Chapter Text
You didn’t see the punch.
Didn’t see the bottle. Or the man. Or the exact moment the chair flew across the courtyard and shattered against the mess wall. But everyone else did apparently. Forty soldiers and a handful of their wives. All gathered in that echoey little courtyard behind HQ. The kind of place built for gossip and shade, not grief.
They said he threw the drink first. Didn’t even shout. He just launched it at the tiles like he was trying to drown the sun. Then came the chair. Then came the fists. Then came the silence, thick and stifling, the kind that only ever follows violence or death. Maybe both.
He wasn’t embarrassed, not even a little. They said he just stood there with blood on his knuckles and a cut on his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like the war owed him an explanation.
He’d gotten the letter first from home. A plain envelope, no warning, no softness in the wording. Just the facts:
Your father has died. The funeral is on the 10th. The family would like you home, if possible.
He brought it to HQ. Straightened his shirt. Probably rehearsed the request in his head more times than he’d admit. And they said no.
No . Not enough time. Not enough transport. Not important enough. And that was that. His Da was going into the ground, and all Mayne got was a line in a letter and a closed door. He didn’t take it well. Which was fair, considering.
By the time they hauled him away, his shirt was bloodstained and someone else’s tooth was on the floor.
Still, he didn’t look sorry. Just furious. Grief-struck. Grief-struck and furious, which is a worse combination than most soldiers know how to deal with.
They threw him in military prison with no warning, no friend at his side, and no time to sober up or come down or breathe. Instead, they gave him a cell, a few bruises for ceremony, and no one saying his name except to spit it through the bars. Paddy Mayne — war hero, lunatic, disgrace, pick one. He’d been all three before breakfast.
By the time word got to you, he’d already been in for a day and a half. Cut off and alone. You found him the day after.
He was crouched near the gardens, hunched like something too heavy was hanging from his ribs. Black eye blooming down one cheekbone. Split lip. Dried blood at his nose, already crusted. He looked up when he heard you, but not like he was surprised. More like he’d been waiting.
His voice was hoarse. “Save the lecture.”
“I’m here to see if you’re alive.”
He scoffed. “Bad news, then.”
He didn’t meet your eyes. Just kept clenching and unclenching his fists like he hadn’t figured out whether to swing again or not. Like some part of him was still in that courtyard, surrounded by gawking strangers, holding a broken glass and the weight of a father he didn’t get to bury. When you sat beside him, he didn’t move.
“They said you got a letter,” you said.
He gave a short laugh. No humour in it. “Aye. No ‘sorry’ , no ‘ regret to inform you ’. Just he’s dead. Funeral’s the tenth. I’m not to go. That’s it.”
You hated how still he was. This wasn’t desert stillness. This was different. The kind of quiet a man wears after he’s shattered something he loved, or been told he couldn’t say goodbye to it.
“You should’ve called me,” you said.
His jaw tensed. “Didn’t want you seeing me like that.”
You looked at him. “You mean like this ?”
He didn’t answer.
After a while, he dragged a hand down his face, fingers catching on the dried blood near his jaw. His voice came scratchy, low. “Bill Stirling showed up.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “Who the hell is that?”
“David’s older brother, apparently. Looks the same, but with less hair and less charm.”
“Didn’t think that was possible.”
“Neither did I. Man’s got a handshake like he’s trying to sell you two war bonds and a bridge.”
That almost made you smile.
He sniffed, leaned back with a wince. “Turned up in the cell, said the regiment’s on the chopping block. SAS might be done for.”
The words hit like sand in the lungs. But you didn’t say anything.
“And then,” he added, more bitter now, “he says I could stop it. Me . Take command. Hold it together.”
He didn’t look at you. Just stared out into the street like the answer might be hiding somewhere there.
“Major Robert Blair Mayne,” he muttered. “Christ. Can you imagine that shite?”
You didn’t answer. Let the silence be what it needed to be.
He didn’t cry. Didn’t shout. But you could see it, the grief curling behind his teeth, flinching in his fists. He looked like a man who’d fought every war but this one. He didn’t look at you, but you watched his jaw work. Slow and clenched. And you didn’t touch him. Not yet. You just sat beside him and tried not to fall apart.
