Chapter 1: One Night with a Soldier
The vinyl booth stuck to the back of Yaa’s thighs every time she shifted. It smelled of decades of spilled beer and cheap cleaner, a scent that somehow matched the feeling in her chest—a hollow, stale regret. In the dim amber glow of the single bulb above their table, her half-empty shot glass of tequila sweated onto the wood.
“He didn’t even send a text, Zoe. Not a ‘happy birthday,’ not a ‘go fuck yourself.’ Nothing.” Yaa’s voice was flat. “Seven years, on and off, and I’m just…nothing.”
Zoe slammed her own shot down, the crack of glass on wood making Yaa flinch. “Good. He’s a waste of your oxygen. Tonight is not about that dickhead. Tonight is about you turning thirty and finally using that spine I know you’ve got buried under all that ‘good girl’ bullshit.” She leaned forward, her dark eyes intense in the low light. “Look around. This is your party. And the rule is: no thinking about Marcus. The only thinking you’re allowed to do is about which hot stranger you’re going to let buy you the next drink.”
Yaa’s eyes drifted across the crowded bar. It was a dive, all right. A “Last Call” neon sign flickered erratically, casting a pink haze over the patrons. Most were blurred into a noisy, laughing mass. She felt invisible, a ghost at her own celebration.
“I don’t know how to do that,” she admitted, toying with a braid that had escaped her updo. “Be that person.”
“You walk over there,” Zoe said, pointing a manicured finger toward the long, scarred mahogany bar. “You make eye contact. You smile. And you say, ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’ It’s biology, Yaa. You’re a beautiful woman. Let the fauna respond.”
As if summoned by Zoe’s theatrics, the crowd near the bar shifted. A man turned, and the space around him seemed to physically open up. He was tall. Not just tall—towering. He had to duck slightly to hear the bartender. Broad shoulders strained against the simple gray cotton of his t-shirt, and his arms, resting on the bar, were corded with muscle that spoke of real, functional strength, not gym vanity. His hair was a short, dusty blonde, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He lifted a glass of amber liquor, his eyes scanning the room with a detached, assessing calm.
And then they landed on her.
Yaa’s breath hitched. His eyes were a sharp blue-gray, like winter sky over slate. They didn’t slide over her; they held. A direct, unnerving hit of attention. She was the one who looked away first, her heart thudding against her ribs.
“Oh, hello,” Zoe purred, following her gaze. “The mountain moved. I think you just found your earthquake, sweetie.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yaa muttered, taking a frantic gulp of her tequila. The burn did nothing to settle her nerves.
When she dared another glance, he was gone from his spot. Her stomach dropped with a stupid, sudden disappointment. But then the shadows beside their booth shifted. He was there, standing at the end of their table, a fresh whiskey rock in one large hand. He looked even bigger up close, a solid wall of a man, but his expression wasn’t aggressive. It was quietly curious.
“I’m interrupting,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, a British accent clipping the words. “But it’s your birthday.” He nodded toward the sagging ‘Happy Birthday’ banner Zoe had taped to the wall behind them hours ago. “Seems wrong to drink alone on your birthday. Can I buy you the next one?”
Zoe kicked Yaa under the table. Hard.
“I… yes. Okay. Thank you,” Yaa managed. Her voice sounded too high.
“Simon,” he said, not offering a hand, just giving her the information.
“Yaa.”
He nodded, as if filing it away. “Yaa. I’ll be right back.”
As he moved toward the bar, Zoe squealed softly. “Jesus. He looks like he could break you in half. In the best way. Do not fuck this up. Rule one: no talking about Marcus. Rule two: no talking about kindergarten. You are not a teacher tonight. You are a woman on her birthday who wants to get laid. Got it?”
When Simon returned, he had two fresh whiskeys. He slid one to Yaa and then looked pointedly at Zoe.
Zoe laughed, grabbing her purse. “Message received, big guy. I’m going to go find some trouble that doesn’t involve cockblocking. You,” she pointed at Yaa, “have fun. Text me tomorrow.” She vanished into the crowd.
Silence settled over the booth, thick and charged. Yaa took a too-big sip of whiskey, the smooth, smoky flavor a contrast to the earlier tequila burn.
“Your friend is… protective,” Simon observed, his eyes tracking Zoe’s exit.
“She’s trying to save me from myself.” The words tumbled out, more honest than she intended.
“From what?”
