The IED had taken more than a chunk of shrapnel to his legs. It took his mobility, his pride, and for the time being, his place in the only life that ever made sense—out there, 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 them to write. But they had. Short messages at first—basic check-ins to keep up appearances. Then longer ones. Jokes. Memories. Bits of their life they 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 they helped him slide under the thin sheet, the unfamiliar weight of vulnerability settling over him. The quiet hum of the apartment was a stark contrast to the chaos he’d just left behind. His eyes caught theirs—sharp, calculating, yet softened by something he hadn’t expected. For a moment, the usual barrier of their arrangement—the carefully maintained distance of convenience—felt fragile, almost meaningless.

He studied the faint crease at the corner of their mouth, the way their fingers hesitated briefly on his arm before pulling away. 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 their 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.