My experience with Luca - a Swiss military man

[letterbox]

Are you going to continue the story?

 

[bankai-shikai]

Are you going to continue the story?

Sorry for the delay. Work has been intense. Here is the first part of the continuation.

 

[bankai-shikai]

I wake up to the dull blue of pre-dawn light brushing against the slanted ceiling. My eyes sting a little; I didn’t sleep deeply. Not because of discomfort, but because I didn’t want to sleep. I didn’t want to miss a second of this. My arm is curled around Luca’s waist, my chest pressed into his back. The room smells like sleep and skin and something faintly wooden —old ceelings maybe—but the strongest scent is him. His hair smells like something soft and clean, like the military shampoo they all get in those standard-issue kits, but with a note of his own biology underneath it. Warmth. Salt.



The digital clock on my phone says 05:01. The number looks fragile in the darkness. I shift slightly and feel the weight of him pressed against me, and I don’t want to move. My bed is too small for two grown men—it always has been. The frame is a little warped, the mattress thin. But somehow, right now, it feels like the safest place on earth. We are squished together, limbs folded, backs curved inward. There’s barely room to breathe between us, but I’ve never breathed more easily.



He’s still asleep.



And he’s still wearing his glasses.



That detail wrecks me, for some reason. He had them on during everything last night. And somehow, they didn’t get knocked off. Or maybe he put them back on before curling into me. Either way, they’re crooked now—one arm slightly lifted off his ear, the lenses slightly fogged—and it makes my chest tighten. I want to reach out and adjust them, but I don’t. I stay still, letting the moment stretch.



His hair is soft against my face. Blonde, but not bright—more like the color of straw left in the sun. Messy from sleep. A little damp near the nape of his neck. I press my nose against it and breathe him in. It’s involuntary. Like instinct. Like my body has decided, without my permission, that this scent means safety. And then he pushes into me, still sleeping. My God…



We haven’t said much since last night. After the intensity of what happened, there weren’t many words left. He collapsed into the bed like someone who hadn’t slept in a week, turned away from me, curled in, and didn’t ask for anything. I didn’t push. I just followed, settling behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist like I’d done it a hundred times before.



And now here we are. Entangled. Wordless. Unfinished.



I’ve never been much of a cuddler. Not because I didn’t want to be, but because there was never anyone who stayed long enough to share the aftermath. Sex was often a punctuation mark, not the start of a sentence. But this—this warmth, this quiet weight of another person in my bed—this is new. Foreign. My hand rests on his stomach, fingers curled into the hem of his uniform undershirt, and I realize how natural it feels.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The silence is thick. The village is still asleep. Somewhere below us, the smell of old pastries from the bakery clings to the alley air, but up here it’s just us. Just breath and pulse and quiet creaks from the old wooden beams above.

He stirs slightly in his sleep. A soft exhale. One of his hands flexes and then settles again.

I wonder if he remembers where he is.

I wonder if he feels safe here.

Or if this is just another temporary stop for him—another place to crash, another body to hide inside when the outside world gets too sharp. The way he clung to me last night... it wasn’t just lust. It felt like something deeper. Something heavy.

He hasn’t mentioned home. Not once. Not last night, not this morning. And he hasn’t moved an inch to leave.

I don’t ask why. But I feel the weight of it in the room.

There’s a stillness to his body that’s different from peace. It’s more like... stillness as armor. A frozen sort of calm. And I wonder what he’s trying to outrun. What train he didn’t miss last night. What conversation he’s not ready to have.

But for now, I let it go.

I focus instead on the way his breathing feels against my chest, the rise and fall of it, the warm air fanning over my forearm. I shift just enough to kiss the back of his shoulder, barely grazing skin. He doesn’t stir, but my lips stay there a second longer than they should.

I close my eyes again.

I let myself want this. Not just the sex. Not just the body beside me. But the softness. The gravity of shared space. The idea that someone might stay—not just in the bed, but in the story.

And yet, even in the warmth of this tangle, I know something isn’t quite right. There’s a dissonance under the skin of it all. A silence that doesn’t feel restful.

Eventually, I pull myself out of bed, though every part of me protests. The room is cold when I step away from him. My absence stirs the air. For a second, I just stand there at the edge of the bed, looking down at him—still curled into the blankets, limbs tangled, his face turned slightly into the pillow. His glasses are askew. His hair is a mess of soft gold and sleep. There's something devastating about how peaceful he looks, even in that fragile, unfinished way he always carries himself.

I grab my towel from the hook near the door and step into the narrow bathroom. The tiles are freezing against my bare feet. The water takes a moment to warm, and when it finally does, I stand under it with my hands pressed to the wall and let the heat pour over me. It doesn’t wash away the thoughts. If anything, it wakes them up. The image of him from last night still lingers—uniform half-on, eyes wild, mouth pressed hard against mine like it hurt to stop. That part of me that has been so long denied—physical, tender, starved—sings quietly beneath my skin. My morning wood is raging. The temptation to jerk off is great, but my subconscious knows that another round is waiting just around the corner.

