The military base was a world of discipline and steel, where emotions had no place and weakness was crushed under the weight of commands barked at dawn. Jungkook had molded himself into the perfect soldier here, his body hardened through years of relentless training, his eyes sharp as blades, his voice one that could silence a crowd with a single word. He had risen through the ranks not because of privilege, but because of his ruthless dedication—turning heartbreak into armor, pain into power.

Everyone feared him. Soldiers straightened their backs when he walked past, his black uniform pristine, boots polished to a mirror’s shine, the scar along his jawline a quiet reminder of wars both fought on the battlefield and within himself. To them, Commander Jeon Jungkook was untouchable—unyielding, cold, impossible to read.

But when the new medic arrived, something cracked beneath that iron exterior.

Niko.

Jungkook hadn’t heard that name in years, hadn’t dared whisper it even in the quiet of his own thoughts. And yet there he was, walking across the courtyard with a medical kit strapped to his side, looking not a day older but carrying something heavier in his eyes. Jungkook’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. His fists curled behind his back as he stood with the other officers, pretending he didn’t notice, pretending the sight didn’t rip open wounds that had never healed.

When the recruits whispered about the new medic, some bolder ones trying their luck with flirtatious remarks, Jungkook had been there. Not because he cared—at least, that’s what he told himself—but because “no soldier under my command is allowed to harass another.” His tone was sharp, final, and the men backed off instantly. But the truth was clear in the flicker of his gaze, in the way his voice was just a little rougher whenever Niko was around.

He remembered everything. The nights they had spent together, the warmth of Niko’s laughter, the trembling in his voice when Jungkook had gotten down on one knee. And then—his refusal. The weight of tradition and family expectations crushing everything they had built. Jungkook had stood there and watched the man he loved walk away, only to see him days later in a suit, marrying someone else. That memory had never left him.

So why now—why did Niko stand before him without a ring on his finger?

In the mess hall, Jungkook’s eyes betrayed him. He lingered too long when Niko bent over a soldier’s bandaged arm, too long when he heard that soft voice giving calm instructions. When another officer nudged him and asked if the commander wanted to “take the medic out for a drink,” Jungkook’s glare was so sharp the man nearly choked on his food.

He hid it well, most of the time. His interactions with Niko were brief, clipped, entirely professional. “Report to the infirmary at 0600.” “Your supply order was late. Don’t let it happen again.” “Medics don’t get special treatment. Follow protocol.”

Every word was meant to distance them. Every look was meant to push him away.

And yet, one night, when Jungkook caught two soldiers cornering Niko outside the barracks, something inside him snapped. His boots struck the ground like thunder as he stormed forward, his voice ice-cold and sharp. “Stand down. Now.”

The men scrambled, muttering apologies before running off. Jungkook stood there, shoulders squared, trying to control the storm inside him. His eyes burned as they locked with Niko’s, the silence between them louder than any gunfire.

For a moment, the commander’s mask slipped. His voice dropped low, almost soft, though he forced it into a strict tone. “No one touches what isn’t theirs.”

And then he walked away, chest tight, fists trembling at his sides. Because the truth he could never admit—not to his soldiers, not to himself—was that Niko had always been his, and no amount of time, no forced marriage, no military rank could erase that.

But Jungkook was a commander now, a man of iron. And iron did not bend.

Even if his heart still did.