Page 42 of Hide From Me

“It should be your pussy instead, but this’ll have to do.”He clears his throat from the hoarseness in his voice as if he wasn’t just impersonating some savage animal.

“So, how long are you going to hold my underwear captive?” I drawl. Gathering my shorts, I slip them over my overstimulated skin, wincing at the loud bang my foot creates when it connects with the leg of the table.

“You don’t want them back, they're ripped.”He laughs, picking up his phone. I can’t help but mimic the motions as I sprawl out on the couch; sated and numb.

“And dirty.” I hum, curling under the covers. He brings them to the screen as if examining them wrapped tightly around his knuckles.

“Are you telling jokes now, sunshine? I’m honored.”

“Don’t get cocky. It doesn’t mean anything besides the fact we’re friends.” I grumble, though I’m worried now it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

“You say that now.”Moe grins that blush lazy grin that has my eyes rolling as if it isn’t making me ready to go another round.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Get some rest, sunshine. I’ll talk to you when I can.”

Of course he’d avoid answering and of course it’s always ‘when he can’. I wish I could bring myself to actually protest—to ask him to stay on the phone for just a bit longer so I don’t have to deal with the fear of being alone—but I can’t bring myself to say anything other than, “Goodnight monster.”

Ten

Moe

12-20-2025

Seaborn Base

“Watch it,” Sam growls as the woman at his feet threads a needle through the cuff of his slacks.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. The penguin tux looks like it's trying to strangle him. Fabric pulls at his shoulders like it’s offended by the size of his frame. The whole thing’s a joke. He looks like an oversized Ken doll being crammed into a too-small display outfit—and somehow, it’s happening in the middle of Caspian’s office.

“Fucking hell, Sam, do you ever stop complaining?” Cas mutters, smoothing the front of his own tux with military precision. The contrast is laughable. While Sam looks like he’s being tortured by couture, Caspian is the picture of composed elegance. Tailored. Polished. Micro-controlled. Like he ironed the goddamn thing with his own hands at dawn.

“Depends on the day… andwho’stouching me,” Sam snaps, cutting a sharp glare at the woman adjusting his thigh.

I flash her an apologetic smile as she moves over to straighten my button-up shirt. She’s got soft, hazel eyes and a mouth pinched tight in concentration. I highly doubt that wrestling cranky covert soldiers into tuxedos was on her bucket list, but here she is—calm, precise, professional.

Jasmine had called in a favor from her designer friends in the States. Supposedly one of the top labels, flown in just to prep our suits and Sharkie’s dresses for the wedding. Which is still six months out. But Caspian’s been running this wedding like it’s a black ops mission. Ever since Sharkie’s panic calmed down,he’s taken the reins with a vengeance. Bridezilla might be outdated—it’s the groom I’m worried about.

“Do you have the blue suits?” Caspian calls over his shoulder, prompting a groan from Sam.

“No offense, but if you push me into one more of these ridiculous outfits, I might just have to fight you,” Sam jokes.

Caspian doesn’t flinch. “Just because you didn’t have a wedding doesn’t mean you get to complain about mine.”

The room falls silent. That one sentence changes the atmosphere completely. My body tenses as I step between them, raising my hands as if I’m about to defuse a bomb.

“Alright,” I say carefully, “maybe let’s not start World War Three in a tailor’s borrowed space, okay?”

Sam’s expression twists into something between disbelief and fury.

“What did you just say?”

Sam is about to snap; it’s visible in the tension in his jaw and the flush creeping up his neck. Cas hit a nerve—the kind you don’t joke about. We all have our limits, and talking about someone’s relationship—especially one forged in blood—doesn’t just cross the line; it completely erases it.

Caspian turns away and runs a hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the tension. He’s unraveling, and honestly, he has been for weeks. But he won’t talk about it—not to me, not to anyone.

Sam is already tearing off his jacket, his knuckles white as he crushes it in one fist. “You’re unbelievable.”