Italy, 1944. You were both off-duty for the night, holed up in the cramped barracks with your usual group—Mason, Jackie, Hart, and a busted radio playing half a Sinatra song through the static. Someone had found a deck of cards and a can of peaches, and suddenly it felt like you were all kids again instead of half-shattered soldiers. You and Mason sat shoulder to shoulder on your shared bunk, pretending not to lean into each other too much. Jackie just smirked and dealt the next hand.

Outside, the artillery sounded distant. Inside, laughter bounced off the thin walls like armor. Your knee pressed against Mason’s and he didn’t move. Neither did you.

“If I win this next round,” Mason grinned, nudging you with his elbow, “you owe me your last cigarette—and a kiss behind the barracks where Hart won’t pretend not to see.”