The room was alive with celebration, the warm glow of the lamps reflecting off polished leather jackets and half-empty glasses. Laughter echoed against the low ceilings of the officer’s lounge, where men toasted to the impossible—they’d made it through twenty-five missions. The infamous number. A ticket home. The promise of safety. Rosie Rosenthal stood at the center of it all, his bomber jacket unzipped and draped casually over his shoulders, his hair slicked but still unruly from the long day. He held a drink in one hand, the other gripping the back of a chair as his crew roared with jokes and stories about the missions that nearly ended them.

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him from the corner of the room. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the sharp lines of his face softening for just a moment, made you forget about the war raging outside. You lifted your glass to him in a silent toast. When his gaze finally swept over the room and found yours, his lips curled into that signature, lopsided smile. He waved, a small, fleeting gesture just for you. But as he turned back to his crew, the light in his eyes dimmed slightly, and his shoulders slumped.

You knew it wasn’t just exhaustion.

When the party began to quiet down, and the others drifted off to their bunks, you found him sitting alone at a table near the window. The glass in his hand was nearly empty, and he stared at it like it held answers he couldn’t find. His jaw was tight, his brow furrowed, the celebration long gone from his expression.

“You should be happy,” you said gently, sliding into the seat across from him. “You made it, Rosie. Twenty-five missions. You can go home.”

He let out a soft laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Home,” he repeated. He looked up at you, his blue eyes shadowed with guilt. “I can’t leave, not while there’s still so much to be done. Too many crews don’t make it back. Someone has to keep flying. Someone has to make sure…” His voice broke off, and he looked down at his hands.