“From being careful.” She looked up at him, emboldened by the alcohol and the surreal gravity of his presence. “I’ve been careful my whole life. I followed every rule. It got me nowhere. So tonight, I’m not being careful.”
His gaze intensified, roaming over her face, down to the neckline of her simple black dress. “What does ‘not careful’ look like for you, Yaa?”
Her mouth was dry. “It looks like letting a beautiful stranger buy me a drink. It looks like… not asking what he does for a living. Not telling him what I do. Just… being here.”
A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “Just names.”
“Just names,” she confirmed, her pulse roaring in her ears.
“I like those rules,” he said. He leaned back, the booth creaking under his weight. “But I’ll guess anyway. You’re… something creative. A painter. Or you work with your hands. A potter.”
She laughed, the sound genuine and surprised. “God, no. I have the artistic talent of a stapler. You’re… something with all that.” She gestured vaguely at his physique. “A professional athlete. Rugby.”
“Was,” he said, the word brief. “Long time ago. Not anymore.”
“See?” she said, lifting her glass. “The rules are good. We’d already be getting it wrong.”
They talked for hours. Or rather, they played a verbal chess game around the edges of their lives. He guessed she was nurturing, a caretaker. She guessed he was disciplined, used to structure. They were both right and both wrong, circling the truth without ever touching it. The whiskey warmed her from the inside out, and his attention felt like a physical touch—constant, heavy, thrilling.
The bar lights came up, harsh and unforgiving. The spell wasn’t broken, but it was altered.
Simon looked at the emptying room, then back at her. “My hotel is a five-minute walk from here. The rules still apply. Just names. Just tonight.”
This was the cliff edge. Yaa felt the vertigo of it. She saw her future split into two paths: the one where she called a cab, went home to her empty, tidy apartment, and washed off her makeup alone. And this one.
She stood up, her legs slightly unsteady. “Just tonight.”
The walk was a blur of cool night air and the solid, silent presence of him beside her. His hotel room was generic, clean, dimly lit by the city lights filtering through the blinds. The door clicked shut behind them, and the world narrowed to this space.
He didn’t kiss her right away. He stood in front of her, looking down, his face in shadow. “Last chance to be careful,” he murmured.
In answer, she reached for the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head, letting it fall to the floor. She stood before him in just her bra and underwear, her curvy body chocolate in the faint light. She saw his eyes darken, his jaw tighten.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word all reverence and hunger.
Then his hands were on her, and the sheer size of them was shocking. One spanned the entire curve of her waist as he pulled her against him. His mouth crashed down on hers, not gentle, but devastatingly confident. He kissed like he was claiming territory, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting of whiskey and mint. She melted into the kiss, her hands sliding up the impossible hardness of his chest.
He walked her backward until her knees hit the bed. He broke the kiss, his breath hot on her neck. “On your back. Now.”
The command shivered through her. She obeyed, scooting up the mattress. He followed her down, a hovering giant, bracing himself on those massive arms. He took his time looking at her, his gaze a physical caress that made her skin flush. He traced the line of her bra strap with a single rough finger.
“So soft,” he muttered. “Everywhere.”
He unhooked her bra with surprising deftness, tossing it aside. His mouth found her breast, his tongue circling her nipple before he drew it deep into the heat of his mouth. She cried out, arching off the bed, her fingers tangling in his short hair. He sucked, hard, then laved the sting away, alternating between sweet and brutal until she was whimpering.
His hand slid down her stomach, over the lace of her panties. He pressed the heel of his palm against her, and even through the fabric, the pressure was exquisite.
“You’re already wet for me,” he growled, the vibration against her breast making her tremble. “Soaking. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? To be taken apart.”
He hooked his fingers into her panties and dragged them down her legs. Then he settled between her thighs, pushing her legs wider with his knees. The first touch of his tongue was a flat, slow stroke that made her whole body jerk. He didn’t tease for long. He ate her with a focused, relentless intensity, his tongue spearing inside her before flattening against her clit, over and over. His stubble scratched the tender skin of her inner thighs. One of his hands came up to pin her hips to the bed, holding her still for his mouth.
“Simon, please…” she begged, not even knowing what she was asking for.
He lifted his head, his lips glistening. “Please what? Use your words.”
“I need you inside me. Now.”
