Page 45 of Second Song

He shakes his head slowly before nodding quickly. He also quotes me. “You never come back. You get the job done and then get gone.”

“But here I am. A hearing-impaired soldier.” I touch my ear. “Probably the worst person to listen.”

“And here I am.” He snatches off his glasses, pressing the heels of his palms to eyes that are tinged with pink when he shoves those scuffed frames back on. “Probably the worst choice of singer for a soldier.”

He still glances at the base of this tor like he’s tempted.

I don’t care if he’s got a shit voice. I’ve worked with plenty of tone-deaf Sappers who bellowed away like they were Mariah Carey. I back off and say so. “You can’t possibly sing any worse than Matt. His voice curdles milk. If he really goes for it, dogs from miles around come running.”

Rowan’s grin is sudden. He also flushes. “Just… Just don’t listen, okay?”

I’m already backing away. I point back towards the quarry. “I’ll go guard that.” And that’s what I do, striding through bracken and dodging ankle-breaking hollows, marching for a hundred yards or so until I reach the quarry edge, and shock means I almost fall in.

Probably the worst choice of singer?

The base of that tor sends his voice soaring—gliding—spiralling, and not only higher. It’s rich and raw, and I’ve never heard these lyrics or I’d remember.

Love lifts, pure and simple.

Loss falls, and my eyes prick.

It’s regret, my old friend, only out loud instead of internal.

I let mine go. I have to. I can’t keep clinging to it if I’m gonna have both hands free to hold Rowan when this is over.

No one could stand upright after this much pain, only he isn’t done yet.

The song turns a corner, and if I thought his voice was raw before, that barely skims the surface of what next rises. Of what spreads wings and takes flight, carrying a promise to never forget someone special.

I’ve felt the earth move under my feet more than a few times.

Felt the crump of buildings collapsing.

Been shaken by shells that split soul from soul like earthquakes.

Rowan’s song?

It’s seismic.

I’m still shaken on the way back to the van, still reeling, and just like every time we’re together, a clock’s still ticking.

This time it comes with the sun sinking and Rowan’s on-duty deadline fast approaching. That has to be the reason he says, “Can we hurry?”

“To get back?” I press my key fob, sidelights flashing as the van unlocks, only Rowan doesn’t get in the passenger side. He grasps the side door handle instead. He also wets his lips. “N-no. I mean, can we be quick?” His knuckles whiten before he lets go of the door handle. “Forget it. We don’t have to?—”

I’m pretty sure it isn’t the sunset that leaves him rosy. I’m also on a sudden mission to check I’m on the same page because my ears are ringing so much that I could be mistaken. Not for tinnitus reasons. I’m still replaying lyrics that made me want to gather him up and tuck him inside my ribcage.

“Can we fuck?” I guess this has to sound harsh in comparison to all those spiralling yet soft notes. I start over. “I mean, yes. We can do anything you like, Row. Is that what you want?”

“I want...” He takes off his glasses. Scrubs at his face. Looks at me with nothing between us, and forget about that quarry, I could drown in what all this honey-gold depth shows me. His song has done a number on him. He’s close to tears. He’s also happy, so, so happy. We’re both in the back of the van in moments, and I’ve never been more grateful I took the time to build this sturdy bed because Rowan says, “I just really want you.”

He’s just as pink in here with the blinds drawn as when sunset flames licked him on the moorland. “Only quickly, yes?”

I haven’t been in the armed forces for years. Apparently, I’m still built to follow orders.

Undressing him takes no time. Him undressing me takes longer. He yanks at my belt and almost gives himself a black eye. Shoves up my shirt, and almost brains me, which is no reason for him to cackle, but here we are, both in a tangle, both laughing and kissing. His mouth is molten, and I still don’t know how I got this lucky or how any of this started.

My subconscious bleats a reminder, but it’s Rowan’s hair between my fingers, not wool, and Rowan who turns like he did in that hotel room, only this time there’s no mistaking what he bends over my bed for. No mistaking that he checks his watch as well.

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