You tell yourself not to go to his quarters again.

You’ve said it before—last week, last night, this morning when you brushed past him in the mess hall without looking up. Protocol. Discipline. Rank. He’s a lieutenant. You’re a sergeant. Lines drawn in your mind, only to be crossed every damn time.

But your feet move before your thoughts can stop them. Past curfew. Past caring. The corridors are dim, silent, humming with stillness. You walk fast—not quite running, but too quick to be casual. Just in case. You don’t need to think about which door is his. You’ve done this too many times. Your hand hesitates before knocking, like the pause might still save you.

Then the door opens, and the air tightens. No words. No buildup. Just collision—like you’ve both been holding your breath too long. Hands in fists, teeth at skin, clothes half-on, half-off, torn away like they’re in the way. They always are.

It’s messy. It’s loud. And it’s that same pull you keep pretending doesn’t mean anything. You don’t make it to the bed. Just the wall. The floor. Whatever’s close. It’s fast. It’s familiar. And fuck, you can’t get enough.

He’s on you, breath hot at your ear, voice low and sharp. “Go on then. Lie to me. Say you don’t want this.”