With a grunt, he shifted, fumbling with his jeans. The sound of his belt buckle clinking was obscenely loud. He kicked his clothes off, and then he was there, naked, fully erect, and the sight of him made her breath stop. He was thick, veined, intimidating. He reached for a condom on the nightstand, sheathed himself quickly.
He didn’t ask if she was ready. He notched the head of his cock at her entrance and pushed in, just an inch. The stretch was immediate, breathtaking. He paused, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his stormy gaze.
“All of me,” he said, and then he sank home in one slow, devastating thrust.
She shouted, a raw, broken sound. He filled her completely, a deep, burning fullness that bordered on pain for a glorious second before it dissolved into pure, mind-numbing pleasure. He stayed there, buried, letting her adjust, his forehead damp against hers.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “You feel… perfect.”
Then he began to move. There was no tentative exploration. He set a deep, pounding rhythm from the start, each thrust pushing the air from her lungs. The bed frame slammed against the wall in a steady, brutal tempo. He wrapped one arm under her lower back, angling her hips to take him even deeper. The other hand fisted in her braids, holding her head still so he could devour her mouth, her neck, her cries.
His words were a filthy, hot stream in her ear. “That’s it, take it. Take all of me. Your tight little cunt is fucking magic. You gonna come for me? Come on this cock. Do it.”
His voice, the feel of him, the relentless friction—it coiled the tension inside her beyond bearing. It shattered with a violence that ripped a sob from her throat. Her body clamped around him, convulsing, blind white pleasure obliterating every thought.
He fucked her through it, his rhythm staggering only slightly as he felt her climax. A few more ragged, desperate thrusts and he followed her over, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his chest as he buried himself to the hilt and pulsed inside her.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. He collapsed beside her, his weight making the mattress dip profoundly. He pulled her into him, her back to his chest, his arm a heavy band across her waist. The heat of him was overwhelming. Within minutes, his breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep.
Yaa lay awake in the dark, the smell of sex and his skin—soap and musk—filling her nose. Her body hummed, every nerve alight. She had done it. She had been reckless.
A cold, sharp clarity pierced the post-coital haze. She had told him no personal details. But on the nightstand, next to his wallet, a small, laminated photo was propped against the lamp base. It had been face down earlier. It must have been knocked over.
In the dim city glow, she could make it out: Simon, looking younger, softer, smiling openly. And in his arms, a little boy with the same dusty blonde hair, grinning toothlessly at the camera.
The hollow feeling returned, sharper now, edged with a panic she didn’t understand. She had wanted a night with no consequences, no past, no future. But the world, it seemed, didn’t work that way. Evidence of a whole life, a real life, sat six inches from her face. She stared at the ceiling, the weight of the stranger’s arm across her, and felt more alone than she ever had in her quiet, careful apartment.
She stared at the ceiling, the weight of the stranger’s arm across her, and felt more alone than she ever had in her quiet, careful apartment.
Sleep, when it came, was thin and fractured. She drifted in a shallow tide of hotel-room darkness, chased by half-formed images of a smiling little boy and a woman’s unseen, accusing face. Simon shifted in his sleep, his arm tightening around her waist, pulling her back against the solid heat of his chest. A possessive, unconscious gesture. It felt like heaven and a trap, all at once.
Dawn arrived as a grim, gray light seeping around the blinds. Yaa woke up bleary-eyed, the taste of whiskey and regret coating her tongue. She had spent the night mostly awake, conjuring up all the scenarios of Simon’s life. A whole family? A wife maybe? Did she just help him cheat? All the worst case scenarios popped up. The photo was still there on the nightstand, now upright. A deliberate placement, or an accident? Her stomach churned.
But god, this man felt good beside her. He was still asleep, his face softer, the harsh lines of discipline relaxed. One of his hands splayed over her bare hip, his thumb resting in the dip of her waist. Her skin burned under the touch.
He woke up slowly. A deep, waking breath that made his chest rise against her back. His voice was a sleep-ravaged rumble right by her ear. “Morning.”
Goosebumps broke out over her skin. Groggy and sexy at the same time. A deadly combination.
“Hi,” she managed, her own voice tight.
She couldn’t do this. The fantasy had cracked open in the night, leaking real, complicated life into the room. She moved, extricating herself from his arm. The cool air hit her skin, a shock. She sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him, clutching the sheet to her chest.
“I should go. I have… things.” The lie was brittle.
The mattress shifted as he propped himself up on an elbow. She could feel his gaze on her naked back. Silence stretched, filled with the distant hum of a ventilation system.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly. He could read her like a book.
