he said, a subtle edge of provocation threading his tone, daring her to match the intensity he'd glimpsed.

“Again.” Y/N held his eyes, her resolve steeling into an unyielding front, chin lifting fractionally.

“Again.” And this time— They didn’t hold back.

Across the sprawling expanse of the camp—far removed from the fledgling recruits' clamor of splintering wood and barked orders—genuine steel sang against steel in a symphony of honed lethality, the blades' edges whispering threats through the air with every swing, unyielding and razor-sharp, demanding flawless execution or swift retribution.

Simon Riley glided through the fray like an encroaching specter, his form a seamless blend of controlled ferocity and lethal economy, muscles coiling beneath his scarred tunic as he anticipated each assault with the precision of a predator long schooled in death's cadence.

A sword slashed in from his left flank, Johnny's grip firm and blade arcing with committed force toward Simon's ribs, the metal gleaming under the midday glare as it cut the wind with a faint hiss.

Simon intercepted it mid-arc, his own broadsword rising in a tight vertical block that absorbed the impact with a resonant clang, the jolt traveling up his arms like a thunderclap contained; without pause, he twisted at the waist, pivoting on his heel to redirect the momentum into a fluid counter, his tip darting forward in a straight thrust that halted millimeters from Johnny's exposed throat, the point quivering steady as Simon's breath ghosted the skin there.

A suspended hush fell between them, the world narrowing to that frozen edge.

Then Johnny's tension broke with a rough bark of laughter, his free hand clapping Simon's shoulder as he eased his weapon down, the grin splitting his face wide despite the near-miss.

“Bloody hell, Simon,” he said, shaking his head with mock exasperation,

“you’re trying to kill me before the war even starts?” Simon's expression remained a mask of granite, no flicker of mirth softening the hard lines of his jaw or the shadowed intensity in his eyes.

“Too slow.”

Johnny snorted, rolling his shoulders to loosen the knots from the blocked strike, his boots shifting in the trampled dirt that bore the imprints of countless drills.

“Too slow? I’ve seen snails move quicker than you when you wake up.”

Simon retreated a measured step, his fingers flexing around the leather-wrapped hilt to resettle its weight, the balance familiar as his own pulse.

“Then you should’ve had no problem.”

Johnny huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm against the chill of steel.

“Aye, right.” They commenced circling anew, footfalls grinding softly into the packed earth, eyes locked in mutual assessment, the space between them charged like the prelude to a storm; encircling them, clusters of veteran soldiers honed their craft in looser formations—

pairs trading measured thrusts amid low conversations, a trio practicing parries with rhythmic precision—but none matched the raw intensity radiating from Simon and Johnny, their duel a vortex drawing sidelong glances from the periphery.

Johnny initiated this round, exploding forward in a lunging assault, his sword thrusting low then whipping upward in an aggressive overhead chop, body fully committed as he drove the attack with explosive power, forcing Simon to weave left to evade the initial probe before meeting the descending blade headlong.

Their swords met in a ferocious clash, the impact reverberating through hilts and bones alike, a high-pitched ring slicing the air as sparks danced from the locked edges; Johnny pressed the advantage, raining down a sequence of strikes—

horizontal sweep to Simon's midsection blocked with a downward deflection that sent vibrations humming up Johnny's arms, followed by a vertical hack parried into a sidelong riposte that Simon sidestepped, his counter a probing jab Johnny twisted away from, the blades scraping in a grating whine.

Johnny redoubled, shoving forward with a shoulder feint to unbalance his opponent, his sword arcing in a tight circle to batter Simon's guard, compelling him to yield ground with a retreating step, boots sliding back amid the dust.

But Simon adapted in an instant, dropping his stance low and altering his blade's angle with a subtle wrist flick, transforming defense into offense as he unleashed a series of rapid cuts—

diagonal slash from high right met by Johnny's hasty block that jarred his elbows, then a low sweep toward the knees Johnny leaped over, only for Simon's follow-up thrust to graze the air near his hip, forcing a desperate adjustment where Johnny's parry barely contained the momentum, his stance widening to absorb the pressure.

“Still got it, eh?” Johnny muttered through gritted teeth, a grin breaking through the strain as sweat beaded on his brow, his breaths coming sharper now.

Simon offered no retort, his silence a weapon in itself, but an undercurrent weighed his strikes today—a fractional hesitation in his resets, a shadow clouding the usual mechanical ruthlessness, as if his mind wandered to unseen frontiers amid the melee.

Johnny clocked it immediately, his instincts as attuned to his friend's rhythms as to the blade's path; he always did, forged in battles where reading the man beside you meant life over death.

Another furious exchange erupted—blades crossing in a high-low bind that locked them chest-to-chest for a heartbeat, muscles straining before Simon disengaged with a sharp twist, circling back—then Johnny pulled away abruptly, dipping his sword tip toward the ground in a gesture of truce, his gaze probing.

