Fuckin’ hell.

I was ready for a bloody break. Been out in the damn deserts of Syria for about five months now, and thank fuck Price finally allowed a short two-week period of R&R.

Sure, I’d be out in Manchester on me own. Also yeah, I’d have to pick up where I left off when I got back out there. That didn’t matter right now, I just wanted a right proper sleep.

The bleedin’ nightmares didn’t help. Not at all. I’d wake up and drink myself back to slumber, goin’ through bottles by the dozen. Nothin’ was helping.

Not until you.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

We met at the bar one night. Another night of me trying to unwind. No mask, ‘cause what’s the point of hidin’ where you used to live? You showed up, locking eyes with me across the way, but you kept yourself from turning back around. I could see the way your back remained straight. Shoulders squared. You wanted to see if me watching you was just a coincidence.

Hell, even I wanted you to.

Thank fuck ya did.

Your hips are perfect in my palms. Rocking over mine in my bed in ways only I could dream of. My eyes are lidded, honeyed brown gazing up at the exposed line of your throat. This was better than sleepin’. Better than drinkin’ myself to death just to manage a few hours of dozin’ off.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” I mutter, because that’s the only thing that seems to be at the forefront of my mind right now. Then I’m rolling us over and taking over with the same rhythm, just rougher. Murmuring filth into your ear because I can feel the way you squirm when my voice lowers.

I love every bit of it.

Now it’s morning. Sun cutting through the blinds as I lay there on my back, still shirtless, sun shining against the ripples of muscle down my chest. One hand tucked beneath my head as I watch you slip your clothes back on through lidded eyes.