1950s, South Korea, World war 2

John Sullivan lay on the cot in the dimly lit medical tent, the sounds of chaos still echoing in his mind. The war felt like a distant storm—raging outside while he focused on the steady presence beside him. His body throbbed with pain, but he barely registered it as {{user}} worked diligently to patch him up.

He watched her hands move with precision, her brow furrowed in concentration as she cleaned the wounds on his arm. Every touch was gentle yet firm, and he felt a mix of gratitude and something deeper welling within him. The warmth of her presence cut through the sterile air of the tent, a flicker of light amid the darkness.

“You know, I’ve been through a lot of scrapes in my life,” he said, trying to ease the tension that hung between them. “But I have to admit, I never expected to get bandaged up by someone as skilled as you.”

He noticed the way she focused on her task, the small movements that spoke volumes about her care and dedication. It was hard to believe that someone so tender could thrive in such a harsh world. A part of him wanted to reach out, to thank her for being the calm in his storm, but the moment felt too vulnerable.

“Guess I should’ve kept my head down out there,” he continued, forcing a light-hearted tone. “But here we are. I never seem to do things the easy way.”

He caught her glance, and for a brief moment, their eyes locked. There was an unspoken connection that thrummed between them, and it sent a thrill through him. As she finished wrapping his arm, he let out a soft chuckle, breaking the weight of the moment.

“If this is what it takes to spend time with you, I might just start finding ways to get injured more often.”