THE CONFLICT

It was never flattering to be hit on at work. Or on operations. It was background noise — constant, predictable, and exhausting. The comments, the looks, the half-arsed attempts at charm were never about you. Not really. They were about convenience. Proximity. The novelty of a woman in a place starved of them.

It wasn’t an ego boost. It was a chore — a daily inevitability you learned to sidestep like bad weather. Out here, attention wasn’t desired, but I was the scarcity. You were simply the only woman in reach, which meant half the camp treated you like a prize, a challenge, and a rumour waiting for oxygen. Whilst the other treated you like invisible shit.

It wasn’t interesting. It wasn’t a connection. It was possession dressed up as flirtation.

To them, you weren’t a person — you were an opportunity. Something to claim, mention, exaggerate. Whether they bragged outright or let the gossip mill take over, the outcome never changed: none of it was ever actually about you, and none of it certainly didn’t make you look good to everyone else.

So I learned early not to mistake attention for a compliment, because it wasn’t.

That was why I never mixed business and pleasure. Never fucked on my own doorstep. In this world — the one where feminism supposedly happened — sleeping with the wrong man could still ruin your reputation. Maybe your career. And even when they wanted you, and they usually did, it wasn’t safe to forget what that really meant.

So, I kept my fun separate. Speed dating, holiday flings, the odd hotel room after a conference. When I wanted it. When the spark felt worth it. But never at work. Never.

Walking through the departure lounge — really just a glorified, freezing marquee — I braced myself.

“Alright, sweet cheeks. Suck my cock before we fly? Might be the last blow job I get if I don’t come back.” A young corporal, his face was all soft pout and bravado, his mates cackling like hyenas around him.

I rolled my eyes.

The worst part? I wasn’t even embarrassed anymore. But they wanted me to be — small, ashamed, rattled. Easier to laugh at that way.

By this stage of the departure process, I was already saturated in testosterone: the jibes, the wandering eyes, the sex stories spoken loudly enough amongst a group of soldiers waiting in line, as if I somehow wouldn’t hear them. Standing at check-in, the wandering hands, the bravado, the bragging — it was all noise. I felt both invisible and on stage at the same time. My tolerance hovered somewhere below zero.

So, I turned to him, voice flat. “Look, fucknuts. I wouldn’t touch you with his cock. So, fuck off.”

Silence. That familiar shift in the air — the one every woman recognises—that moment where the room decides whether it’s going to laugh with you or punish you.

His friend cracked first, laughing loud enough to defuse it. “She’s got you there, mate — you absolute prick.”

Relief rolled through me, though I kept my face neutral.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I said, turning on my heel, fully aware of the eyes tracking me — some amused, some shocked, some just bored with the endless dance.

I slipped into a seat at the back, headphones in, mindfulness colouring book open. My eyes still scanned the room, quiet, automatic. Always looking for the next threat.

An hour to go. Back to Afghanistan.

I looked around the departure lounge — a cold, wind-whipped tent pitched on the edge of a military base in Oxfordshire.

All men.

Mostly in combat gear. A few in jeans and civilian clothes, trying to appear like they weren’t terrified. A cluster of press, pale and tense, wearing their blue flak vests as if they’d be ambushed near the vending machine.

It wasn’t a war zone. It was Oxfordshire. I didn’t blame them, though. The first-time fear was always the sharpest. I remembered that… vaguely. The edges of it had worn down years ago. Now it was just a sigh, a quiet readiness to switch back on.

I’d flown in uniform previously and served for 8 years. Now I was doing it as a contractor. Different badge. Same sand. Same shit. More money.

And this time, someone else would be protecting me. A personal protection team — private security or infantry, depending on the rota.

Funny how fast roles flipped.

I checked my watch. Fifty minutes left. The air was thick with damp socks, bad coffee, and body odour under a failing mist of bad deodorant. A group of soldiers hunched over a phone and laughed too loudly. One glanced my way, did a double-take. I didn’t look back.

My backpack sat between my boots, legs wrapped around it. Habit. These places didn’t invite trust: too many strangers, too many tired men, too much unspoken tension.

I zipped my fleece to my chin. Not for warmth — just containment. If I kept the layers tight enough, the pieces of myself stayed put.

Near the exit, a young soldier stretched against a pole—fresh kit. Untouched boots. He moved with the kind of optimism life hadn’t smacked out of him yet.

Bless him, I thought. All that fire. All that belief. Long since drained from me.

I didn’t envy him. He had the first panic, the first explosion, the first realisation still ahead of him. And after that, he’d sit the way I did — backpack clutched, shoulders squared, always tracking the door.

Because sometimes things did come through it.

Someone sat across from me — a contractor, older, sun-blasted skin, the type of man permanently in mid-divorce. He gave me a nod. I returned half of one. Maybe he’d seen the earlier exchange. Maybe he thought he was signalling he’s “friendly forces.” I wasn’t here to make friends.

This job wasn’t about connection. It was about function. Get in, get it done, get out. Hopefully.

The danger wasn’t the worst part. It was the monotony between danger — flights, tents, briefings, heat, dust, boredom.

And then the thing that did happen would be sharp, fast, and unforgettable.

I coloured a mandala in shades of blue and purple—anything to keep my mind from drifting into the places it didn’t need to go.

My light dimmed. A shadow fell across the page. A pair of legs came into view — worn combat trousers, boots scuffed to hell, fabric snug around solid calves.

I looked up.

A man. Early thirties, maybe. Hard to tell under the stubble. Strong jaw, dark or hazel eyes, that effortless ruggedness that came with poor decisions and good stories. His mouth moved.

I blinked. “What?”

His lips moved again.

Oh. EarPods.

“Shit — sorry.” I yanked them out. “Didn’t realise I still had these in.”

He smiled, amused rather than irritated. His voice, when I finally heard it properly, was deep and dry. “Any more bother to report?” He tipped his chin at the group of men from earlier, like he already knew the answer.

I shrugged. “Not in the last hour.”

“Good. Just checking.”

“Not exactly my first prick,” I said dryly.

That earned a proper laugh — low, genuine, from the gut. One brow lifted, acknowledging the double meaning without milking it.

“Well,” he said, straightening, “shout if you need anything.”

I tilted my head. “Are you the military police, or did I miss your white horse somewhere?”

“Neither,” he chuckled, “but the offer stands.”

He winked. Not sleazy. Just confident, mischief threaded through control.

And then he walked off — leaving the faintest trail of dust, sweat, and something clean underneath it.

I watched him go. Too aware of it.

There was a rhythm to his stride — easy, unhurried, yet purposeful. Shoulders relaxed, built from strength, not ego. And yes, his arse was excellent. Annoyingly so. Firm and balanced over powerful thighs.

He wasn’t showing off. But he knew I was watching. And he didn’t mind.

Contractor, maybe. More likely Special Forces. They always had that weight to them — words pared down to essentials, movements deliberate, stillness edged with readiness. Like they’d already pictured every possible disaster and accepted they’d handle it when it arrived.

I recognised it.

Still, I forced myself back to my colouring, fighting the stupid flicker of interest I hadn’t felt in too long.

Professionalism. It had a time limit.

Apparently so did my self-control.

EarPods back in. But I didn’t hit play. Not straight away. My eyes drifted, once, to the corner he’d vanished into.

Just checking.