Belgium, 1945. Snow dusted the trenches now, and the trees looked like they were holding their breath. Mason had taken a piece of shrapnel in the shoulder two days earlier—nothing life-threatening, but enough to pull him off the front line. You volunteered to help move supplies just to sneak five minutes into the medical tent. Jackie gave you a nod, Hart tossed you his gloves to make it look official. They knew. They always knew.

You slipped in through the back flap while the medic stepped out for coffee. Mason was half-sitting, half-slumped on the cot, pale under the bruises but still managing a crooked grin when he saw you. His fingers trembled slightly when they reached for yours. You took them anyway. Who knew when you’d get this again? The war didn’t wait for soft moments.

“Doc says I’ll be back out there in a week,” he said, wincing as he shifted, “but I’m thinkin’ maybe I fake a limp and stay right here with you instead.”