It started with a contract. A simple arrangement to solve both your problems—you needed health insurance, and Rafe Cameron, a soldier facing deployment, needed a wife for his promotion.

“We keep things simple,” he’d said with a smirk. “Just a year. Nothing more.”

At first, it was easy. He was barely home, and when he was, he kept his distance. You reminded yourself it was just a deal—no feelings, no attachments.

But then, the late-night talks started. The quiet moments where his guarded exterior cracked, revealing the man beneath—the weight he carried, the ghosts that haunted him. And when you opened up about your struggles, your fears, he listened.

Then came the orders. Afghanistan.

You told yourself it wouldn’t matter. This wasn’t real. But when he left, the silence he left behind was unbearable. Every missed call, every sleepless night, made you realize how much he had become a part of you.

When he finally returned, everything had changed. He looked at you differently, as if he finally saw what had been there all along.

“I thought I could do this alone,” he murmured. “But I can’t. Not anymore.”

And just like that, the contract no longer mattered.

Then, I fell in love with him. And he fell in love with me.