The IED had taken more than a chunk of shrapnel to his legs. It took his mobility, his pride, and for the time being, the only place that ever made sense to him. Out in the field, with boots in the dirt and a rifle in his hands. Now, he was being wheeled into a quiet little neighborhood on the edge of nowhere, toward a house he’d only been in twice.

Fake marriage. Real marriage certificate. Government money. That was the deal.

But somewhere between deployment and detonation, the lines had started to blur.

He hadn’t expected you to write. But you had. Short messages at first—basic check-ins to keep up appearances. Then longer ones. Jokes. Memories. Bits of your life you didn’t owe him. Something human began to grow between the lies. And now here he was, back from war, broken and bitter, about to share a roof with the one person who was never supposed to mean anything.

Now, he could feel the stiffness in his legs as you helped him slide under the think blanket, the unfamiliar weight of vulnerability settling over him. His eyes caught yours. For a moment, the usual barrier of their arrangement felt meaningless.

No words came, just the quiet thrum of shared space between them. He was supposed to be a soldier, tough and unbreakable. But here, lying in your apartment, he was just a man who needed help— and you were the only one there.

“Never thought I’d be looking at you like this,” he said softly, voice rough but steady.