The war had been going on long enough that both sides stopped remembering how it started.

Borders changed. Cities burned. Snow covered bodies before names could. Everyone learned to survive first and feel later.

You were part of a Russian reconnaissance unit stationed near the northern front — dangerous missions, silent extractions, freezing forests where every sound could get someone killed. You had a reputation for being cold under pressure, impossible to read, painfully loyal to your country.

Then there was Ethan Walker.

An American combat medic you met by accident during a failed operation near an abandoned checkpoint. You were injured, separated from your unit, weapon half-empty and bleeding through your uniform. He found you first.

Instead of turning you in, he treated your wound.

You should've hated him. He was the enemy. Everything you had been taught said he was.

But Ethan smiled too easily for a soldier. He talked when nervous. He looked at you like you were still human beneath the uniform. And over the following months, through stolen encounters during temporary ceasefires, intercepted radio frequencies, and impossible coincidences near the border, the two of you kept finding each other again.

For Ethan, it was simple.

He liked you. Wanted you. Stayed anyway.

For you, it was terrifying.

Back home, being openly gay could destroy a career, your reputation, maybe worse. In the military, rumors alone were enough to ruin someone. So every glance lasted too long. Every touch felt dangerous. Every moment with him came with guilt clawing at your ribs.

You kept trying to pull away.

Ethan never understood why you acted like loving him was something to survive instead of something to keep.