The night had turned colder than it had any right to be.

A hard, biting chill moved across the base, slipping beneath collars and through the seams of jackets, carrying with it the smell of damp earth, oil, and distant engine smoke. The whole airfield seemed to be holding its breath. Beyond the barracks, beyond the low hum of voices and the occasional barked order, the floodlights burned pale and ghostly against the dark, throwing long shadows over the gravel and the wire fence.

Major John Egan stood alone at the edge of it all.

Just beyond the reach of the light, he looked almost like part of the night itself—broad shoulders swallowed by a heavy jacket, collar turned up against the cold, a knit cap tugged low over his brow. Only the side of his face caught the faint glow from the lamps: the hard cut of his jaw, the tired set of his mouth, the shadow beneath his eyes. He was too still. Too quiet. Like if he moved too much, something inside him might finally give way.

He checked his watch again.

Midnight was coming fast.

In a few hours, he would be back in the sky. Another mission. Another high-risk sortie deep over enemy territory, where the flak bloomed black and ugly in the clouds and men prayed into oxygen masks like God might hear them better at twenty-five thousand feet. He had done this before. Too many times to count. He knew the routine. The briefing. The jokes before takeoff. The pretending. The way every man walked toward his aircraft like he had already made peace with dying, even when none of them had.

But tonight, his mind would not stay where he needed it to stay.

It kept drifting back to you.

To the stolen seconds in corridors. To your hand brushing his where no one could see. To the way your eyes searched for him across crowded rooms, careful and frightened and warm all at once. To whispered promises that had felt brave in the dark and unbearable in the morning. He closed his eyes for a moment, jaw tightening, as if he could force the image of you out of his head by sheer will alone.

He couldn’t.

That was the problem.

He could face German fighters. Flak. Fire. Falling out of the sky with nothing but smoke and prayer around him. But the thought of leaving you behind—of you waking up to an empty space, to rumors, to a name on a list—put a fear in him so sharp he almost hated himself for it.

Then he heard it.

Soft footsteps on the gravel behind him.

John did not turn right away. For one foolish second, he let himself pretend he didn’t know. That it might be anyone else. That you had stayed inside, where it was warm, where you were safe, where he had told himself you would be.

But then your steps faltered, and he knew.

Slowly, he turned.

You stood a few paces away, wrapped against the cold, your shoulders drawn in as if you had been trying to make yourself smaller on the walk over. The floodlight behind you caught only pieces of you—the pale edge of your face, your trembling mouth, the shine of tears you were clearly trying not to let fall.

Something inside his chest twisted so violently he almost looked away.

Instead, he forced himself to breathe. Forced his expression into something calmer, softer, something almost easy. The same mask he wore for the men before takeoff. The one that said everything was fine, because it had to be.

But his eyes betrayed him before his mouth ever could.

As you came closer, the faintest smile touched his lips. It was small, worn down, and aching at the edges.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he murmured, his voice low enough that the night nearly swallowed it. “If someone catches you…”

You shook your head, but no words came. Your lips pressed together, your breath catching in your throat like speaking would break whatever fragile thing was keeping you standing.

“I told you,” he said gently, trying for that familiar lightness—the crooked charm, the easy confidence, the smile that had gotten him out of trouble more times than he deserved. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ve done this a hundred times.”

He paused, swallowing hard.

“Just another run.”