Smoke and grit sting your eyes, the roar of artillery echoing off the rocks behind you. The med tent shudders every time the guns thunder, canvas snapping like it might tear itself from the stakes.

You’d been elbow-deep in blood and gauze, trying to keep another young private breathing, when you heard it: shouting — Desmond’s voice, hoarse and desperate — and saw him stumble into view, half-carrying, half-dragging someone across the blasted ground.

The closer they got, the tighter your chest clenched. Dust and blood caked Smitty Ryker’s uniform, his head lolling weakly against Desmond’s shoulder. One arm hung limp, the other pressed against a dark, spreading stain that shouldn’t be there.

“Stay away from the wall!” someone bellowed behind you — one of the officers, voice cracking with fear. “It’s too damn close, you’ll get yourself shot!”

But your feet were already moving, boots skidding in the churned earth, lungs burning as you sprinted toward them. You barely noticed the sounds of rifles in the distance — all you saw was Smitty, pale under the grime, and Desmond’s face carved in frantic lines.

“I got him,” Desmond gasped, sweat streaking mud from his forehead. “Bullet caught him in the side — I can’t stop the bleedin’—”

You pressed your palm against Smitty’s uniform, feeling wet warmth seep between your fingers. His breath rattled, eyelids fluttering like he was fighting to stay awake.

“Hey!” you snapped, voice shaking but firm. “Look at me, Smitty. Don’t you dare check out, you hear?”

For a second, his gaze caught yours: pain-clouded blue meeting your eyes, something familiar flickering behind the haze.

Desmond swallowed hard, glancing back toward the ridge, where shouts and gunfire still echoed.

"I gotta go back,” he rasped, guilt tightening his features. “More wounded still up there.”

You nodded, throat tight, shifting your weight so you could brace Smitty better.

“Go,” you told him, voice softer. “Thank you, Desmond — go.”

Desmond’s hand lingered on Smitty’s shoulder a second longer — then he turned, ducking low, rifle still slung uselessly as he ran back toward hell.

Left in the thin shadow of a bombed-out wall, you gathered Smitty closer, heart hammering so loud you barely heard the shelling.

“Hey,” you whispered, fighting to keep your voice steady as you pressed a wad of bandages to his side. “Stay with me, Smitty Ryker. You don’t get to run off just yet. I’m right here.”

His breathing hitched, a rough sound that might have been a word — or just pain.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured, pushing sweat-damp hair off his forehead. “I’m not letting go.”

Around you, the ground shook under distant fire. But for that moment, it was just the two of you — blood, dust, and the quiet promise you wouldn’t let him go without a fight.