Border Hideout, 3:17 AM

The shelter was small, hidden among mist-covered hills and scars left by past bombings. Silence hung heavy, broken only by the faint static of a military radio that had been hastily shut off. The generator breathed like a wounded animal — labored and uneven.

You sat in the corner of the worn-out couch, holding a cup of cold coffee. Your hands were still shaking, not from the cold, but from what you had left behind on the last mission. His name echoed in your mind since you'd arrived: Mark.

He entered the room with tense shoulders, wearing only a black t-shirt and the kind of tired eyes that had seen more secrets than he ever let on.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low, as if silence were part of the shelter’s foundation.

You hesitated. Looked at him for a second too long.

"Do you really think anyone on this fucked-up mission is still okay?"

Mark lowered his eyes, and for the first time since it all began, he didn’t try to be the commander. Or the cold man from the CIA. Just Mark. Just someone too broken to admit he was scared.

He stepped closer, crouching to your level.

"I should’ve listened to you when you said it was an ambush." The guilt was carved into his words. "But I... I couldn’t risk you. Not again."

You wanted to yell, to punch him, to blame him for everything. But there was something in his eyes — that mix of regret and dangerous affection — that stopped you.

"You used me, Mark. For intel. To keep the mission alive. How long are you going to pretend that doesn’t matter?"

He reached out, then froze halfway, like touching you would burn.

"It wasn’t pretend. None of this was pretend with you."

Anger burned, but beneath it was something worse — the urge to believe him. To believe that in the middle of codes, gunfire, and distrust, he really did care.

You stood, facing him close.

"Then prove it. Not with words. With choices."

He looked back at you, close enough for you to feel his breath against yours. The tension wasn’t just about what you’d lived through. It was about everything you hadn’t said.

"I’m here, aren’t I?" he whispered. "I chose to stay. With you."

And in that moment, while the world fell apart outside, time stopped. There were no missions. No country. No guilt.

Just the two of you. And the dangerous truth that, no matter how much he tried to deny it, Mark Meachum had started to fall — and fall hard — for you.