#sasrh

One freezing morning in camp, you arrived late to breakfast after helping patch up a busted radio in the communications tent. Most of the food was gone. The tea kettle sat empty.

Paddy, seated at the end of the table with bruised knuckles and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, shoved a tin mug across the wood toward you without looking up.

“Took too bloody long,” he muttered.

The mug was full.

No one said anything at first.

Then Johnny Cooper slowly looked down at Paddy’s untouched cup.

Then at yours.

Then back at Paddy.

Paddy noticed the stare immediately. “What?”

“Nothing,” Johnny said, grinning into his eggs.

Paddy narrowed his eyes. “Spit it out.”

“Didn’t know you were capable of manners.”

“I’m not.”

But the next morning your tea was already sitting in your place before you even entered the mess.

And the morning after that.

And the one after.

It became a collection of small things no one could ignore except the man doing them.

He began appearing beside you without warning.

Not hovering — Paddy Mayne would never hover — but somehow always there.

If you worked late in the motor pool, eventually he’d wander in under the excuse of checking supplies.

If you sat outside reading, he’d sit nearby smoking in silence.

If someone annoyed you, Paddy materialized before you could even become angry yourself.

Once, a young lieutenant made the mistake of snapping at you during briefing.

The tent went quiet.

Paddy looked up slowly from cleaning dirt from beneath his fingernails.

“What was that?”

The lieutenant stiffened. “Nothing, sir.”

“No, no. Say it again. Thought I heard you speaking sharply.”

“It was just—”

“Try again.”

Everyone in the room could practically hear the lieutenant reconsidering his entire future.

You touched Paddy lightly on the sleeve before it escalated.

“It’s fine.”

And that was another thing.

No one else touched Paddy casually.

No one.

Men clapped shoulders, shook hands, wrestled half-drunk after missions — but instinctively everyone knew there was a line around him like the edge of a live wire.

You crossed it constantly.

A hand on his arm.

Fingers brushing dirt from his collar.

Leaning against him to look over maps.

Every single time, Paddy froze for half a second like his body forgot how to function.

Then he’d continue as though nothing happened while the rest of the room exchanged looks.

He never pulled away.

Not once.

The realization came to everyone else long before it came to him.

“Poor bastard’s gone,” Johnny announced one evening while watching Paddy argue with you over card rules.

“He has not,” another man replied.

“He looks at her like she hung the bloody moon.”

“That’s indigestion.”

“That is not indigestion.”

And across the fire, Paddy was glaring at you because you’d just beaten him again.

“You cheat,” he accused.

“You’re just terrible at cards.”

“I’ve survived war.”

“And yet defeated by a deck of paper.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Something softer.

The table collectively stared.

Paddy noticed immediately. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

“No reason,” came the chorus.

Suspicion narrowed his eyes.

You laughed quietly beside him, and just like that his attention shifted back to you entirely, everyone else disappearing from importance.

Johnny leaned back with a sigh. “Hopeless.”

The big things came later, because Paddy loved like a storm loves the shore — fiercely, completely, and with everything he had once he stopped fighting it.

The first time you were injured on a mission, something in him snapped.

It wasn’t even life-threatening. A cut across your side, blood soaking through your shirt while you insisted you were fine.

Paddy went white with rage.

The poor medic trying to help nearly got shoved aside because Paddy couldn’t stand how slowly everyone moved.

“Careful,” you hissed as he pressed bandages down.

“I am being careful.”

“You’re crushing my ribs.”

“Good. Means you’re alive.” His hands were shaking.

That frightened you more than the blood. Paddy Mayne feared almost nothing. But seeing you hurt hollowed him out visibly.

That night, long after everyone slept, you woke to find him sitting outside your tent entrance keeping watch with a cigarette burning between his fingers.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” you murmured.

“So are you.”

“You guarding me now?”

“Someone has to.”

You smiled sleepily. “From what?”

His eyes lifted to yours through the dark.

“Everything.”

And there it was.

Not through words. Paddy was never good at confessions. His feelings showed in the little things — in the way he protected, annoyed, and always stayed close.

But suddenly all the small things connected together so clearly it almost hurt.

The tea.

The blanket.