“Do you want to talk about him?” You asked.
“No.” He said it too fast. Too flat. Like he’d rehearsed it.
“I mean it,” you said, quiet. “You can.”
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “What for? He’s in the ground. Talking won’t dig him out.”
“No. But it might make breathing easier.”
He leaned forward on his knees, elbows on thighs, hands clasped like he might snap them in half. Eyes on the dirt like it owed him an apology.
“He was strict,” he said at last. “Proper hard bastard. Believed in God, discipline, and not hugging your kids.”
He paused.
“Didn’t stop me turning out soft. Or angry. Or full of drink.” The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile, not really, just something his face remembered how to do. “He wanted clean-cut sons. Officers. Didn’t get that.”
His voice rasped.
“Got me instead.”
You didn’t speak. Just let it sit. Let it hurt.
“He taught me to box,” he said after a bit, quieter now. “Said it’d teach restraint. Bollocks, that. All it taught me was how to hit without tearing up.”
His voice cracked, sharp and fast. He swallowed hard. Jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him from shaking apart.
“When I was small, I used to stand like him. Try to match the voice. His walk. Used to hope he’d look at me like I was worth something.” He sniffed. Looked away. “Da never flinched. Even when he was wrong. I hated that. I loved it too.”
“Maybe you are like him,” you said gently.
He turned slightly, just enough to side-eye you. “Then God help us all,” he muttered.
The air around you felt heavy then. Not just with Cairo heat, but with grief. Old and new. Unnamed.
You wanted to touch him. Rest a hand on his shoulder. Let him know he wasn’t alone. But you didn’t. He was still coiled. Still brimming with rage and sorrow and something older than both. You don’t touch a man in the middle of that. Not unless you want to be cut open too.
So you just sat there. Close. Still. And waited. Because sometimes the only thing left to do is to not run.
It’d been hours by then. Long enough for the sun to soften, for the Cairo streets to dull into orange and ash. You didn’t say where you were both going, just started walking. At some point you picked up a bottle. Something bitter. He carried it like a child.
And somehow, the two of you ended up at yours.
It was late afternoon. The light came in like it was sneaking, slipping through the slatted shutters and drawing lines across the dusty floorboards. You could hear Cairo outside if you listened for it. Car horns, distant hawkers, some poor bastard chasing a goat. But the flat held its own kind of hush.
Minimal. That was one word for it. Sparse was another. You hadn’t been expecting company, and the place made that obvious. Littered with half-unpacked crates, a kettle with no matching cups, books stacked like barricades along the walls. Nothing on the shelves but an empty ashtray and a cracked photograph frame you hadn’t bothered to fill. It wasn’t lived in. It was tolerated, more like.
The sofa was still wrapped in plastic. You’d meant to cut it open, eventually. But Cairo made it easy to forget. Or avoid.
And you were nervous. Maybe not visibly, not the kind you’d write home about, but it was definitely there. In the way you wiped your hands on your trousers before opening the door. In how you spoke a little too casually, or moved a little too fast. You didn’t do visitors. Especially not him.
Paddy stepped in like he was scoping the place out.
He stopped near the doorway, squinting. “Christ. This where you live or stash corpses?”
You crossed your arms. “Sit.”
He didn’t. His eyes swept the place; the unlit lamp, the unwashed cup on the sill, the faint smear of oil near the kettle where you’d tried and failed to fix it. His mouth twitched. “Did the decorator off himself halfway through, then?”
“You should see the decorator,” you said. “He’s the one on the sofa.”
He turned, gave the sofa a proper look. Plastic gleaming under the Cairo light, untouched. He stepped toward it, tapped it with a knuckle like it might hiss at him. “You’ve been back how long?”
“Three weeks.”
“And you’ve just been looking at this thing like it’s a wild animal?”
“I didn’t say I haven’t sat on it,” you said, grabbing the bottle. “I said I haven’t unwrapped it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You keeping it a virgin? Outta guilt?”
“It’s clean,” you muttered. “Unlike some people.”
“Right.” He gave a scoff. Lowered himself onto it slowly. The plastic creaked. He settled in with a grunt. “Comfort’s a mortal sin now, is it?”
