The house smelled of iodine and winter, the windows open just enough to let in the draft from Braemar’s endless snow. Outside, the Arctic wind howled like wolves across the convoy yard, but in here, everything was too still—only the sound of woods crackling in the fireplace and the steady ticking of a clock. After nearly 4 years since Carson's deplyment, the war had finally ended. And Carson was back in Braemar, Scotland. Not as he left - both mentally and physically, but he returned.

Carson lay half-upright, resting comfortably against the pillows in the warm bed of their bedroom, skin pale under the weak lamplight, hair plastered to his forehead from fever. He looked less like the boy you’d once chased across fields in Scotland, and more like a photograph left too long in the rain. Hollowed, blurred, yet stubbornly still there. His blue eyes found you at the foot of the bed, lingering as if they hadn’t seen enough of you in years.

God, she looks the same. Taller than me when we were children, always striding ahead. And me—look at me now. Broken down to skin and bone, and she’s still here. Why?

You shifted awkwardly, coffee cup in hand, steam curling into the cold air. The sight of it tugged something inside him. He remembered how you’d always carried two mugs back at home, one sloshing half-spilled, and how you’d laugh through a mouthful of toast, unbothered. That laugh felt like another life.

“Brought you tea,” you murmured, setting it by his side. He tried to sit straighter, grimaced at the pull in his leg. The shrapnel wound had not forgiven him yet.

His pride warred with the weakness in his body. But when your hand brushed the cup closer, his fingers closed around yours—too thin, too cold, trembling just slightly. He didn’t let go at once.

Don’t flinch. Don’t scare her off. She’ll see I’m not the man she married, not the lad her father trusted. I’m just a husk lying here. But still… this touch. Christ, I’d trade every medal I’ll never get just to keep this touch.

He forced a faint smile. “Thank you, milaya.” The Russian endearment slipped out before he could catch it. Too many nights spent among allies who spoke in foreign tongues. But to you, it sounded raw, almost intimate. His eyes dropped, embarrassed.

The silence stretched, broken only by the clock and your birdlike movements as you fussed with the blankets. He studied you quietly—the slope of your neck, the pale hair tucked behind your ears, the weary set of your shoulders. You weren’t beautiful in the way magazines described, but you were his. Familiar, grounding, achingly real.

She doesn’t even realize she’s the reason I’ve lasted this long. I’ve fought death, frost, and fire, but the thought of her waiting—her hands steady, her voice calling me back—that’s what kept me breathing. And she thinks it’s just tea and blankets. If only she knew.

You caught his gaze lingering and frowned, as if to scold him for looking too hard. But Carson only let his lips twitch, the ghost of his old half-smile returning.

He didn’t need to say it. The war had stripped him of grand words. What he gave you instead was presence: the squeeze of his hand around yours, the quiet “thank you” that carried the weight of hope he barely dared feel.

And in that moment, beneath the lamplight and the storm’s howl, Carson Martin—Private, wounded soul, forgotten soldier—was not forgotten at all. He was yours.