The constant presence.

The way he looked for you first after every mission.

The way his anger sharpened whenever someone upset you.

The way his entire body softened — almost imperceptibly — when you smiled at him.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Paddy frowned immediately. “What?”

You shook your head, unable to stop smiling.

For once, the infamous madman looked uncertain, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You stepped closer until your hand rested against his jaw, rough with stubble.

And just like every other time you touched him, he went perfectly still.

Only this time you felt the slight lean of his body following yours.

Wanting closer.

Always wanting closer.

“You really don’t know,” you said softly.

His brows furrowed. “Know what?”

From somewhere across camp came the muffled sound of Johnny Cooper laughing himself sick.

Paddy looked instantly murderous.

You laughed too, and his attention snapped helplessly back to you again — like it always did.

Like it always would.

Weeks passed, and somehow it only became worse.

Or better.

Depending on who you asked.

To the rest of the camp, Paddy Mayne had become painfully obvious.

To Paddy himself, apparently nothing at all had changed.

He hovered constantly now.

Not in a suffocating way.

Just… there.

If you walked across camp, eventually you’d notice Paddy moving somewhere nearby carrying equipment he absolutely did not need to carry himself.

If conversations lasted too long with strangers, he appeared without warning beside you, silent and looming like an angry guard dog pretending not to guard anything.

At night, he somehow always ended up near your fire.

During briefings, your chair mysteriously stayed beside his because anyone attempting to sit there received a look strong enough to reconsider every life decision leading up to that moment.

No one argued with it anymore.

You belonged beside Paddy now.

Apparently camp law.

Then the French paratroopers arrived for joint training.

The camp immediately became louder.

More chaotic.

And infinitely more unbearable for Paddy.

Mostly because the French soldiers flirted like breathing was a competitive sport.

You were standing near the vehicles helping inventory ammunition when one of them — handsome, cocky, and entirely too confident — leaned casually against a truck beside you.

Paddy noticed from fifty yards away.

Everyone knew because he stopped mid-sentence while barking instructions and stared across camp like a wolf scenting blood.

The Frenchman smiled at you easily.

“You work too hard,” he said in accented English.

“So I’ve been told.”

“You should let someone distract you.”

From across camp came the sound of metal bending.

One unfortunate wrench had just snapped clean in Paddy’s hand.

The Frenchman either didn’t notice or possessed a death wish.

“I could show you Marseille after the war,” he continued. “Beautiful city. Better company than this place.”

You laughed softly.

Paddy started walking.

Not fast.

Which was somehow much more frightening.

Every soldier nearby immediately found reasons to vacate the area.

The Frenchman was still smiling when Paddy stopped beside you.

Silence.

Heavy silence.

The kind before explosions.

Paddy looked at the man.

Then at where he leaned against your truck.

Then back at him, “What are you doing?”

The Frenchman straightened slightly. “Talking.”

“I can see that.”

Another pause. You could practically hear everyone around camp pretending not to listen.

Paddy’s jaw flexed once, then he smiled. That was terrifying.

“Excellent,” he said calmly. “You can demonstrate endurance for the others.”

The Frenchman blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

By evening, the poor man stood in the center of camp holding full gear under the blazing sun while Paddy paced around him like an executioner.

“Twenty-four hours,” Paddy announced.

Several SAS men immediately looked away to hide their expressions. The French soldiers appeared deeply alarmed.

The punished man sputtered, “For what offense?”

“Testing strength and discipline,” Paddy replied smoothly.

Johnny Cooper nearly inhaled his cigarette trying not to laugh. Because everyone knew.

Everyone.

The punishment had absolutely nothing to do with endurance.

It had everything to do with the fact that the man smiled at you for too long.

You found Paddy later near the supply tent cleaning a rifle with violent concentration.

“You’re impossible,” you informed him.

Without looking up, he muttered, “Discipline matters.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“You sentenced a man to stand in the middle of camp because he flirted with me.”

“He disrupted training.”

“He asked me to visit Marseille.”

The cleaning rag stopped moving.

Slowly, Paddy lifted his head.

Something dark and possessive flickered across his face before he buried it again beneath irritation.

