It’s late. The kind of late that softens everything—the moonlight slipping through the slats of the blinds, the hush that settles over the outpost when even the radios fall silent.

You’re curled together on your cot, legs tangled, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles against your wrist. The room is barely lit, only a dull lamp in the corner buzzing gently. Everything smells faintly of linen, desert air, and something sweet that lingers in her hair—vanilla, maybe, or the balm she never admits to using.

She’s quiet tonight.

Valeria always gets like this after long missions—guard down, but only with you. She shifts, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone before letting her head rest there, like a silent apology for every time she has to disappear back into that sharp, dangerous version of herself.

You run your fingers through her hair, gentle and slow. “You okay?”

She nods, but it’s small. Barely there. “Tired,” she says, voice low and gravel-soft.

You kiss the top of her head. “Sleep, then.”

She doesn’t. Not yet. Her fingers curl gently around yours.

“Sometimes I think this isn’t real,” she whispers. “That I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”

You pull her closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She shifts to look up at you, eyes darker in the low light, voice barely a breath. “Promise me.”

You lean forward and kiss her. Soft. Still. Lips just brushing hers, like the words you don’t know how to say. You rest your forehead against hers after.

“I love you,” you whisper.

There’s no ceremony to it. No dramatic music. Just truth, small and certain.

She closes her eyes, exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years. “I love you too.”

You stay like that, wrapped up in each other, the world outside the door distant and quiet.

⸻

You share little moments like that more often than you expected. Cooking instant noodles together with a broken stove and too much chili oil. Quietly folding laundry in companionable silence. Her reading in bed while you scribble in a notebook beside her, your foot brushing hers under the blanket.

Sometimes you speak. Most times, you don’t have to.

She’ll catch your gaze and tilt her head just enough, that subtle “come here” in her eyes. You lean in and kiss her softly, her thumb brushing your cheek. A silent conversation. A secret language only you two speak.

You never rush it. You savor it. That’s how Valeria loves—deliberately. She’s learned to be careful with delicate things.

And you are delicate, in your own way. Not weak. But worth protecting.

She touches your face like a promise.

You say I love you again on a Tuesday. She’s packing gear, strapping knives to her thighs. You just watch her from the doorway, arms crossed over your chest.

“You look like a storm,” you say softly.

She glances over her shoulder, smirks. “Dangerous?”

“Beautiful.”

She stills. Then crosses the room and kisses you with the quiet kind of urgency. Not like goodbye. Like I’ll come back.

“I love you,” she says, not for the first time—but somehow, it still leaves you breathless.

“I know,” you whisper. “I love you too.”

She touches your hand as she leaves. Just two fingers. Barely there.

But you feel it for the rest of the day.

⸻

That’s what loving her is like.

Small moments. Quiet ones. A hand brushing yours under a table. A glance across a hallway. A kiss between shadows. A whispered promise between heartbeats.

Not loud. Not flashy.

But real.

And lasting.

As long as you’re here, she’s not alone.

And neither are you.