When I step back into the room, a towel wrapped low around my waist, steam still clinging to my chest and shoulders, he’s awake.

He’s watching me.

Head turned on the pillow, one arm stretched above his head, glasses still on but fogged slightly at the edges. His gaze follows the line of my collarbone, down to the faint trail of hair on my abdomen. It’s not subtle. And I feel the heat rise up my neck before he even opens his mouth.

“Do you always look like a magazine ad after showering,” he says, voice hoarse with sleep, “or is this just for me?”

The blush creeps up before I can stop it. I try to laugh it off, running a hand through my wet hair as I turn away, pretending to look for a shirt. “Shut up,” I mutter, grinning despite myself.

“No, seriously,” he continues, his voice low and lazy. “You come in here dripping like that and expect me to believe you’re not trying to kill me?”

I shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too hard. “You’re the one who almost wore a uniform to bed, remember?”

He chuckles, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. The blanket falls away slightly, revealing the line of his hip where his undershirt has ridden up. It’s a casual kind of exposed. Intimate. Not performative.

I watch him for a second, towel still hanging from my waist, and then say, “I was thinking… if you’re not rushing anywhere… we could take a trip today.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“There’s a small town about 15 kilometers from here,” I explain. “It’s got some old cafés, and a market on weekends. Quiet, but kind of beautiful. I used to live there for a moment.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched me, expression unreadable again.

“No trains to miss this time,” I add gently.

He blinks once, then smirks. “Are you trying to turn this into a date?”

I shrug, trying not to sound too hopeful. “What I’m trying is not having to spend the whole day alone.”

There’s a beat. Then he sits up, pushing the blanket off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He rubs a hand over his face, then down the back of his neck.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And just like that, a quiet little thrill stirs in my chest. Not big, not loud—but real.

I toss him a clean towel, watching as he catches it without looking.

“You’ll want to shower too,” I say.
He nods, standing up, the hem of his shirt lifting to reveal the curve of his lower back. “Only if you promise not to stare the whole time.”

“No promises.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint smile on his face.

And as he disappears into the bathroom, I sit on the edge of the bed—heart still beating too fast, still wrapped in steam and the faint ache of closeness—and I wonder, for the first time, what it would feel like to have more days like this.

 

[hungnola9]

I wake up to the dull blue of pre-dawn light brushing against the slanted ceiling. My eyes sting a little; I didn’t sleep deeply. Not because of discomfort, but because I didn’t want to sleep. I didn’t want to miss a second of this. My arm is curled around Luca’s waist, my chest pressed into his back. The room smells like sleep and skin and something faintly wooden —old ceelings maybe—but the strongest scent is him. His hair smells like something soft and clean, like the military shampoo they all get in those standard-issue kits, but with a note of his own biology underneath it. Warmth. Salt.



The digital clock on my phone says 05:01. The number looks fragile in the darkness. I shift slightly and feel the weight of him pressed against me, and I don’t want to move. My bed is too small for two grown men—it always has been. The frame is a little warped, the mattress thin. But somehow, right now, it feels like the safest place on earth. We are squished together, limbs folded, backs curved inward. There’s barely room to breathe between us, but I’ve never breathed more easily.



He’s still asleep.



And he’s still wearing his glasses.



That detail wrecks me, for some reason. He had them on during everything last night. And somehow, they didn’t get knocked off. Or maybe he put them back on before curling into me. Either way, they’re crooked now—one arm slightly lifted off his ear, the lenses slightly fogged—and it makes my chest tighten. I want to reach out and adjust them, but I don’t. I stay still, letting the moment stretch.



His hair is soft against my face. Blonde, but not bright—more like the color of straw left in the sun. Messy from sleep. A little damp near the nape of his neck. I press my nose against it and breathe him in. It’s involuntary. Like instinct. Like my body has decided, without my permission, that this scent means safety. And then he pushes into me, still sleeping. My God…



We haven’t said much since last night. After the intensity of what happened, there weren’t many words left. He collapsed into the bed like someone who hadn’t slept in a week, turned away from me, curled in, and didn’t ask for anything. I didn’t push. I just followed, settling behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist like I’d done it a hundred times before.



And now here we are. Entangled. Wordless. Unfinished.



I’ve never been much of a cuddler. Not because I didn’t want to be, but because there was never anyone who stayed long enough to share the aftermath. Sex was often a punctuation mark, not the start of a sentence. But this—this warmth, this quiet weight of another person in my bed—this is new. Foreign. My hand rests on his stomach, fingers curled into the hem of his uniform undershirt, and I realize how natural it feels.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The silence is thick. The village is still asleep. Somewhere below us, the smell of old pastries from the bakery clings to the alley air, but up here it’s just us. Just breath and pulse and quiet creaks from the old wooden beams above.

