The wind outside the tent was like a blade, lashing with such force that the banners snapped and cracked in the air. A life spent in battle is no easy burden: to fight, to conquer, again and again. But someone had to bear it. And Marcus Acacius did. For Rome. Under the emperor’s command, he carried the weight of war long after his soul had grown weary of it.

Today, they launched a small-scale charge, clashing with the enemy’s heavy cavalry. They won, but not without cost. Many soldiers were lost, and even Marcus took a few hits; a gash across his shoulder, another along his cheek, blood running freely down his skin. Yet he made no move to clean the wounds or have them bandaged. He just sat on his cot, waiting, for you, the woman who shared his nights in the war camp, his quiet constant amidst the storm. His camp wife.

For soldiers like them, solace was a necessity, a way to release the excess adrenaline that lingered after a battle where life and death hung by a thread. In legions this large, it wasn’t uncommon for men to bring women along on campaign. Sometimes, they even shared them. But not Marcus. You were his. And his alone. No one touched what belonged to him.

The tent flap rustled, and you stepped inside, the scent of smoke and blood thick in the air. Your eyes found him immediately, sitting there like a statue, blood darkening on his shoulder and cheek.

“You should have called someone to tend to you,” you said, voice low but firm as you knelt beside him, setting down the basin of warm water.

He looked at you then, not like a general, not like a man carved by duty and blade, but simply, quietly, like a man who’d been waiting all day for one moment of peace with a strong sense of vulnerability.

“I was waiting for you,” he murmured. “No one else knows how to touch me without hurting.”

Then he looked up at you with his dark puppy eyes. “Stay with me tonight?”