You poured two drinks into chipped mugs. Cheap stuff. He took the one you handed him, fingers brushing yours.
He took a sip and winced.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “That’s fucking offensive.”
“Should match the company, then.”
That got a grin out of him, one of the rare ones. Not sweet, not soft. Just teeth and weariness and something too tired to fake charm. He raised the mug like a salute. “Fair enough.”
The silence stretched. But it wasn't awkward, more like charged. Like you were both sitting on a live wire.
Outside, the sun dipped lower. The lines of light on the floor turned gold. You pretended not to watch him. He didn’t pretend at all.
His left eye was still swollen. Purple and bloated under the brow like a plum. There was dried blood crusted near his nostril, half-wiped, like someone had tried to clean him up and got bored halfway through. And he kept wincing just slightly every time he moved his jaw.
“You look like hell,” you said quietly.
He raised the mug and clinked it against nothing. “I’m on theme then. Cheers.”
You didn’t laugh. Just stood there, looking at him, at the thick, uneven stubble shadowing his jaw, darker now with grime and dried sweat. It had grown wild in the past few days, coarser and messier than you’d seen on him before. His moustache curled a bit at the edges. He looked like he belonged in a trench or on a wanted poster.
You moved to the drawer and pulled out the old safety razor you barely used. The cracked mirror from the bottom shelf. A clean rag. Laid them on the table like a truce. Or a dare.
He followed your hands and raised a brow.
“Bit forward,” he said, voice scratchy. “Should at least buy me dinner first.”
“You’re starting to look like a disgraced prophet.”
He ran a finger along his jaw, probably testing how close he was to feral. “Suppose I’ve got a few commandments to break.”
“Lean back.”
“Hmm.” His eyes narrowed, half amused, half suspicious. “Try not to go for the jugular.”
“Try me.”
That made him grunt. But he obeyed anyway, tilted his head back against the wall, mug still in one hand, the other resting limply on his knee. And for once, he didn’t fight it.
You pulled a chair in front of him and straddled it backward, elbows resting on the backrest. You soaked the cloth in warm water, wrung it out, then pressed it gently to his jaw.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t breathe, either.
The scent of shaving soap filled the air. It was sharp, clean, almost medicinal. You lathered it with your fingers, slow and deliberate. Each touch a careful line across the planes of his face; jaw, chin, throat. He was warm. Tense. You could feel the nerves twitch under his skin, just beneath the surface.
He exhaled through his nose. “Strange,” he muttered.
“What is?”
“Letting someone touch my face without wanting to deck them.”
You just kept focusing on the lather. Spread it evenly, rhythmically. Like tuning an engine, not touching a man.
“You’ve done this before,” he said, voice lower now.
"What, you think yours is the first chin I’ve met?" you murmured.
He made a noise, something between a grunt and a huffed laugh. You reached for the razor. Held his chin with one hand, kept it steady. He let you.
Razor. Swipe. Wipe. Again. Slow. Careful. The blade glided under his cheekbone with a hiss of foam and stubble.
But you could feel his eyes on you now. Tracking. Watching every movement, every breath. He hadn’t blinked since you touched him.
“You know,” he said, “you could’ve left the bruises. Add a bit of charm.”
“You’re not charming.”
“Not even a little?”
You didn’t look up. “You’re a busted knuckle with eyebrows.”
He grinned. You could hear it in the tilt of his voice. “Used to have a barber back home. Fell asleep mid-trim once.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Aye. Woke up with half a moustache. Thought I was cursed.”
You snorted. Swiped the razor under his chin.
“I shaved the rest off in protest. Looked like bollocks for a month.”
“You are a bollocks.”
“And yet,” he said, lifting the mug again with that lazy defiance, “you brought me home.”
His voice was quiet now. Less cocky. More like something else was tugging underneath the surface. You didn’t answer. Just steadied his face again, dragging the razor down his throat with surgical calm. Your palm rested against the base of his neck, fingers splayed.
That’s when he gulped. Just a twitch. Barely there. But you saw it. Felt it.
Your hand slowed. But you said nothing. Neither did he.
