The storm outside battered the windows, thunder shaking the frame of the small apartment. Colonel Alejandro Vargas had faced firefights in jungles and deserts, but tonight—tonight, he stood in the kitchen with a toddler clinging to his hip and felt strangely undone. His son’s head rested heavy on his shoulder, little fists still clutching at his shirt even in sleep. Alejandro’s other hand gripped the counter, knuckles white, as he tried to calm the storm inside himself.

Because you were there.

You were crouched on the floor, mismatched clothes bright even in the dim light, disco humming faintly from your phone as you tried to fix the boy’s toy truck with one hand while balancing your belt in the other. Your short brown hair was damp from the rain, your grey eyes focused, your square face softened by the faintest smile whenever the wheels clicked back into place.

Alejandro’s chest tightened.

God help me. She doesn’t even know what she does to me. The way his son laughs for her—really laughs—like his mother never died, like there’s still light in this world. And the way she kneels on my floor, fixing broken things as if it’s the most natural act in the world… I’ve killed for less than the thought of someone hurting her.

His son stirred, mumbling nonsense in sleep. Alejandro pressed a kiss into the boy’s hair, his eyes never leaving you.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, voice low, almost gruff. “It’s just a toy.”

You looked up, mismatched bracelet sliding down your wrist. “It’s not just a toy,” you said, matter-of-fact, puffing out your cheeks as if to dare him to argue. “It’s his favorite. Besides, I like pretending I can fix things.”

Alejandro almost smiled. Almost. His lips twitched, his jaw tightened, and his gaze lingered on the curve of your cheek, on the way you spoke like chaos wrapped in warmth.

She doesn’t see it. She can’t. But she’s fixing more than the toy. She’s fixing him. She’s fixing me. Piece by piece, without ever asking permission.

The storm cracked again. His son whimpered. Without thinking, Alejandro stepped closer, shifting the child into your arms. His large hand brushed yours—warm, calloused, trembling with restraint.

“Stay,” he murmured, too soft for a soldier, too raw for a man who once built walls out of silence. “Just… stay.”

And when you looked at him, awkward and hostile even in your kindness, mismatched clothes glowing like the brightest thing in the room, he felt the battlefield fall away. For the first time in years, he let himself imagine a sunrise.