You knew before he told you.

It’s in the way he’s been watching the recruitment posters a little too long. In the way he’s been quieter lately — less sarcastic, more thoughtful. In the way Peter keeps looking at him like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.

They’re desperate now. Everyone knows it.

Seventeen isn’t supposed to be old enough — but they’ve stopped looking too closely at birth dates. Especially for boys who stand straight and speak confidently.

You find him behind the cinema where you always meet, coat collar turned up against the evening chill. The sky is dimming into blackout grey.

“Edmund,” you say, already knowing.

He doesn’t deny it.

“They won’t turn me away,” he says instead, almost matter-of-fact. “They need men.”

You flinch at the word.

“You’re not a man,” you whisper. “You’re seventeen.”

His jaw tightens — not at you. At the truth.

“That’s close enough these days.”

A distant siren wails somewhere across town, low and familiar.

He steps closer, softer now.

“If I go now, it’s my choice. I won’t be waiting around for them to drag Peter or someone else in my place.”

Your hands are shaking. You hate that he can see it.

“I don’t want you to go.”

That stops him.

Really stops him.

His expression falters — that careful composure slipping just enough for you to see the boy underneath.

“You think I want to leave?” he asks quietly.

He reaches for your hands, holding them like they’re something fragile.

“I just… I can’t sit here while everyone else is doing something.”

A pause. His voice lowers.

“But you—”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

“You make it very difficult to be brave about this.”

And there it is — the almost-confession hanging between you, heavier than the sirens, heavier than the war.

“I haven’t signed yet,” he adds, barely above a whisper.

Like he’s waiting.

Like he wants you to give him a reason not to.