Only the sound of the blade, the low hiss of foam. The warmth of his breath brushing your wrist. And the late sun casting golden slats across the floor, making the plastic on the couch gleam like it had just been unwrapped. Like everything had.
When you finished, you pushed his hair back, smoothing it with damp fingers. A few errant strands curled over his forehead. You fixed those too. Your hands landed on either side of his face. You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe to check your work, maybe because you wanted to keep touching him. Your thumbs hovered just under his cheekbones, near the fresh skin you’d just shaved clean. He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“You could make a living outta this,” he said. “War ends, set up a chair in the city.”
“I’ll put you in the window,” you said. “To scare children away.”
He smiled. But it was softer now. Something flickered in his eyes, not sharp, not drunk, not wounded. Just tired. Unarmoured.
You dropped your hands.
And that’s when he exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath since you touched him. Maybe longer.
The plastic-wrapped sofa groaned when you sat back down beside him, a half-meter of heat between you. His fingers tapped the mug again. Your knees were drawn up slightly, one brushing his leg when you shifted.
“We shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“You mean the war, or the room?”
“Aye.”
You let out a dry laugh. “That clears things up.”
You didn’t speak for a while. And he just sat there, quiet. The bottle half-empty between you.
“I can’t seem to get it right, no matter what I do.” you said finally.
His gaze didn’t drop. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”
“I shouldn’t be. I’m not even — I don’t belong anywhere. I’m not in the regiment. I’m not—”
“You’re mine .”
It slipped out so fast, you thought you misheard him. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t take it back. He just kept watching you.
Your throat went tight. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he said. “But it’s true.”
You sat back, arms crossed. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
“Christ,” he muttered. “If I didn’t mean it, I’d have fucked off weeks ago.”
You looked down. His knuckles were resting on his thigh. Your fingers reached — not deliberately, but not accidentally either. They hovered just an inch away. He leaned forward, slow. Hesitating again. Always hesitating.
He studied your face. “You mad at me?”
“No.”
He leaned in. A breath closer. Enough that you felt the heat off his skin. “You sure?”
“No,” you said. “Not really.”
“Thought so,” he muttered.
He didn’t kiss you then. But he didn’t lean away either.
“What are we doing?” You asked.
He didn’t blink. “Now or in general?”
“Pick one.”
“Right now,” he said, “I’m in someone's flat who keeps a sofa like a body bag and puts her fingers in my hair like it’s not a sin.”
“And in general?”
He exhaled. “Thinking too much about someone who’s a bad idea.”
“Same.”
He looked at you with the kind of ache you don’t speak of. One of his hands reached out, calloused and careful, and landed on your hip. The other followed a beat later. His grip wasn’t rough. Like he’d done this before in a dream and was afraid to wake you. He tugged gently and you froze. Not from fear, just confusion. Heat blooming in your chest, your throat dry.
“What is this?” You whispered, already knowing.
His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Come here.”
And God , your heart. It started kicking like it was trying to outrun the rest of you. You didn’t know what you expected, didn’t know what you thought this was. But still, you moved.
You let him guide you. Let him pull you onto his lap. Your knees straddled his thighs as you sat. His hands didn’t move once you were there. Just rested, warm and wide, against the sides of your waist like they belonged.
Your heart slammed in your ribs. His thumb brushed the inside of your knee. You couldn’t look at him at first. So you looked at his collarbone. His neck. The necklace. The cut on his cheekbone. Then you let your eyes meet his.
You sat like that. Nose to nose. Breath to breath.
His hand moved to your waist. And then, finally, he kissed you.
It was rough, desperate, wrong in all the right ways. The kind of kiss that forgets it wasn’t supposed to happen. His palm cupped your jaw. Your fingers curled into his shirt. You didn’t pull back. You didn’t think. You just breathed him in and whatever this was. Whatever you were.
His hands slid down to your hips, fingers curling, anchoring as you settled on top of him, straddling his lap on the plastic-wrapped sofa. It crackled beneath you, loud and absurd, but you didn’t laugh. You didn’t even hear it yet.
