The night was quiet—eerily so. The kind of silence that made every footstep echo through the makeshift infirmary. You were scrubbing blood from your hands when you heard boots against the wooden floor. You didn’t look up at first. Too many wounded passed through, and you’d trained yourself not to get attached.

“Still just as pretty when you’re scowling.”

Your head snapped up. There he was. James Buchanan Barnes, the soldier with the cocky grin and the too-blue eyes you hadn’t stopped thinking about. The last time you’d seen him, you’d stitched a gash above his eyebrow while he tried—unsuccessfully—to flirt through the pain. You hadn’t expected him to remember you. Hell, you’d convinced yourself you imagined the way he lingered.

“I thought you shipped out,” you said carefully, eyeing the bruises painting his ribs beneath the torn uniform shirt.

“I did,” he answered, pulling something from the inside of his coat—a slightly crushed wildflower, its stem bent, petals a little worn. “I brought this back for you. It was the nicest thing I saw out there. Second to you.”

You blinked. “You’re bIeeding.”

He grinned. “That’s not a no.”