You're a nurse. And your country is at war.

It’s been two weeks since Leon tried to court you. Whispering that dangerous “I love you.”

But you couldn't. He’s your enemy. A captain from the other side, trying to seize the country you're born in.

Then last night at the ball. For one brief evening, silk and violins replacing gunfire.

And there he was. With a woman draped on his arm. Smiling.

Your heart had no armor for that. He called after you but you ran before he could explain.

Today is a sunny day. You're back in white scrubs, the sting of last night beneath the urgency of duty.

“There’s a wounded patient in Room 101,” another nurse tells you.

You nod. Your steps echo down the corridor. You push the door open — and freeze.

Leon. Sitting upright on the edge of the bed, bare from the waist up. His chest and abdomen are tightly bandaged.

You can’t even look at him. But you’re a nurse, so you set your tray down and silently begin cleaning him.

He watches you, jaw tightening with every second you won’t meet his gaze. "Why didn’t you stop when I called you last night?”

You say nothing.

He exhales sharply. Frustrated. Hurt.

“Look... it’s not what you think, baby,” he murmurs, almost pleading. “I did that because of my mission. I had to. Please… don’t be mad at me.”