His mouth moved with yours, slow at first, then hungrier. More certain. His hand traced your thigh, rough palm sliding up beneath the hem of your trousers, dragging heat in its wake. The other cupped the back of your neck, thumb brushing along your jawline like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or just hold you still.
You could feel his pulse against your chest, or maybe it was yours. Hard to tell. You were breathing too fast now, your bodies too close to distinguish where one started and the other ended.
His hand slid higher. Under your shirt now. Fingers grazing your stomach, ribs, the side of your torso. Slow, reverent, cautious even in their hunger. He stopped just below your breast, palm splayed out like he was grounding himself there. The other hand still at your neck, thumb now pressing gently into the hollow where your jaw met your throat.
He leaned back just enough to look at you. His eyes scanned your face like it was the first time he’d seen it. “If you knew how long I've wanted this, you'd laugh in my face.” he said, almost laughing to himself.
You didn’t answer him. Instead you leaned in and kissed his neck, greedy, open-mouthed, dragging your lips along the rough skin beneath his ear. He made a sound then. Something half-caught in his throat, and you felt the sharp inhale through his ribs.
Your hands found the hem of his shirt. Tugged. He didn’t ask why. Just raised his arms and let you pull it off. It clung to his shoulders for a second, then gave way, exposing skin gone gold with sun and scarred with the remnants of every place he'd ever fought. His chest rose and fell, slow and steady, but you could feel the restraint in him.
You looked at him. At the lines of his torso from Heraklion. The faint marks from his prison scuffle still fresh. A bruise just above his ribcage bloomed purple-blue, and something about that made your throat tighten. He didn’t say a word. Just watched you watch him.
You reached for the buttons of your shirt. His eyes didn’t leave yours.
You took your time. Not exactly teasing, but definitely deliberate. Letting the silence stretch and settle. One button, then the next. Each one undone felt like surrendering another part of yourself you hadn’t known you’d been guarding.
When you slipped the shirt off, slow and quiet, revealing just your bra beneath, his eyes darkened — not with lust, not only — but something deeper. Raw. Stunned.
“Christ,” he whispered. “You’re—”
You could feel the word in his throat, hovering. You didn’t need him to say it. Not really.
You kissed again. Slower this time, but no less desperate. His mouth moved to your jaw, then down your neck, each kiss rough-edged with restraint. You tilted your head, gave him more space, and he took it without hesitation. He kissed the slope of your collarbone, the top of your bare chest. His mouth trailed lower, slow, deliberate, until it found the thin scar from many nights ago. He kissed it once, softly, before moving on. His lips brushed the swell of your breast through the fabric of your bra, and you felt yourself exhale, sharp and uneven.
You closed your eyes.
The plastic wrap beneath you crackled again. Loud. Stupid. You were half-laughing, half-gasping when he did it again — right as the tip of his nose grazed your skin and the noise squealed underneath.
He huffed a laugh, mouth still on your shoulder. “This fucking thing.”
“It’s your fault,” you murmured. "You move too much."
He snorted, lips dragging along your clavicle. “You like it.”
You shifted again, tangled, and the plastic shrieked like it was trying to report you to HQ. He chuckled low in his throat, that gravelly sound, and you felt it vibrate against your skin.
“Come on,” he muttered. “Somewhere less bloody noisy.”
You barely had time to nod before he moved. Lifted you like it weighed nothing, arms strong beneath your legs and back, then carried you toward the bed. The room tilted and swayed with his steps, but he was steady.
He dropped you onto the mattress, and followed a second later, bracing himself over you.
The bed was small. A single. Too narrow, too warm, too everything. You shifted awkwardly as he laid you down, and muttered, “Sorry. It’s small.”
He looked down at you, half out of breath, eyes dark and steady. “That’s the last thing on my mind right now,” he said, voice rough.
You opened your mouth to answer but lost the thought the moment he kissed you again.
This time was different, hungrier, rougher. He kissed your throat, then lower. Down the curve of your chest, over the fabric of your bra. His hands were everywhere, firm and searching, memorising skin, chasing reactions. He didn’t ask for anything. He just gave; his mouth, his breath, his hands pressed over your ribs, your hips, the bare stretch of your stomach.
You arched into him without thinking.
