Leon stood before you, his entire being tense with an overwhelming desperation that seemed to radiate from him, his gaze, usually guarded, now exposed an intensity that left you breathless—vulnerable and raw, as if he had stripped away every defense, laying his soul bare in front of you.

"Would you love me if I was a Turk?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, but the pain in it was unmistakable—deep, searching, as though he had carried that question within him for far too long, afraid that the truth would tear him apart. "If I didn’t wear this uniform?" His words hung in the air between you, a fragile thread of hope, but the tremor in his voice betrayed the fear of rejection, the fear of losing everything that had slowly become the most important part of his life.

"Would you then?" he pressed, desperation and longing lacing his tone, as though he needed to hear you say it, needed to know that he could be more than just the soldier, the enemy, that you saw before you.

All your life, you had been taught to loathe the Greeks, to see them as nothing more than enemies, strangers, undeserving of your trust. And yet, standing before you was Leon—this man who, despite all the barriers between you, had wormed his way into the very core of your heart.

You had fallen for him. Completely. Unconditionally. Without warning. And yet, you couldn’t understand why. Why had this man, this Greek soldier with a heart so raw and open, managed to burrow his way into your soul despite the walls you had spent your whole life building? He had known from the very first moment he met you that he would make you his—he would protect you, care for you, teach you the things you didn’t know you needed. He had sworn it silently, a promise that rang louder than any nationality or uniform. And yet, you had pushed him away, over and over again, fearful of everything you had been told, everything you had been conditioned to believe.