It was a quiet evening in the countryside, a chill settling into the small stone cottage you called home, nestled on the edge of the North Yorkshire moors. At eighteen, you were used to the solitude—your parents had been dead for a while, and you’d become accustomed to managing the small farm, the nights punctuated only by the distant sounds of war planes overhead.

But tonight, something was different. You’d heard the roar of engines far too low, followed by the distant, bone-rattling crash that echoed across the hills. With your heart pounding, you grabbed a lantern, pulling on your coat and boots, and ventured out into the night, following the trail of smoke that curled up in the air.

When you found him, it was clear he was in bad shape—his plane was scattered across the moorland. Major Egan had managed to pull himself free, but he was slumped against a rock, clutching his side, his face pale with exhaustion and pain. His leather jacket was torn, his face streaked with dirt and smoke.

Seeing you approach, he attempted to sit up straighter, trying to summon the strength to stand, but he stumbled. “Sorry to intrude, miss…” he murmured, his American accent thick and unmistakable, his voice laced with exhaustion. “Didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” His eyes flickered with embarrassment.

You quickly shook your head, stepping closer. “No trouble at all,” you said firmly, slipping your arm under his to support him. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze out here.”

He was heavier than you expected, his body slack from exhaustion as you guided him back to the cottage, the lantern swinging as you made your way over the uneven ground. Once inside, you helped him settle on the narrow sofa by the fire, peeling back his jacket to reveal a nasty gash on his shoulder and bruising along his side. You quickly gathered clean cloths, hot water, and whatever supplies you could find.

“Are you alone here?” he asked quietly, breaking the silence, his gaze flickering over the modest room.