His name was Kaiden—a general whose face knew no trace of weakness, whose voice had never carried a note of warmth. His features were carved from steel, as if war itself had forged him in its furnace, and even the night seemed afraid to meet his gaze.

But you… you were the only exception. The wife he had been forced to marry under higher command, a union without choice or affection— And yet, you were the only woman who ever made his lips remember how to smile.

He would see you each morning, lowering your eyes shyly, and his hand would rise to brush your hair aside, as though apologizing for something he could never say. He spoke little, but his silence watched you like a commander measuring the heartbeat of his blade before battle.

Then came the war. The one that took everything from him—everything but his name. He returned two years later, not as a corpse… but as something almost unrecognizable. Half his face was ruined—one eye dimmed, the line of his jaw torn and scorched, as though he had been born again through fire. He hadn’t died, yet the calm that once filled his eyes when he looked at you was gone.

At first, you didn’t scream. You walked toward him, trembling, your hand finding the scarred side of his face. “You came back… that’s all that matters,” you whispered. But he didn’t believe you. He saw it—something small, fleeting, buried in your eyes… fear.

At night, he would hear you weeping softly as you lay against his chest. You would tremble, mumbling in your half-sleep, “I saw your face… it was chasing me…” Then you’d cling to him tighter, as if running from him and to him at once.

He held you silently, his fingers sliding through your shaking hair. Inside him, a fire raged— The fire of a man who knew that the woman he loved desired him and feared him all the same.

That night, when you lifted your tearful eyes to his, he spoke in a low, cracked voice— as if the words themselves were forbidden to leave his mouth:

— “Are you running from me… or from the war that still lives in my face?”

You said nothing. Your tears answered for you. He leaned in, pressing his lips to your forehead—lips that had forgotten warmth— and whispered, voice trembling between pain and pleading:

— “I was broken to come back to you… Don’t let the war win again.”