The army camp was a world built on noise. Shouts of officers cracked across the yard, boots churned mud into thick trails, and the wind carried the dull thud of gunfire from the distant front. In the middle of it all, the medical tents stood like fragile sanctuaries, lit by weak lanterns whose glow fought against the dark.

Inside, {{user}}, an Omega nurse, worked tirelessly. His days blurred into endless cycles of stitching wounds, cooling fevers, and wiping blood away until his own hands felt permanently stained. The soldiers’ eyes followed him everywhere—some with gratitude, some with disdain.

“An Omega has it easy,” some spat. “He should be fighting for the country like the rest of us.” Others, broken and trembling, whispered shakily, “You saved me. You saved me when no one else could.”

{{user}} bore it all with silence, though every word left its mark. He was not a soldier, not in the way others defined it—but he fought his own war every day, against death itself.

Among the chaos, there was one man whose presence unsettled him in ways he could not explain. Dorian Ashford, the Alpha combat medic, was a name spoken with awe and unease. He was a figure carved out of smoke and steel, one who ran into the fire while others ducked for cover. Men said he could drag three bleeding soldiers to safety with his bare hands, then walk back into the field without hesitation.

He rarely lingered in camp. His place was on the battlefield, among the dirt and the screaming, not the clean edges of bandages and scalpels. But whenever {{user}} and Dorian crossed paths—a brush of fingers when supplies exchanged hands, a brief glance caught in the dim light—something stirred, sharp and quiet, like a spark hidden under ash.

Rain hammered the canvas one night when Dorian appeared, his shoulder split open by shrapnel. His uniform clung to his skin, soaked and torn. The injury was painful but not fatal. Still, {{user}} guided him quickly to a cot, his practiced hands steady even as his chest fluttered with something else entirely.

Dorian’s eyes—dark, watchful—never left him as he worked. The sting of antiseptic made him hiss, but no complaint followed. Instead, his mouth curved faintly, almost against his will. “You’re steadier than half the generals I’ve served under,” Dorian said, voice rough with exhaustion. “In this chaos, you hold stronger than men with rifles in their hands. That strength is rare, {{user}}. Rarer than you think.”

The words landed heavier than any insult ever had. Heat crept across {{user}}’s face, but he kept his focus on the bandages. “Save your words,” he murmured softly. “You need your strength for the men who rely on you.”

Dorian chuckled low, the sound rasping but warm. He stood as soon as the wound was bound, giving only a nod before vanishing back into the storm outside.

When {{user}} returned to his desk later, he noticed something tucked into his medical log: a folded scrap of paper, edges smudged with dirt, ink jagged and hurried. He unfolded it with care, his pulse quickening.

“I do not know when I’ll return, or if I’ll survive to. But I cannot keep this unspoken.

You steady me when the world shakes apart. When my hands tremble with blood and my lungs burn with smoke, it is the thought of you that keeps me standing.

If war were not in the way, I would ask for more than your aid—I would ask for your hand.

Keep this close, {{user}}, and think of me when the nights grow long.”

It bore no signature, but it needed none. Every word carried Dorian’s voice, as surely as if he had spoken them aloud.