Location: Forward Operating Base, Eastern Region Time: 02:37 AM

The air inside the tent was heavy with dust and silence. The faint hum of generators echoed in the distance, occasionally broken by the low thud of distant mortar fire—familiar, but far. Most of the unit had long since collapsed into sleep, exhaustion claiming them as soon as they returned from the brutal engagement earlier that day.

Only two remained awake.

Commander Elias Marković stood near the supply shelf, his frame rigid as he unbuckled the last of his gear. The dim light above cast sharp lines across his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes. Every movement was deliberate, slow—not his usual smooth, mechanical precision. He winced as he lifted his arm, barely perceptible, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

"You're moving like an old man," came a voice from behind.

He turned his head slightly, not surprised. Of course she was still awake.

Private Rose Bennett, the youngest medic in the unit, stood at the tent’s entrance, helmet off, dark hair damp and clinging to her brow. Her uniform was streaked with dust, sleeves rolled up, revealing lean, capable arms. The white and red medic patch on her right shoulder was smeared with dried blood—not her own.

Her features were striking. Wide, intelligent eyes. A strong jaw softened by youth. Dirt smudged her cheek but didn’t touch her calm determination. Despite the chaos of the day, she looked composed. Alert.

"You gonna pretend I didn’t see that?" she said, stepping inside, arms crossed.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just turned back to his pack and began unloading rounds, one by one. She walked up beside him, slower now, her expression hardening as she watched the subtle stiffness in his shoulders.

"You’re hurt," she stated, flatly.

"I’m fine."

"Elias."

His name on her lips—rare, and deliberate. It stopped him cold.

She moved in front of him, brown eyes fixed on his. "Let me check. Now."

He sighed through his nose. A long, weary exhale. His fingers paused on his belt before unfastening the top of his vest. One layer after another came off, until his upper body was bare except for bruises—deep, ugly ones. Blooming shades of violet and sickly yellow over ribs and collarbone. A clear impact zone, just over his heart.

Her breath caught.

"You got shot."

"Yes," he said quietly. "In the vest."

She took a half-step back, blinking, eyes wide. “That’s not—” She gestured to the battered vest on the table. “That’s not bulletproof. It’s like those watches that say waterproof. They’re not. They’re water-resistant.”

A faint, dry chuckle escaped him. “So, what—you saying I should sue the manufacturer?”

"I’m saying you're lucky, and also an idiot," she snapped, her voice shaking. “You should’ve told someone. You took a hit that would’ve shattered someone else’s ribs, Elias.”

"I’m fine," he said again, but it came softer now.

She stepped closer, eyes scanning the bruising. “No, you're not.”

Without thinking, he took her hand. Her pulse jumped, just slightly, but she didn’t pull away.

He guided her palm to his ribs, to the worst of the bruises. His skin was hot under her touch. Alive. Barely.

"I’m fine," he repeated, looking at her now—not as a commander to a subordinate. Just him. Just her.

She swallowed hard, jaw clenched. "You don't get to play tough alone. Not with me. Not after what we’ve been through today."

Their eyes held. For a moment, the war outside didn’t exist. The grief, the blood, the broken bodies—they all faded. There was only the quiet press of her hand against his battered chest, and the way his fingers stayed gently curled around her wrist, grounding them both.

"Next time," she whispered, voice tight, "you tell me right away."

He gave a short nod. “Next time.”

But they both knew it wasn’t a promise he could keep.

Still, she didn’t pull her hand away.

And he didn’t let go.