“Nothing. It’s fine. Last night was… it was what it was.” She stood up, keeping the sheet wrapped around her, and started gathering her clothes from the floor. Her black dress felt flimsy, cheap.
“Yaa.”
She couldn’t look at him. Her eyes landed on the photograph again. The cheerful, frozen moment felt like an indictment. Her control snapped. She gestured toward it, a sharp, jerky motion. “That. That’s what’s wrong.”
She glanced at him. His eyes widened, flicking from her pained face to the picture. He sat up fully, the sheets pooling at his waist. “Shit. That’s not… let me explain.”
But the panic was a bird flapping in her throat. She’d built this wall for a reason. “No. You don’t have to. I promised I didn’t want details, remember? Names only. Just tonight. Well, it’s morning.” She yanked her dress on over her head, her movements frantic. “So, mission accomplished. Thank you. It was… memorable.”
She was babbling. He watched her, his expression closing down. A shutter falling. He didn’t push it. He shouldn’t be feeling anything for her anyway, right? This was the script. They’d both agreed to it.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, facing away from her, running a hand over his cropped hair. The muscles in his back flexed. A topography of scars she hadn’t noticed last night—a jagged pale line across his shoulder blade, a pucker near his spine—stood out in the gray light. A map of a life she’d refused to learn.
“You should probably get away from me anyway,” he said, his voice low and stripped of all its earlier warmth. It was just a flat statement.
She froze, one arm in her bra strap. “What does that mean?”
He didn’t turn. “It means I’m a bad person. For a lot of reasons. You waking up and running? That’s probably the smartest thing you’ve done in the last twelve hours.”
She stiffened, really not believing it. The man who had been so devastatingly tender even in his roughness, who had watched her with such focused intensity… but how could she trust her feelings? They’d known each other for one night. She was a kindergarten teacher who’d had too many shots and let a giant fuck her brains out. Her judgment was officially suspect.
“Right,” she said, the word hollow. She finished fastening her bra, stepped into her underwear, shoved her feet into her heels. She felt exposed, dressing in front of his stony, turned back. She wanted to ask about the boy’s name. She wanted to ask about the scars.
She said nothing.
“Goodbye, Simon,” she said, her hand on the cool metal of the door handle.
He just nodded once, a sharp, downward cut of his chin. Still not looking at her.
She left the hotel room, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed in her bones. The hallway carpet was garish, the air stale. She walked quickly, her heels sounding too loud, the feeling of his hands still imprinted on her skin.
Alone in the silent room, Simon sighed, a long, weary exhalation. He picked up the photograph, his thumb brushing over his son’s smiling face. “Oh, Ollie,” he murmured.
His phone, charging on the floor, buzzed. He leaned over to pick it up. The screen illuminated, showing a string of text messages.
Nichole: Don’t forget it’s your week.
Nichole: I need him picked up by 10.
Nichole: Simon, answer me.
Nichole: Just be on time. For once.
He dropped the phone onto the mattress as if it had burned him. He stared at the closed door, the empty space where she had just stood. The room still smelled of her—a hint of sweet lotion and sex. He got up, walked to the window, and pulled the cord for the blinds. Harsh morning light flooded in, exposing every dust mote and the bleak emptiness of the parking lot below.
He didn’t see her leave.
He didn’t see her leave.
The silence she left behind was different from the quiet they’d shared. This was hollow. A vacancy. Simon stood at the window until the ghost of her warmth finally faded from his skin, replaced by the stale chill of the air-conditioned room.
He showered, the water scalding. He scrubbed at the smell of sex and bar, but her scent seemed baked into his senses. The memory of her tight, wet heat clenched around him flashed, vivid and unwanted. He turned the water to cold, letting the shock blunt the edge of his hunger. It was a temporary fix.
The drive to Wimbledon was a numb blur. His head throbbed dully. His own flat in Deptford was a box—functional, sparse, a soldier’s quarters. Nichole’s apartment block, paid for primarily by his child support, was all gleaming glass and manicured hedges. Every time he parked his beat-up Jeep next to the resident’s Audis and Teslas, he felt it. The waste. The chasm.
He buzzed her number. The door released with a costly-sounding hum.