He stirs slightly in his sleep. A soft exhale. One of his hands flexes and then settles again.

I wonder if he remembers where he is.

I wonder if he feels safe here.

Or if this is just another temporary stop for him—another place to crash, another body to hide inside when the outside world gets too sharp. The way he clung to me last night... it wasn’t just lust. It felt like something deeper. Something heavy.

He hasn’t mentioned home. Not once. Not last night, not this morning. And he hasn’t moved an inch to leave.

I don’t ask why. But I feel the weight of it in the room.

There’s a stillness to his body that’s different from peace. It’s more like... stillness as armor. A frozen sort of calm. And I wonder what he’s trying to outrun. What train he didn’t miss last night. What conversation he’s not ready to have.

But for now, I let it go.

I focus instead on the way his breathing feels against my chest, the rise and fall of it, the warm air fanning over my forearm. I shift just enough to kiss the back of his shoulder, barely grazing skin. He doesn’t stir, but my lips stay there a second longer than they should.

I close my eyes again.

I let myself want this. Not just the sex. Not just the body beside me. But the softness. The gravity of shared space. The idea that someone might stay—not just in the bed, but in the story.

And yet, even in the warmth of this tangle, I know something isn’t quite right. There’s a dissonance under the skin of it all. A silence that doesn’t feel restful.

Eventually, I pull myself out of bed, though every part of me protests. The room is cold when I step away from him. My absence stirs the air. For a second, I just stand there at the edge of the bed, looking down at him—still curled into the blankets, limbs tangled, his face turned slightly into the pillow. His glasses are askew. His hair is a mess of soft gold and sleep. There's something devastating about how peaceful he looks, even in that fragile, unfinished way he always carries himself.

I grab my towel from the hook near the door and step into the narrow bathroom. The tiles are freezing against my bare feet. The water takes a moment to warm, and when it finally does, I stand under it with my hands pressed to the wall and let the heat pour over me. It doesn’t wash away the thoughts. If anything, it wakes them up. The image of him from last night still lingers—uniform half-on, eyes wild, mouth pressed hard against mine like it hurt to stop. That part of me that has been so long denied—physical, tender, starved—sings quietly beneath my skin. My morning wood is raging. The temptation to jerk off is great, but my subconscious knows that another round is waiting just around the corner.

When I step back into the room, a towel wrapped low around my waist, steam still clinging to my chest and shoulders, he’s awake.

He’s watching me.

Head turned on the pillow, one arm stretched above his head, glasses still on but fogged slightly at the edges. His gaze follows the line of my collarbone, down to the faint trail of hair on my abdomen. It’s not subtle. And I feel the heat rise up my neck before he even opens his mouth.

“Do you always look like a magazine ad after showering,” he says, voice hoarse with sleep, “or is this just for me?”

The blush creeps up before I can stop it. I try to laugh it off, running a hand through my wet hair as I turn away, pretending to look for a shirt. “Shut up,” I mutter, grinning despite myself.

“No, seriously,” he continues, his voice low and lazy. “You come in here dripping like that and expect me to believe you’re not trying to kill me?”

I shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too hard. “You’re the one who almost wore a uniform to bed, remember?”

He chuckles, rolling onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. The blanket falls away slightly, revealing the line of his hip where his undershirt has ridden up. It’s a casual kind of exposed. Intimate. Not performative.

I watch him for a second, towel still hanging from my waist, and then say, “I was thinking… if you’re not rushing anywhere… we could take a trip today.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“There’s a small town about 15 kilometers from here,” I explain. “It’s got some old cafés, and a market on weekends. Quiet, but kind of beautiful. I used to live there for a moment.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched me, expression unreadable again.

“No trains to miss this time,” I add gently.

He blinks once, then smirks. “Are you trying to turn this into a date?”

I shrug, trying not to sound too hopeful. “What I’m trying is not having to spend the whole day alone.”

There’s a beat. Then he sits up, pushing the blanket off and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He rubs a hand over his face, then down the back of his neck.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And just like that, a quiet little thrill stirs in my chest. Not big, not loud—but real.

I toss him a clean towel, watching as he catches it without looking.

“You’ll want to shower too,” I say.
He nods, standing up, the hem of his shirt lifting to reveal the curve of his lower back. “Only if you promise not to stare the whole time.”

“No promises.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint smile on his face.

And as he disappears into the bathroom, I sit on the edge of the bed—heart still beating too fast, still wrapped in steam and the faint ache of closeness—and I wonder, for the first time, what it would feel like to have more days like this.

This is so good.