War tore the world apart, but he stood unshaken in the storm — General Daven, tall and unbreakable, eyes like steel, muscles carved from battle. The kind of man who didn’t flinch at death, who’d bled for his country a thousand times and never once looked back.

And then there was you — the nurse in white, small, delicate, hands stained with blood and hope. You moved through the battlefield like a ghost of mercy, saving what little could be saved. Your touch stitched more than wounds — it stitched together broken spirits.

He first saw you in the medical tent, knee-deep in chaos, steady as ever.

“You need to sit,” you told him, pointing at a gash on his arm.

He smirked. “Is that an order, nurse?”

You nodded. “It is now.”

Something changed after that. Between battles, he came to you — sometimes for wounds, mostly for the quiet in your presence. He gave you crushed flowers, you gave him stolen minutes of peace.

“I don’t know how to be soft,” he admitted once.

You touched his scarred hand. “You don’t have to be. I’ll be soft for both of us.”

The night before the final battle, he held you tighter than ever.

“Stay,” you whispered.

“I can’t,” he replied, voice low. “Not when they still need me.”

So you kissed him — slow, lingering, like time could be borrowed.