The air in the briefing room was thick with sweat, starch, and dread.

Twelve of us stood in two neat lines, dressed in our best pressed uniforms, boots gleaming like lies, collars so tight they cut into our necks. Two military police officers stood against the back wall — arms crossed, expressions like statues carved out of judgment and cold coffee.

Nobody spoke.

I adjusted my beret slightly, more out of nerves than necessity. I could still smell last night on myself — sweat, smoke, and just a hint of her perfume clinging to my skin. I tried not to think about it. But my brain kept flashing back to that moment the bar manager had thrown open the disabled toilet door and locked eyes with me — shirt half open, trousers undone with my half erect cock gleaming under the LED lights. The door swung wide as laughter erupted behind him.

We’d been ejected from the pub immediately, naturally. The lads thought it was hilarious. We bounced to another pub, then another. It was half rebellion, half damage control.

Then came the bouncer at The Sandtrap — and Gavin mouthing off. Puff got involved. Words became shoves, and shoves became blue lights. The military police picked them both up outside the kebab van. I should’ve stopped it — or at least tried — but I was still floating on post-adrenaline and lipstick ghosts.

Now, here we were. Hungover. Uniformed. Awaiting judgment.

The door opened.

Everyone straightened.

First came our CO — Major Beddows — face like thunder behind his wireframe glasses. He was flanked by the camp commandant, an older, broader man who didn’t need to speak to make the room go quiet. His eyes swept across us like a searchlight.

Then… her.

Red beret. MP red tabs. Full regalia. She walked in like she owned the floor — and in that moment, maybe she did. The mystery woman from the night before. Red dress burned into my memory — now replaced by the sharp lines of a military police officer’s uniform and the weight of authority on her shoulders.

She didn’t look at me.

She didn’t need to.

My stomach dropped through the floor.

“Gentlemen,” the commandant began, “you are here because your behavior last night not only embarrassed yourselves but cast a shadow on your entire unit.”

“No one’s been charged yet,” Major Beddows added, “but that is not the point.”

The MP major stepped forward.

Cold. Calm. Professional.

“An incident was reported involving inappropriate conduct in a public establishment, followed by an altercation resulting in the arrest of two personnel. My office is conducting a formal investigation.”

Still not a flicker of recognition from her.

Still not a glance in my direction.

I could feel sweat running down my back under my jacket.

“This kind of behaviour,” she continued, “is precisely why we have disciplinary procedures. You are soldiers, not students on a gap year.”

Puff’s Adam’s apple bobbed hard.

The silence was deafening.

Then she turned — finally — her gaze brushing over each man in the room, until it landed on me.

It lingered for just a heartbeat too long.

Only I noticed it.

Only I knew.

My mouth went dry.

“This isn’t about a single night,” she said, finally. “It’s about the reputation of your unit. And your futures.”

She took a step back.

The commandant spoke again. “You’ll remain confined to barracks until further notice. No civvies. No leave. No alcohol. Dismissed.”

We saluted.

Turned.

And filed out, hearts pounding.

----

Back in the block, it was chaos.

“Was that her?” Charlie demanded, spinning on his heel. “Mate — was that the bird from the bog?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” I muttered, pulling off my shirt and sitting on the edge of my bunk like the floor was lava and I was twelve again.

“She didn’t even blink at you!” Wez said, somewhere between awe and sympathy. “That’s cold. That’s Arctic.”

“Better hope she’s not pressing charges,” Gavin added. “They’ll throw you out before you can zip your fly.”

Puff groaned. “They arrested us and she gets to give the bollocking? That’s just unfair.”

“I think I’m in love,” Charlie whispered.

Nobody laughed.

Everyone just… processed.

----

The door slammed open.

“Private, on your feet,” barked a red-capped Corporal.

Two Military Police stood at the entrance to the block, boots heavy on the vinyl floor, eyes unmoved by the curious glances of the lads.

I stood up stiffly from my bunk. The mood in the room turned cold and silent.

“Follow.”

No cuffs. But close enough. One in front, one behind, they marched me through the corridors and across the square like a prisoner of war. Not a word spoken. Every stride echoed louder than the last.

They stopped outside the admin building and opened the door. I stepped through into a corridor that smelled of polish and paperwork. Waiting behind a glass door, stone-faced and composed, was her.

Major A. Reynolds.

