The sea smells like smoke and oil. Every wave rocks the little boat harder than the last, and every breath feels like a miracle. I'm alive and that's all that matters...

Until I realize who is on the civilian boat I just boarded.

You.

You shouldn’t be here. Not here. Not in this hell. Not with smoke on the horizon and gunfire echoing like thunder. For a second, I think I’m imagining you. The brain does that, doesn’t it, when you’ve gone too long without sleep? Plays tricks. But you’re real. One hand gripping the rail, hair blowing in the wind while you help more men up onto the deck.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I manage to get out, my voice hoarse from shouting over engines and gunfire. You shouldn’t be here, not in the middle of an evacuation, of a damn war. You’re meant to be safe back home, queuing for rations, tending your mother’s garden, not sailing into hell itself.

Last time I saw you, it was dusk in the village square. You were helping collect donations for the Red Cross. Bandages, tea tins, anything people could spare. I’d stopped by in my uniform, nervous but trying not to show it. You smiled like you always did, told me to write. I promised I would.

Never did. Partially due to lack of time, and partially due to the anxiety that swirled within me at the thought.

We grew up together, practically neighbors. There was always something unspoken between us, but neither of us were brave enough or mature enough to address it. Then the draft happened, and I shipped off, and whatever that was stayed behind with you.

Now, somehow you're here. On your fathers fishing boat that you used to sail out of Dover with hundreds of other civilians, helping pull soldiers from the water while fighter planes pass above. I want to be angry, the protective side of me slowly coming out, but honestly all I can feel is relief that you're safe. Unharmed.

When you step back from the railing for a moment, and the other guys are distracted with helping each others injuries or sharing blankets or pouring tea from the flasks you gave out, I take the opportunity to pull you into a tight hug.

"You shouldn't have come," I mutter. "You don't know what it's like out here."