“You’re not going to Marseille.”

You folded your arms. “And why exactly not?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s a terrible idea.”

“You’ve never even been there.”

“Don’t need to.”

You stared at him for a long moment before realization bloomed warm in your chest again.

God.

He truly had no idea what he was doing.

Paddy Mayne — terrifying, reckless, unstoppable Paddy Mayne — was jealous.

Hopelessly jealous.

And handling it with all the emotional grace of a cornered bear.

You stepped closer.

Immediately his attention shifted fully toward you like always, every sharp edge in him redirecting.

“You know,” you said carefully, “most people just say they’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Right.”

“I’m not.”

“You punished a man for speaking to me.”

“He was French.”

You burst into laughter. For one brief second, Paddy looked offended by your amusement. Then his expression softened despite himself — that rare, helpless softness only you ever seemed to pull from him.

And there it was again.

That tiny unconscious lean toward you.

Wanting closer before he even realized he was moving.

Behind you, Johnny passed by carrying supplies and muttered to another soldier, loud enough to hear:

“Five quid says he kills the next man who smiles at her.”

Paddy glared instantly. The other men scattered immediately.

You were still laughing when Paddy muttered under his breath, almost grumbling to himself:

“They’re all idiots.” But his eyes stayed on you the entire time.

Warm.

Protective.

Completely gone for you without even realizing it.

The news spread through camp in less than an hour.

You were leaving for a month.

Not permanently. Just temporary leave — paperwork, family matters, things that needed handling away from camp.

Still.

The reaction was immediate. Just not from the person everyone expected, because Paddy Mayne did not come near you afterward.

At all.

No hovering.

No appearing beside you during meals.

No extra tea waiting at your place.

No silently sitting nearby while you worked.

Nothing.

And somehow that was infinitely worse.

The first day after the announcement, he doubled training hours.

The second day, three men nearly collapsed during drills because Paddy refused to let anyone stop running.

By the third day, the entire camp looked exhausted and deeply afraid.

“Again!” Paddy barked across the training field.

The men groaned. “We already did this course twice!”

“Then do it better the third time!”

One poor recruit muttered under his breath, “He’s gone completely insane.”

Johnny Cooper wiped sweat from his face and answered flatly, “No, he’s upset.”

“That’s upset?”

“That’s heartbreak with military authority.”

Across the field, Paddy shouted another order loud enough to shake the tents.

Everyone flinched instinctively.

You watched it happen from a distance for two days before finally cornering Johnny near the motor pool.

“He’s avoiding me.”

Johnny stared at you like you’d just discovered fire, “Yes.”

“He hasn’t spoken more than three words to me.”

“Yes.”

“He looks angry every time I walk into a room.”

Johnny snorted. “That’s because you’re leaving for a month.”

“It’s one month, not death.”

“Tell him that.”

You glanced toward the training field where Paddy was currently tearing apart a group of soldiers for standing incorrectly.

“He’s going to kill someone.”

Johnny lit a cigarette calmly. “Probably.” Then he leaned closer, “You know he’s miserable, right?”

You looked away.

Because yes.

You did know.

Paddy wasn’t angry you were leaving.

He was angry because he didn’t know how to handle you leaving. So instead he turned himself into a weapon again.

Sharp edges.

Raised voice.

Distance.

As if avoiding you would somehow make the whole thing easier.

It clearly wasn’t working.

Three days before your departure, David Stirling finally intervened.

You found him outside headquarters smoking lazily while the sounds of Paddy screaming at recruits echoed across camp.

Stirling looked profoundly tired.

“You planning to do something about that?” he asked casually.

You followed his gaze.

Paddy was currently making fully trained soldiers crawl through sand for reasons no one understood.

“He seems busy.”

“He’s been unbearable for a week.”

“He’s always unbearable.”

“Not like this.”

Another barked order carried through camp.

Several men immediately started running.

Stirling sighed heavily. “He nearly put a Frenchman through a wall this morning because the man asked where you were.”

You blinked. “What?”

“He said the question irritated him.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“No,” Stirling agreed, “but neither does Paddy whenever you’re involved.”

You tried not to smile.

Failed completely.

Stirling noticed immediately.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you know too.”

