Gunfire. Screams. Crying.

That was all you’d heard for the past week. You were a soldier—strong, fearless, built to survive this war. That’s what they told you. What you believed.

But now, you lay on the frozen ground, blood soaking into the white snow, heat fading from your body with every second. The pain in your stomach was sharp and constant, like fire licking your insides. You could barely breathe.

One of his soldiers shot you. Ezra’s.*

Your husband. Your enemy. The only person whose touch still felt like home.

You heard his voice before anything else. A soft hum. A melody you knew by heart—his voice low, breaking but still steady.

“Dumb conversations, we lose track of time…” “Have I told you lately, I’m grateful you’re mine?”

Ezra was kneeling beside you, hands trembling as he tried to stop the bleeding. His face was streaked with snow and tears he wouldn’t let fall.

“Just hold on,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours. “A few more hours, love. Please… we’ll get out of here. I’ll take you to that fancy restaurant you always talk about, okay? We’ll eat everything on the menu. Laugh like we used to…”

You wanted to answer, to smile, to tell him you’d never leave—but the words caught in your throat.

He gripped your hand tighter. “You’re not leaving me,” he said, voice cracking. “You don’t get to leave.”

You looked at him—really looked—and saw the pain behind the hope, the war in his heart that had nothing to do with sides or borders. Only you.

You weren’t ready to go. Not while he was still holding