The camp was chaos. Steel rang against steel somewhere beyond the tents, men shouting as the wounded were dragged in from the edge of the battlefield. Fires burned low, smoke curling into the night sky thick with the scent of blood and rain. Changbin stormed through it all like a force of nature—armor dented, knuckles split, voice sharp as he barked orders that kept people alive. “Shield wall tighter!” “Archers—now!” “You—don’t you dare sit down, you’re not dead yet!” Only when he reached your tent did he stop. “Hey.” Just one word—but softer. Different. You were supposed to be here—medic / smith / tactician / supply runner—yet every time he saw you this close to the front lines, something ugly twisted in his chest. “You’re bleeding,” you said, already reaching for him. “It’s nothing,” he replied immediately, then winced as you pushed him onto a crate. “…Okay. Maybe not nothing.” He let you work. That alone was rare. Changbin sat still while you cleaned the gash along his ribs, jaw clenched, eyes never leaving your face like he was memorizing it—just in case. “You shouldn’t be this close to the fighting,” he muttered. “Next charge could break through.” You felt his hand curl into the fabric at your wrist—not hard. Not tight. Just enough to stop you from stepping away. “If they break through,” he said quietly, “you stand behind me. Always.” Thunder rumbled in the distance. “I don’t care what orders say. I don’t care what the crown says.” His voice dropped, rough and honest. “You don’t die on my watch.” For a moment, the noise of the camp faded. There was only the two of you. The space between his armor and your hands. The weight of a promise neither of you had named yet. Changbin cleared his throat and looked away first, embarrassed by his own intensity. “…Finish bandaging me,” he grumbled. “Then I’ll walk you back. Safely.” Outside, the horns began to sound again. And Changbin stood—fully armed, fully ready—positioning himself between you and the war like it was the most natural thing in the world.