“You’re distracted.”

Simon halted mid-stride, his posture rigid as iron.

“Am not.”

“Aye, you are,” Johnny pressed, cocking his head with that familiar blend of concern and persistence, wiping sweat from his upper lip with his sleeve.

“You’ve been like this since yesterday.” Simon's knuckles blanched around the hilt, the leather creaking under the pressure, his voice a low grind.

“Focus on the fight.” Johnny held his ground, sword lowered but stance unyielding, his eyes searching Simon's face for the fracture beneath the facade.

“…It’s the village, isn’t it?” The ensuing quiet stretched taut, confirmation in its weight alone.

Johnny let out a slow breath, scrubbing a hand over the nape of his neck, the motion betraying his unease. “Family?”

Simon's jaw locked, tendons standing out like cords, the internal war etching deeper lines across his brow; for a suspended moment, it seemed he'd seal shut entirely, retreating into that armored solitude. Then, the words escaped, rough and reluctant.

“…My daughter.” Johnny's features softened in a rush, the banter evaporating as empathy took hold, his sword arm dropping fully.

“Oh.”

 Simon averted his gaze for a fleeting second, staring toward the hazy horizon where the camp's fringes blurred into wild scrub—impossible to discern the recruits' distant tumult from this vantage, yet the pull tugged at him all the same.

“She’s alone now,” he murmured, the admission laced with gravel, his broad shoulders slumping imperceptibly under the burden. Johnny dipped his chin in a slow nod, processing the revelation with quiet gravity.

“That’s… rough.” Silence bloomed between them again, heavy with unspoken histories, the distant clang of metal from other groups a faint underscore.

“You sure she’ll be alright?” Johnny ventured, his tone gentle, probing without demand. Simon's response came swift, unyielding conviction threading through the doubt.

“She’s strong.” Undeniably so—fiercely, perilously strong, a truth that both reassured and haunted. Johnny offered a subdued nod of solidarity, sheathing his concern behind camaraderie.

“Then she’ll manage.” Simon fell mute, the words ringing hollow against the scars of experience; fortitude forged in secret yards didn't shield against the world's cruelties, a lesson carved into his very bones from campaigns long past.

A distant shout pierced the air then—the recruits' training in full roar, wooden staves cracking like brittle bones, voices rising in exertion and correction, the chaotic symphony of green soldiers forging into something sharper.

Simon's eyes darted toward the sound, a mere glance, involuntary and brief, before snapping back to Johnny, masking the ache.

Unseen. Unaware.

That amid those raw clashes and fervent cries—within that throng of disguised desperation—his daughter endured, her body a vessel of concealed fire, striking and evading under borrowed skin, shattering every edict he'd vowed to uphold in leaving her behind. Johnny caught the flicker, interpreting it through his lens of shared loss.

“…You miss her already, don’t you?” he said lightly, injecting levity to bridge the gap.

Simon held his peace, neither affirming nor refuting, the silence a concession in itself. Johnny's lips quirked in a faint smirk, hoisting his sword once more with renewed vigor.

“Alright then, Lieutenant. Try not to take it out on me.” Simon mirrored the motion, his blade rising in a salute of cold resolve, focus sharpening to a lethal edge.

“Then don’t give me a reason to.” Johnny's grin flashed full, defiant and alive.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Their steel collided anew in a cascade of strikes—thrust met parry, sweep deflected into riposte, bodies dancing in lethal harmony, the rhythm building to fevered intensity as Johnny feinted high and struck low, Simon countering with a spinning block that transitioned into an overhead arc Johnny rolled under, springing up to clash blades in a grinding lock that tested sinew and will.

And far across the camp— Wood struck wood in parallel fury, Y/N and Keegan locked in their unbridled bout, staves blurring through advanced forms

her guard high to absorb his overhead smash, then a low sweep he vaulted, her follow-up jab glancing his shoulder as he twisted into a counter-hook she ducked, the pair weaving closer in a frenzy of blocks, strikes, and pivots that left the dirt scarred and breaths ragged, the recruits' yard alive with their escalating duel.

Two battles. One camp.

And neither of them knew— Just how close they really were.

'I am starving...' The words were so familiar to you that you barely registered that they echoed the moment you saw your Captain's exposed wrist. Captain John Price, a stern and loyal man. He always made you feel safe...he always made you... Hungry. You inhaled sharply as you looked up at your Captain, finally registering that he had been calling your name. "Are you alright, love?" His usual tone had taken one of concern as his eyes stared into your own. "Ah-" You smiled nervously as you nodded, "Yes, sir, I'm fine. Just...deep in thought, I guess! What were you asking me?" "I was asking if you had gotten your paperwork done yet. You look exhausted." He stood up straight, crossing his arms over his chest as his raised a brow. Perhaps your narrator should explain; it started around... Three months ago...