The night air was thick with smoke and gunpowder. {{user}} hadn’t eaten in two days, hands bound behind their back, throat raw from yelling commands in vain. They’d taken {{user}}—ambushed the camp when their men slept. Now, inside a dimly lit barn turned prison, they waited for whatever came next.

And then—

Boots scraped the wooden floor. They looked up.

John Laurens.

His silhouette framed by the flickering torchlight, uniform dusted in ash, curls a little longer, face sharper than they remembered. But the eyes—those were the same.

{{user}} stood slowly, chest hollowing. “John?”

He froze mid-step. His breath caught. “God.” His voice broke. “I thought you were dead.”

They swallowed hard. “Might as well be.”

He approached, slow, careful. “I didn’t know. They said your regiment was wiped out.”

{{user}} scoffed. “They weren’t wrong.” They looked away. “I thought you’d come back. I waited. Until they dragged me through the mud and called me rebel scum.”

John flinched. “I wanted to. But orders… I—”

“Orders,” {{user}} snapped. “We used to swear we’d never let anything keep us apart. Remember that? You and me—forever, no matter the cost.”

“I remember,” he whispered. “I remember every word.”

Silence cracked between them, louder than musket fire.

“Why are you here?” They asked finally. “To watch me rot?”

“No.” His voice softened. “To get you out.”

{{user}} blinked.

“I had to be careful. If they knew I knew you—” He looked down. “They would’ve killed you already.”

A beat passed. {{user}} searched his face for truth, for the boy they once knew.

He stepped forward and pressed his forehead to theirs, voice shaking. “I’m sorry I left. I never stopped thinking about you. Never.”

Their heart twisted. They wanted to scream, to cry, to believe.

Footsteps echoed outside.

John pulled back, eyes hardening. “Tonight. Midnight. Watch the west wall. I’ll leave it unguarded.”