She opened the door on the fourth floor, one hand holding her phone to her ear, the other showcasing a fresh, vampire-red manicure. She didn’t look at him. “—no, the tasting menu, obviously. He’s in finance, darling, he’s not taking me to Nando’s.” A brittle laugh. She finally flicked her eyes over Simon, a quick, dismissive sweep from his boots to his tired face. She waved him in with a flick of her wrist.
The apartment was all cold, modern lines and pointless art. It smelled of expensive candle and underlying resentment.
“Daddy!”
Oliver came barreling out of his bedroom, a torpedo in dinosaur pyjamas. He slammed into Simon’s legs, wrapping his small arms around them. The tightness in Simon’s chest cracked open, just a little. He bent, hefting the boy up effortlessly. Oliver was all soft cheeks and wide, serious blue eyes—his eyes.
“Hey, little man. You ready for adventure?”
“I drew a picture!” Oliver wriggled to get down, darted back to the coffee table, and retrieved a sheet of paper. He thrust it up. It was a crayon masterpiece: three stick figures. A large one with a frown (Simon recognized his own perpetually scowling depiction), a smaller one with a triangle dress and yellow scribble for hair (Nichole), and a tiny one in the middle, holding both their hands. Above it, in wobbly letters: FAMLEE.
“It’s us,” Oliver said, his voice brimming with pride.
“It’s brilliant, Ollie. Absolutely top-tier.” Simon’s throat felt tight. He glanced at Nichole. She was still on the phone, examining her nails, utterly disinterested.
Yaa’s panicked eyes flashed in his mind. The assumption. He’d seen it click into place behind her warmth: cheater, liar, bad man. It had been almost charming, her immediate leap to moral outrage. Naive. She seemed like the type to get frazzled over worst case scenarios. He wished, stupidly, he could have shown her this. The picture. See? This is the mess. This is why I’m a bad person. Not because I have a son, but because I brought him into this.
But it didn’t matter. He’d never see her again.
“Go get your shoes, mate. Socks first. You know the drill.”
Oliver scampered off. Nichole finally ended her call. She leaned against the kitchen island, a slim silhouette of calculated leisure.
“So,” she said. “I’m starting a new job. Events management. It’s a huge opportunity.”
Simon said nothing. He started gathering Oliver’s scattered toys into his backpack.
“It means I’ll need you to have him for a bit longer this stretch. Not sure how long yet. Could be a few extra days. Could be a week.”
Simon stopped. He looked at her. “My leave is up in ten days. I go back to base. You know this.”
She shrugged, a delicate movement. “Well, sort it out. You’re the one with the rigid schedule. I have to be flexible for my career.”
The old anger, hot and corrosive, bubbled up. He wanted to argue. To list the thousands he deposited each month, the fact he’d taken this leave specifically for his scheduled time, the sheer fucking audacity. But he saw the glint in her eye. She wanted the fight. She fed on the conflict.
He turned his back on her, breathing slowly through his nose. “Fine.”
“You smell like a distillery,” she said, her voice sweetly poisonous. “Classy. Is that how you spent your night? No wonder you’re so eager to play daddy today.”
He ignored her. It was the only way to win, by not playing. “Ollie! Jacket on!”
Oliver emerged, struggling with his little puffer coat. Simon knelt, helping him, zipping him up to his chin. He shouldered the backpack.
“Say goodbye to your mum, Oliver.”
“Bye, Mummy!” Oliver called, already pulling Simon toward the door.
Nichole offered a faint, preoccupied smile. “Be good for Daddy, darling.”
The door closed on the perfume and the polish. The hallway air felt cleaner, easier to breathe. Oliver slipped his small hand into Simon’s giant one.
“Mummy didn’t like my picture,” Oliver said quietly as they waited for the lift.
Simon felt a fresh, white-hot spike of fury. He squeezed his son’s hand gently. “She’s just busy. But I love it. It’s going on my fridge. Front and center.”
Oliver beamed, the slight sadness forgotten. “Can we get pancakes?”
“We can get all the pancakes in London.”
As they drove away from the gleaming building, the image of Yaa’s face, soft in sleep then sharp with panic, superimposed itself over the road. The feel of her. The taste. A secret, guilty warmth in his gut, entirely separate from the love sitting in his rearview mirror, singing a nonsense song.
Two separate worlds. They could never touch. He had one night of pretend. Now he had the real, messy, beautiful day.
He focused on the road, on the sound of his son’s voice, and tried to forget the devastating feel of a woman whose last name he didn’t even know.