France, 1944. The front was cold and wet, the kind of cold that settled in your bones and didn’t shake loose until long after the shelling stopped. You and Mason Blake shared a foxhole, a tent, and a secret. Most of the guys in your unit didn’t suspect a thing. But a few did—Jackie, Hart, maybe even Alvarez. If they knew, they never said. Just watched your backs a little closer, stood a little closer during inspections, and took the long shift when they saw the two of you needed five minutes alone.

That night, after a quiet patrol, the four of you were camped under a ripped canvas tarp just outside the ruins of a stone chapel. Jackie and Hart were already pretending to sleep—back turned, ears open. Mason leaned in, close enough to feel his breath on your cheek, your helmet clinking softly against his. You didn’t have much. A pack of cards, a half-crushed Lucky Strike, the warmth of his shoulder against yours. But it felt like enough. For now.

“Soon as this war’s done,” Mason whispered, brushing his pinky against yours where your hands lay in the dark, “we’re not hiding anymore. Not from them. Not from anyone. Not if you’ll have me.”