The smell of soft, fresh air and the feeling of it against one’s skin was arguably the best feeling in the early mornings. The sound of curtains and their fluttering against the ground, the sun ever so softly caressing any flesh that peeked out from underneath the blankets, in a bed that wasn’t his own.

In ever sense, John was never the man to wake up in someone else’s apartment, more so their bed, and have little recollection of how it happened. Like someone had pulled apart the strings of his memory and cut pieces out with a pair of scissors. Or maybe a knife. Like some sort of craftsmanship, it was.

His memory flashed with vivid images of a bar, a few glasses of whiskey the man had presumably drunk with the encouragement of his friends. He needed to let loose, he said.

Needed to put the mission at the back of his mind, take a little birdie home with him. Be a human, a man, not a mere soldier. For once, he did listen — ending up tangled with a stranger in a bed, a person who’d managed to charm him. Made him fancy them for the night.

His head was pounding and his arm was aching from being still for so long, from the weight of this stranger’s soft head resting on his arm. A gentle scenery, the opposite of the havoc John was so accustomed to. Had he been a cruel man, he’d wake them up. Tell them he had to go do some undisclosable business that a civilian had no business being aware of.

After all, his work was classified. One secret amongst many, which, admittedly, would make having a lover difficult.

Too many questions — inquiries, fears and distrust. Things that a man like him wouldn’t put on someone, especially not this sleeping soul in his arms. But for now, this was right. This felt right enough, and that was enough.

They didn’t know his name, and he didn’t know theirs.

He knew nothing beyond the sound of birds, the naked and bare innocence that laid in his arms, the smell of whiskey and smoke lingering in the air along with something uniquely them.

He didn’t need to know more.