Uniform sharp enough to cut granite. Hair drawn back into a regulation bun. Face as unreadable as the Queen’s guard. Her lips were so thin they had no resemblance to the ones that had been pressed against mine just 12 hours before, let alone wrapped around my shaft.

Then I clocked it.

A ring.

The thin gold band sat squarely on her left hand like an accusation in metal form. I stared just a second too long. She caught me. No flinch. No reaction. Just the tightening of her jaw.

“In here,” ordered one of the MPs, nudging me into the room.

The interview began.

“Private, you will respond clearly and honestly. This is not a conversation. It’s a formal statement. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She asked the questions clinically. Voice devoid of anything human. Each one a cut. Each detail was extracted like a confession, not an explanation. I felt like a stranger to her. Just a name on a report. A name she had once moaned in my ear and now could barely speak aloud.

“Were you aware of the bar’s security systems?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Were you aware of the CCTV coverage in the disabled facilities?”

My throat dried.

“No, ma’am.”

A single blink. No nod. No comment. Just the scratch of her pen.

“This woman you are seen entering with and then caught in the bathroom with was clearly aware of them,” she said coldly. “Are you able to identify her and assist the police investigation?”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t get her name.”

“I see,” she said, not looking up from her notes.

When it was done, she said only one thing:

“You are dismissed.”

I saluted and turned on my heels and left.

-----

Back in the block, the silence was a pressure. Puff gave me a sideways glance, but no one dared ask. I went straight to my bunk and sat staring at the floor.

My phone buzzed.

Her:
You absolute fucking liar.
Eighteen? You’re a kid. A bloody child in uniform pretending you’re grown.

Me:
I didn’t lie. I didn’t claim anything. You assumed. You wanted to. And, where did that ring come from? You didn’t have that on last night!!

Her:
Don’t turn this around. You knew what you were doing. You let me believe you work in risk management, and my marriage isn’t any of your business!

Do you even know what this could cost me? If they find another camera angle and identify me from that pub…

Me:
Didn’t see you asking many questions last night. You were all in, same as me. I've worked bloody hard to get into this unit, and now I'm getting grilled thanks to a couple of drunken pricks.

Another pause. Then:

You don’t get it. You are little more than a child, and I outrank you. I could lose everything… Jesus, I’m old enough to be your mother.

Me:
Then maybe don’t lead people into bathroom stalls if you’re trying to protect your reputation. And I’d be honoured to have a milf of a mother like you.

She left me on read. For a minute. Then:

You arrogant little shit!!
Grow up and accept the magnitude of the situation.
This was a mistake. This/ you are dangerous.

Me:
I’m not dangerous. I’m honest. Which is more than you’ve been.

And then came the final one.

Don’t ever contact me again.

Just like that.

She was gone. Again.

-----

It had been nearly two months since the chaos in Folkestone.

Gavin and Puff were long gone—transferred quietly back to their parent units after the Sand Trap bouncer fiasco. No official explanation was ever given, but everyone knew why. Their replacements were decent enough—green, a bit by-the-book—but the dynamic had shifted. The air was quieter now, more professional. The scandal had faded, and the unit had sharpened its edges again.

We were in London now. A high-profile security tasking near Westminster. Nothing flashy—mostly coordination, overwatch, support—but it felt good to wear the uniform in public again and not have the eyes of command boring into the back of my head.

The sun was starting to dip below the skyline, gilding the Thames with gold, as we wrapped for the day. Back at the temporary accommodation block, the team was peeling off gear, joking about food and maybe a trip to Camden later.

I was sitting on the bunk, untying my boots, when my phone pinged.

A number I hadn’t seen since that night.

Major A.
“Table for two at La Cervoise, 20:00. Wear something better than combat boots.”

My pulse jumped. Just a message. Simple instructions. Intentional. Undeniably her.

I stared at the screen for a moment, phone gripped tightly in my palm.

No emojis. No pleasantries. Just an instruction. Just like before.

I checked my calendar. Tonight was clear. We weren’t due for another shift until noon tomorrow.

I glanced down at my boots, still dusty from the day, and then back at the message.

Me:
“I take it you’re also on this job?”

A moment passed. Then came the reply.

Her:
“I wouldn’t waste a reservation in a town I wasn’t in, would I?”

I exhaled, tension and adrenaline colliding in my chest. I didn’t know if this was a reunion, closure, a trap, or something else entirely.