“Know what?”

“That the man’s hopelessly in love with you.”

The words hit harder hearing them spoken aloud,not because they surprised you anymore -but because suddenly everything felt real.

The tea.

The hovering.

The jealousy.

The constant need to stay close.

The way Paddy looked at you like losing sight of you for too long physically bothered him.

And now this.

This miserable, furious unraveling because you were leaving temporarily.

You looked back toward the field quietly. Paddy was pacing in front of the soldiers, sleeves rolled to his elbows, barking instructions with enough force to terrify everyone within hearing distance.

But underneath the anger he looked exhausted.

Restless.

Like something important had already gone missing.

Stirling spoke again, softer this time.

“Go talk to him before he declares war on the entire camp.”

You found Paddy alone that evening behind the supply tents.

For once, he didn’t notice you immediately.

He sat on an overturned crate cleaning mud from his boots with violent concentration, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

The closer you got, the more obvious the tension became.

His shoulders were tight.

Jaw clenched.

Exhaustion written into every line of him.

“You’re terrifying the recruits,” you said gently.

Without looking up, he answered flatly, “Good.”

“That French paratrooper looked close to tears today.”

“He’ll survive.”

“You made one man run until he vomited.”

“He stopped eventually.”

You folded your arms. “Paddy.”

Finally, he looked at you. And God.

That was worse.

Because there was anger there, yes — but buried beneath it was something raw enough to ache.

“You should be packing,” he muttered.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“No need.”

“There is actually.”

He stood abruptly then, tossing the rag aside, “I’m busy.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I have not.”

“You barely look at me anymore.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“You haven’t sat with me at meals all week.”

“That’s because people eat slower when ye talk.”

Despite everything, laughter nearly escaped you. Paddy looked irritated immediately, “This is serious.”

“I know it is.”

“No, ye don’t.” The words came out sharper than intended.

Silence followed.

Paddy dragged a hand across his face roughly, already looking regretful.

You stepped closer carefully, “What’s going on with you?”

His jaw tightened again, “Nothing.”

“Paddy.”

Still nothing.

Then finally, quietly, “Ye’re leaving.” The words sounded wrong coming from him. Too restrained. Too careful.

“As if I’m never coming back,” you said softly.

“You’ll be gone a month.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a long time.”

There it was.

Not anger.

Not really.

Just the miserable truth of it.

A month without seeing you.

Without hearing you laugh nearby.

Without unconsciously checking every room for your presence.

Without the closeness he’d become dependent on before he even realized it was happening.

And suddenly the distance he’d been keeping made sense.

Paddy wasn’t avoiding you because he didn’t care.

He was avoiding you because he cared far too much.

“You could’ve just said that,” you murmured.

He gave a short humorless laugh, “Not exactly good at this sort of thing.”

“No,” you agreed gently, “you really aren’t.”

That finally pulled the faintest smile from him. You moved closer until you stood directly in front of him. Immediately his body softened on instinct alone. Always unconsciously yielding toward you.

“I’ll come back,” you promised quietly.

Paddy looked at you for a long moment like he was trying to memorize your face already.

Then, almost reluctantly, he admitted, “Camp’s gonna be bloody miserable without ye.”

The morning of your departure arrived too quickly. The entire camp felt strange because of it.

Quieter.

Uneasy.

Even the men who usually joked through everything seemed careful around you, as though everyone understood something important was shifting.

Bags sat near the transport truck waiting to leave.

A few soldiers gathered nearby to say goodbye one by one.

Cooper shook your hand dramatically. “If he kills us all while you’re gone, I hope you feel guilty.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Doubtful.”

Behind him, another man muttered, “Training’s already become a war crime.”

Several others nodded immediately. Across camp, Paddy Mayne stood near the vehicles with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

Just watching everything with that heavy, unreadable expression he wore whenever emotions got too close to the surface.

And because Paddy was staring holes through every man within range, nobody dared hug you goodbye.

One recruit looked like he considered it briefly before seeing Paddy’s face and immediately reconsidering every decision he’d ever made.

Johnny leaned toward you quietly, “See? Guard dog.”

“I heard that,” Paddy called without moving.

