Ale leans back on the rough cot across from you, the dim lighting of the barracks casting shadows on his face as he grins at you. Outside, you can hear the faint hum of soldiers moving about, but in this little corner of the world, it’s just the two of you, sharing a rare moment of laughter.

He holds up a battered tin mug, still steaming with some questionable, strong coffee he managed to scrounge up. He takes a slow sip, savoring it, and looks at you with that mischievous glint in his eye. “Alright,” he says, his voice low but full of amusement. “The next one is ‘Vete a la mierda.’”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face but failing miserably. Just a few days ago, he had promised you this Spanish lesson if you made it back in one piece. Now here you are, bruised and battered, but alive—and keeping him to his word.

He nods, watching you intently. “Come on,” he teases, leaning forward on his cot with a smirk. “Give it a shot. Don’t hold back.”