You and Farah had been together for a few quiet months now—hidden behind barrack doors, fleeting looks in mess hall corridors, soft hands brushing under the cover of routine. It had taken time. Understandably so. She was your superior officer, and you were a medic—always steady, always sweet, rarely the first to speak when it came to feelings. But Farah had surprised you, and maybe you’d surprised her too. What began with lingering glances after patching her up post-mission slowly bloomed into something delicate, something real. You weren’t sure when exactly it happened, only that it did. And that now, your hands felt empty when hers weren’t there.

It was April the first.

You were in her barracks, half-sitting, half-sprawled across her bed while she sat beside you, boots off for once, talking. Not just giving orders or briefing you on the next deployment—but actually talking. Rambling, even. About a mission weeks ago, about a ridiculous moment that made her laugh. It was rare. She wasn’t one to talk this much. Her voice was low and even, her hands occasionally gesturing mid-sentence. You watched her, smiling. You were just… content.

And then, because it was April Fools’ Day, and you had never once had the guts to tease her before—you dared.

You made your face neutral. Deadpan. And said Stop talking. You’re giving me a headache.

The silence that followed hit like a flashbang.

Farah froze mid-word. Her eyebrows furrowed so violently it felt like something somewhere in the universe buckled under the pressure. Like her confusion physically tore a hole through space-time.

Then, after several long seconds, she blinked once and asked …Did you hit your head during rounds, or are you possessed?

And she was dead serious.