The mattress creaked. One of you hissed — possibly you. He didn’t stop. He kissed the skin just above your navel. Then looked up. His hair was a mess, his eye still bruised, and you’d never wanted anything more in your life.
“You sure?” he asked, voice rough, hoarse, barely there.
You nodded. Couldn’t speak. Your chest rose and fell too fast, too hard.
He kissed your stomach again. “Say it.”
“I’m sure .”
His lips brushed the inside of your hip, then your thigh, and you stopped thinking altogether. His hands found the waistband of your trousers, thumbs dipping under the fabric like he was asking again, one last silent chance to pull away. You didn’t.
He slid them down slowly, past your hips, your thighs, until they were nothing but discarded cloth on the floor. You shivered. Cairo air warm on your skin, but still you felt bare. Exposed.
Then he kissed you. Your thigh first, the outer curve, then lower. Then the inside, just above your knee. Then higher. You gripped the sheets. Hard.
He didn’t speak. Instead his mouth moved over the most sensitive parts of you. Gentle at first. Then not. His hands dug into your hips, holding you steady as you twitched under him. You tried to be quiet — you really did. But a sound escaped, sharp and guttural, and he didn’t stop. Just breathed against you like he’d been starving for this.
One of your hands clawed at the blanket, the other fumbled blindly until it found his. He reached for you without hesitation. Laced your fingers together and held them tight. His palm was rough, but his grip was steady and grounding. You squeezed and he squeezed back, like you were holding onto something neither of you could name.
He looked up at you once, dark eyes burning, and you thought you might fall apart just from that. Just from the way he looked at you. You were bare now, except for the bra. But you didn’t care. Not anymore. Not when he was worshipping every inch of you like you were holy.
His hand slipped up, slow and reverent. His fingers traced the curve of your side, skimming the band of your bra like a question. You barely nodded. He sat up, still holding your gaze, and reached behind you with one practiced flick. The clasp gave. The straps fell like surrender.
His eyes roamed. Not in a greedy way or a smug way, just quiet. Like he was seeing something he’d waited too long for. Something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
So you pulled him down and kissed him. But this time it was different, because it wasn't just mouths. But your bodies entirely, skin against skin. Your legs wrapped around his hips and he sank into you like gravity had finally won.
He stilled for a second, just one. Like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like he wanted to remember every bit of it. His forehead pressed to yours.
“Christ,” he breathed, voice ragged.
And then movement. A slow, deep rhythm that built and built until you couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t speak. The plastic on the damn sofa had creaked before, but the bed now groaned under you like it couldn’t hold the weight of this either.
His hand tangled in your hair. Yours gripped his back, nails dragging across old scars and fresh bruises. He moved rougher now, but never without care. Every thrust was a question and an answer at once. Every moan from your lips made his breath hitch. Every time you gasped his name, it pulled him deeper into something neither of you could name.
You held him like you meant it. Like the world outside didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t already broken both of you.
And when you came — sharp, breathless, trembling beneath him — he followed with a curse, soft and helpless into the hollow of your throat. Like it was a confession. Like it was a prayer.
He collapsed against you.
For a moment he just stayed there, his forehead against your shoulder, breath hot and uneven against your skin. Then he moved, slowly, like it hurt to let go. He pulled you with him as he shifted onto his back, arms curling around you, holding you close without a word.
It wasn’t the sex. It was the silence afterward. The way his chest rose and fell too fast. The way he buried his face in the hollow of your neck and didn’t move. You felt it in the way his hands gripped you a little too tightly. In the subtle tremor that passed through him, quiet at first, then harder to ignore. And when you realised what it was — what he was doing — your throat tightened. He wasn’t speaking, wasn’t asking. Just coming apart quietly in your arms, tears running down his face.
You stayed there against him, being the only warmth left in the hollow apartment. After a while, his fingers traced the inside of your wrist, where the pulse fluttered against his thumb. He was watching you again. Not like a man who was proud of what had happened. Not like he was ashamed either. Just aware and present.
“I’m still here,” you whispered, though he hadn’t asked.
He didn’t answer. Just pressed his lips to the inside of your wrist and held it there like something sacred. Like it was the only thing that hadn’t gone to ruin.