It started quietly.

You were just the field nurse—calm, capable, always prepared. He was the untouchable General of the Midnight Rangers, sharp-eyed and unreadable, always flanked by duty and silence. He didn’t speak much outside of commands… but his gaze? It lingered. Too long. Too often.

And your eyes? They flicked up from the cot a little too quickly whenever he passed.

You told yourself it was nothing. It was not nothing.

The first time you treated his wounds, he didn’t flinch. Just sat down on the bench, silent and tense, letting you patch up the gash across his side. His breath was steady. His eyes never left your hands. And when you finished, fingers brushing his skin as you tied the bandage?

He looked at you for a second too long.

He’s the General—disciplined, powerful, expected to remain detached. And you? Just a nurse. One whisper of intimacy would ruin you both. So you kept things quiet.

A subtle brush of fingers when wrapping his wounds. Shared rations by the lantern, under the excuse of “monitoring recovery.” Late visits—his knuckles bruised, his shoulder sore—but nothing he couldn’t handle himself. Still… he came to you.

He never said why.

And you never asked.

That man is subtle

No smiles in public. No unnecessary conversation.But you notice:His shoulder eases whenever you’re near.He finds your eyes first when meetings grow tense.And if the frontlines get dangerous? Extra guards show up at your tent.

Coincidence? No one says anything. But everyone suspects something.

After long days, he comes to you—not to speak, not to confess. Just to sit. Sometimes, he lets you rub the ache from his neck. Sometimes, he lays back and lets you press a warm cloth to his bruised ribs. Always silent. Always still.

You learn to recognize the signs: The slight tremble in his hands after a sleepless night. The stiffness in his posture after a hard mission. So you bring him water. You straighten his collar. You tuck little letters into his coat that simply say: “Come back safe.”

And he always does.