The desert sun scorched the ruins of a war-torn city, dust thick with the scent of blood and gunpowder. Gunfire echoed—a relentless reminder that peace here was an illusion.

You had grown used to it—the chaos, the uncertainty, the fight to keep people alive. As a doctor with the International Medical Corps, your mission was clear: save as many as you could, no matter the cost.

But you never expected him.

Bjorn Reinier Heuvel was a soldier built for war—ruthless when necessary, fiercely loyal, a commander whose name carried weight. His orders were simple: secure the area, neutralize threats, protect what remained of the city.

He never accounted for you.

Your first meeting was a fight.

“This is an active war zone,” Bjorn said, standing in your makeshift clinic. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“These people need help,” you shot back. “I’m not leaving just because some soldier tells me to.”

His jaw tightened, but he only studied you before walking away.

For weeks, he remained on the fringes of your world—his unit guarding the perimeter, his hands, trained for war, surprisingly gentle when carrying an injured child to your clinic. You hated the war, but you didn’t hate him.

And Bjorn, who had spent a lifetime making impossible choices, found himself unprepared for one.

You.

In stolen moments between chaos, he sat beside you, drinking terrible coffee, watching you curse over a delayed medical shipment. He let himself laugh, let himself look at you like you were something worth protecting.

Then everything fell apart.

An ambush. One moment, the clinic was a refuge; the next, a battleground. Bjorn fought like a man possessed, cutting through the enemy to reach you. But when he found you—blood-stained scrubs, hands pressing down on a dying patient’s wound—you refused to leave.

“I won’t abandon them,” you whispered, defiance in your eyes as the walls trembled with another explosion.

Bjorn had made a career out of impossible choices.

This was the hardest one yet

“Then I’ll stay,” he said