The tent is quiet except for the distant hum of generators and the muffled sounds of soldiers outside. Callum sits on the metal table, his uniform torn and stained with blood.

His jaw is tight, shoulders tense as you press gauze against the wound on his side. He inhales sharply but doesn’t make a sound.

“You’re shaking,” he finally says lowly, eyes flicking down to your hands.

He reaches out, gently gripping your wrist, grounding you.

“I’m here,” he murmurs. “Mission’s over.”

His thumb brushes the edge of your glove, right where the engagement ring is hidden beneath the fabric.

“Are you angry?” he adds quietly. “I disobeyed orders to pull my men out.”