Johnny raised both hands. “Terrifying hearing too.”

You smiled despite yourself. But your eyes kept drifting back toward Paddy.

Because even from a distance you could see it — the tension in him.

Like he’d barely slept. Like this was costing him more than he wanted anyone to know.

Eventually the driver called that it was time. The camp shifted uneasily. You said your final goodbyes, then turned toward Paddy. Instantly the entire camp went silent.

Several men actually stopped moving to watch. Paddy noticed too.

His expression darkened immediately, “What’re ye all starin’ at?” he snapped.

Nobody answered. You walked toward him slowly. And for the first time all morning, he seemed uncertain.

Not afraid.

Paddy Mayne feared nothing.

But uncertain? Yes.

Because you stopped directly in front of him, close enough to smell cigarette smoke and cold morning air clinging to his jacket.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then quietly, you said, “Goodbye, Paddy.”

His jaw tightened slightly.

He gave a single nod, “Safe travels.”

That was it. Just those two painfully restrained words.

You stared at him for another second before finally turning away toward the truck.

Behind you, camp slowly started breathing again. Then you stopped.

Turned back around.

And before Paddy could even process what you were doing, you stepped forward, grabbed lightly onto the front of his jacket, and pressed a kiss against his cheek.

The entire camp collectively lost its mind.

Someone choked.

Paddy froze completely.

Absolutely motionless.

You pulled back just enough to smile at him softly, “I’ll be back in a week.”

Not a month.

A week.

Because somewhere along the way you’d quietly shortened the trip after seeing what the original plan had done to him.

For one stunned second, Paddy just stared at you. The rough, terrifying man who could bark orders at soldiers without blinking now looked genuinely speechless.

A faint flush crept across his cheek beneath the dust and stubble where you’d kissed him.

And God.

The entire camp noticed. Johnny whispered loudly, “Holy shit.”

Paddy still hadn’t moved. Hadn’t breathed, maybe. You smiled once more before finally climbing into the truck.

The engine roared to life.

Men stepped aside as the vehicle started rolling forward through camp.

Paddy finally moved then, taking one unconscious step after the truck before stopping himself.

Like every instinct in him wanted to follow.

You watched him from the back of the truck, heart pounding harder the farther away he got.

Then suddenly, before you could lose your nerve, you stood up.

“Oi!” you shouted across camp.

The truck driver nearly swerved.

Every head turned toward you instantly.

Even Paddy looked startled.

And before anyone could stop you, you yelled loud enough for the entire bloody camp to hear:

“I KNOW YOU LOVE ME, PADDY MAYNE!”

Dead silence.

Absolute, stunned silence.

Paddy looked like you’d shot him.

“And I LOVE YOU TOO!”

For one impossible second, nobody moved.

Then the camp exploded.

Cheering.

Whistling.

Johnny Cooper outright collapsed against another soldier laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

One of the French paratroopers yelled, “ABOUT TIME!”

Even David Stirling was laughing openly now. And in the middle of all of it stood Paddy.

Frozen.

Completely, utterly stunned.

His face had gone red clear to the ears beneath the dirt and sunburn.

The infamous madman who could terrify entire camps with one glare now looked absolutely wrecked by six simple words.

You loved him too.

Slowly — almost helplessly — Paddy smiled.

Not the tiny twitch everyone else got.

Not the dangerous grin before a fight.

A real one.

Wide.

Soft.

So unbearably happy it nearly didn’t look like him at all.

The camp lost its mind even harder after that.

Johnny screamed, “HE’S SMILING NOW? CHRIST, WE’LL NEVER HEAR THE END OF THIS!”

Paddy immediately grabbed the nearest object and hurled it at him without looking.

Johnny barely dodged it.

You were still laughing as the truck finally carried you out of camp.

And the very last thing you saw before disappearing down the road was Paddy standing there watching you leave with that impossible smile still on his face. END OF PART ONE

a/n: okay, it’s finally here. i know a lot of you have been waiting for this series, and i’m sorry for the delay — i completely forgot to create the taglist because i’ve spent the past week editing this over and over again. paddy mayne had me fighting for my life. thank you for your patience, and i hope you enjoy this one 🤍

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