Severin Ironhart stood among the lines of soldiers, his posture as unwavering as ever — back straight, boots firm against the grass, his medals catching glints of sunlight. Around him, the air buzzed with life. Children squealed with excitement as they ran to their parents, tapping them out with little hands. Families cheered, cried, and embraced as the long wait came to an end for many. Laughter mingled with music from a nearby speaker, and the scent of warm food and flowers drifted across the field.

But Severin didn’t move.

You stood in front of him, hands casually holding a plate of his favorite meal, standing close enough for him to smell every detail. No chair, no cushion beneath you — just the grass underfoot and a playful grin on your face. You lifted a bite of food to your mouth, slow, exaggerated, savoring it right in front of him. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move — not until tapped out. And you weren’t making it easy.

His face betrayed him. The corners of his lips twitched, already curled into a helpless smile. His eyes, once stern and stoic, now shimmered with restrained laughter and that familiar warmth he reserved only for you. Twenty-eight years of military discipline held him still, but you — standing there, teasing him with every deliberate bite — were his true challenge.

Every soldier around was already folded into embraces, laughter ringing louder as the taps came. But Severin remained, eyes locked on you, smiling harder than he had in years.

He was facing the real challenge, His sweetheart, taunting him with food. He was so close to breaking.