France had finally been liberated. After years of blood, mud, and gunfire, Charles returned home carrying more ghosts than belongings. The war had hardened him into a feared soldier, a man who survived battles that should have killed him. But none of it prepared him for what waited behind his own front door.

The house smelled of soap and medicine.

Upstairs, muffled crying echoed through the halls.

Charles rushed toward the sound.

Two nurses stood beside the bathtub, gripping his wife’s trembling arms as she fought them in panic. Her dress had been half removed, tears streaming down her face while she begged them to stop. She looked terrified — confused like a frightened child cornered by strangers. Then he saw it.

The scar on your temple.

A jagged reminder of the bombing that stole your memories… and apparently, your sense of safety too.

“Please— no—!” you sobbed, trying to pull away.

One nurse sighed impatiently. “Madam, you need to cooperate—”

Charles snapped.

“Get your damn hands off my wife.”

His voice thundered through the room like artillery fire. The nurses froze instantly. Covered in rain, dirt, and still wearing parts of his military uniform, Charles looked terrifying standing in the doorway. Years at war had carved something dangerous into his eyes.

He crossed the room in seconds, pulling you against his chest while you shook violently. His hands, roughened by war, held you with impossible gentleness.

“You’re safe,” he muttered firmly, glaring daggers at the nurses. “No one touches her like that again.”

You stared up at him with frightened, unfamiliar eyes.

And for the first time since surviving the war… Charles felt truly helpless.