But I grabbed a clean shirt from the locker anyway, and I started to get ready.

The restaurant was tucked down a narrow side street in Mayfair—quiet, candlelit, with tables spaced out far enough to give the illusion of privacy. I arrived a little early, nerves humming like static beneath my pressed shirt. Every time the door creaked open behind me, I glanced up.

Then she walked in.

No uniform this time. A dark green silk blouse, high-necked, elegant. Tailored black trousers. Hair swept up, earrings subtle. Sophisticated. Controlled. Dangerous in a way I couldn’t quite name.

Our eyes met, and for a second, it was as if the world shifted. That same silent intensity from the bar in Folkestone—except now it was lined with something colder. I stood, unsure of whether to offer a hand, a hug, anything at all.

She beat me to it. A slight nod. Measured. Distant.

“Let’s sit,” she said simply, taking her seat as the waiter arrived with the wine she’d pre-ordered.

I watched her across the table as she adjusted her napkin and sipped the white wine, unbothered. But I noticed the twitch at her jaw, the slight stiffness in her shoulders. She was pretending she wasn’t nervous. But she was.

I cleared my throat. “You look… good.”

She tilted her head slightly, not smiling. “And you look older than eighteen. Which is still not old enough, by the way.”

I gave a dry chuckle. “You still mad?”

There was a pause. She set down her glass. “Mad? No. Embarrassed? Yes. Professionally compromised? Absolutely.”

I winced. “That bad?”

“Let’s just say it took a few meetings, some very delicate omissions, and a healthy amount of damage control to keep everything internal.” She leaned forward. “You’re lucky your CO covered for you. And I’m lucky the CCTV footage didn’t identify me.”

“I didn’t name you,” I said quietly. “To anyone.”

“I know,” she replied. “I saw the interview transcript. It was one of the few professional things you did that week.”

Silence stretched between us for a beat. Then:

“I’m sorry,” we both said at the same time.

I smiled despite myself. She smirked, lips softening. “I was harsh over text,” she admitted. “And I should’ve been honest. About who I was. About being married.”

I nodded. “And I shouldn’t have lied about my age. Or the risk management thing. That was… panic.”

“Understandable,” she said, more gently now. “You’re young. Still figuring it out. But I’m not.” She reached for her wine again. “Which is what makes this whole thing complicated.”

My voice was low. “Is it still complicated?”

She hesitated. Her hand lingered on the stem of the glass. “My husband is stationed in Bavaria. German Army. We haven’t seen each other in two years. Separate deployments. Different lives. We Skype twice a month out of obligation. That’s about it.”

She looked at me directly now, and her voice dropped.

“That night in Folkestone… wasn’t planned. I wasn’t who I normally am. I’ve never done anything like it before. I don’t regret it, but it rattled me.”

I swallowed. “Rattled how?”

She smiled, just a little. “Because I liked it. Too much.”

Our eyes locked across the table. The warmth of the room blurred with something deeper, something slower.

“And what about now?” I asked carefully.

She leaned forward, voice like silk. “I’d like to do it again. With you.”

The words hung there, suspended between confession and invitation.

I leaned back in my seat, heart hammering.

“Guess we’ll need a more private restaurant next time,” I said, smirking.

She raised a brow. “Or better timing.”

We both laughed—soft, quiet, real. The first real sound of the night.

------

We walked together down the quiet London street, the warm hum of the restaurant fading behind us. It was late—the kind of late where the city had settled and softened, and our footsteps echoed off the cobblestone with weight. A drizzle had started, dotting the pavement like memory.

At the corner, she paused.

“This is me,” she said, nodding toward a waiting taxi.

I nodded too, awkward now that the moment of truth had come and neither of us had moved to touch the other.

“Thanks for dinner,” she added softly, brushing a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “It was… good to see you again.”

I smiled, hands shoved deep in my coat pockets. “Likewise.”

A pause.

“I don’t think I can do anything impulsive right now,” she said quietly. “Not with everything that’s still unresolved.”

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” I replied, and I meant it. “I’m happy just to hear from you.”

Another pause. She gave a small smile.

“Let’s… keep in touch,” she said. “I’ve got a weekend free in a few weeks. Maybe we pick somewhere neutral. No uniforms. No pubs. Just us.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

She stepped back, opened the taxi door, and got in. As it pulled away, she didn’t look back.