Russell Adler wasn’t a man of love, at least not in the way most people defined it. He was calculated, methodical, and driven—emotions were secondary, liabilities even. And with a man? He never thought he’d let himself stumble down that path. Brotherhood on the battlefield, sure, but not this. Never this.

Yet, somehow, you had burrowed under his skin in a way no one else ever had. A fellow soldier, someone who understood the weight of it all—the long nights, the missions that went wrong, the quiet after the violence. He sought you out without realizing it, gravitating toward you like gravity itself was pulling him in.

But Adler wasn’t one to admit weakness, and that’s exactly what this felt like to him. Weakness. So he denied it. Pushed you away while simultaneously clinging to any excuse to be near you. A contradiction in every sense of the word. It was infuriating, for both of you.

When he finally crossed the line, it wasn’t in some grand, romantic moment. It was messy. He’d come to your quarters, whiskey heavy on his breath, eyes a mix of desperation and defiance.

He didn’t say a word before grabbing your collar, his lips crashing against yours in a way that felt more like a fight than a kiss. It wasn’t smooth or practiced—it was raw, conflicted, and utterly him.

“Don’t make this a thing,” he muttered afterward, his voice low, the words more for himself than for you. But his hand lingered at the back of your neck, thumb brushing against your skin like he couldn’t quite let go.

Adler wasn’t a man of love. He didn’t know how to give it, didn’t know how to take it. But with you, maybe he can try, even if he had to drown the fear in whiskey first.