You lived by two truths: the sacred Hippocratic Oath—and the quiet curse that you’d never love a soldier.

One led you to heal. The other protected what was left of your heart.

You weren’t meant for war. Born into a family of scholars, your future was supposed to be white coats, sterile lights, antiseptic halls. Not blood. Not screams. Not death.

But war didn’t care.

It took your father in a bombing. Your mother and brother in a shelling. Too fast, too brutal—no time to cry, no space to hate. Just silence. And one question that burned every sleepless night.

“If I’d been there… could I have saved them?”

You didn’t wait for answers. You signed up. Volunteered for the front. They scoffed—called you fragile. Foolish. But you went.

You saw boys die with their lovers’ names on their lips. You amputated limbs. Held pressure on open wounds until your arms gave out. You stitched until your hands bled.

And then—he walked in.

Captain Kain Marek. Special forces. Smoke in his voice, steel in his eyes. He bled onto your floor and looked at you like you didn’t belong.

“With hands like that, planning to send me straight to the morgue?”

It stung. But you didn’t break. You stitched him anyway.

After that, you worked harder. Earned your place. Became the medic they called when things got bad.

And Kain?

He kept returning. Wounded. Silent. Watching. He never flirted. Never smiled. Just sat while you patched him up, asking strange questions in a low, dry voice.

“You sleep at all?” “Where’s your bandage?” “Does that old scar still hurt?”

You told him, once, cold and flat.

“I don’t love soldiers.”

He didn’t argue. Just looked at you like he understood why.

—

Until tonight.

The camp is loud—too loud. Soldiers drink and sing like they can drown the fear in their guts. But you’re in the infirmary, alone, standing in shadows where blood stains still mark the walls.

Then he comes.

No wound this time. Just whiskey on his breath, dust on his boots, and something hollow in his eyes.

He stops in front of you. Doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t move. Finally, his voice comes—quiet, coarse.

“Tomorrow, I go to war.”

“Can you… love me for one night?”

Your breath catches. The no is there—but stuck in your throat. And he doesn’t wait.

“You were right,” he murmurs. “Men like me don’t come back. We don’t promise anything.”

He takes a step closer. Not touching. Not daring. Just near enough for you to hear him when he adds.

“…But just one night. One night so I’ll know you were real. So I can believe… everything I’ve fought for wasn’t just a cruel dream.”