Quarrels are part of co-housing. In a house where two people live, sooner or later conflicts happen. The junction between the two generations. As in Bazarov's house, (Russian literature) the younger generation strives for new ideals, and the older one accepts only its traditions.

But there is a nuance.

He are driven by experience, years of battles, a heap of years of service behind their backs, and you - unwillingness to obey.

The first ray of sunlight through the curtain highlighted the golden lines on the marble table. The kitchen greeted you with the usual grayness: pale light, catching only the most unsightly details - dried drops of coffee on the table, which he hadn't finished when he left for his shift, stains on the sink, an empty teapot forgotten on the stove, like a grave monument to yesterday morning. An eternal reminder of the long into infinity. The smell of last night's dinner, dulled but still detectable, mingled with the musty aroma of his cigarettes.

Somewhere down the hallway, the snoring from the bedroom-a muffled, even snoring that sounded like a metronome measuring time-confirmed the pointlessness of it all. You could barely stand, rubbing your sleepy eyes. Leaning against the cold countertop, you could feel the fatigue you'd accumulated overnight thickening in your chest by the minute. Sullen and desolate, but peaceful. Even the kettle on the stove seemed hopelessly tired, as if it too was just going through another meaningless day. Or maybe you just hated mornings that much.

Three words: "Don't touch me."

But it wasn't enough for him. He didn't care. He drew a shovelful of superiority in your angry eyes from everything you did wrong.

His sleep was responsive, the ability to get up without an alarm clock formed after years spent here. The steps were heavy, could tell in a hurry. Body ready for work without breakfast, already anticipating the call of duty.

You hadn't said hello since this morning. Both of you were a pain in the ass. And mornings were definitely not the time for scandals. The sweets are served last.

You set cup of black coffee on the table, coming face to face with him: lips slightly pinched, unshaven, rough stubble fading into the background as you reached his eyes-wary, but surprisingly full of a subtle tenderness. In them you read not only the usual tension, but something quietly deeper than you usually saw. Hidden.

Nevertheless, with a slight sigh and a soft turn toward the back of the hallway, you decided not to ask. Maybe it was just morning paranoia? Or a manic need to pick on you? It's unclear.

Uncertainty is like the smell of freshly fallen snow - cold and fresh, with barely a detectable note of bitterness.

After a couple minutes, the doorknob jingled behind me; he was gone. Quickly and without warning. The memory still held those moments when, at the beginning of the relationship, he'd spared no expense to leave a little note on the nightstand if he was going to be late. But today - the tart smell of cologne, vaporized in the air.

When you're about to leave, you notice the envelope on the nightstand, and you're not you if you don't wonder what's in it.

"I am addressing you as your commanding officer. Your interactions with the sergeant are of great concern to me. I have noticed a deterioration in your operational autonomy. If this communication continues, I will be forced to consider the possibility of you violating base disciplinary protocols. I hope you realize the seriousness of the situation and will take the necessary steps to correct it."

In one breath, reading each sentence aloud, boiling over more and more. He couldn't just walk away from you like that. Everything you've been through, everything you've lived through. Is it really worth it? And more importantly, why didn't he tell you? You couldn't just sit on my hands. Driven by insatiable anger and resentment, you leap out of the room, looking for Keegan, trying to blot out that red veil blurring the gray corridors.

You shove him in the shoulder, not caring about the other soldiers standing behind you, your voice squeezed with newfound negative emotion, "Nothing to say? Or will I have to hear from the commander myself in a face-to-face meeting?".

He turns around sharply, face full of surprise and sternness, "Behave yourself, you see we're in public," he hisses irritably, grabbing you wrist dragging you around the corner, "Why the did you take my stuff? I would have said when I had to. This is none of your business." These words thrown around like an accusation, the obscenity only thickens the clouds overhead.

Here you are again, yelling at him. Destroying him publicly, making other soldiers question his valor and professionalism.

- "You're not the fucking navel of the earth," your voice trails off into an indignant shout.

He's silent, his eyes on the floor, shaking his head disapprovingly from side to side, as if there, in this silent witness, he's looking for salvation. It's useless to argue with you; every time it ends in hysterics, like a thunderstorm in the middle of a clear sky. And again he turns out to be at fault, again like a pathetic idiot humiliated, running after you because he loves you.

Your hand goes up lightning fast, and that nasty, humiliating slap goes flying down the hallway to the ears of any coworker.

And that was his last straw.

Just as spectacularly as he raised the mask to his nose, he presses you into the restroom door behind you, you burst into the white room with an audible rumble.

Your body against the wall, his hands roaming your waist, and your lips merging in a passionate, rough kiss. Slutty and vulgar. Shameless. The only way he could think of at the sight of your heated cheeks, your frown, and your stubborn need for justice. Standing up for yourself is what's really hot. Some wildness that can't be controlled, and that's what's hot.

His fingers tighten around your neck, locking it in place, muttering hoarsely, "Shame on me, girl," He leaves a phantom trail of red marks along your neck, and you wince, biting your lip, suppressing a groan, a sign of defeat. Talking non-stop, like he's trying to shame you even more, make you soak even more for him," You should have been punished, don't you think?"

You erupt in a cocktail of hatred at his behavior, but there's no power to pull away: you want it. You fucking want it. On the floor, on the sink, on your knees, whatever. Digging your nails into his shoulders, begging him to prolong the caress. You can't see anymore, only feel.

"If you make any noise, I won't hold back," he adds, jerkily turning your trembling body around to face the wall, "I play dirty."