He first noticed you on the training ground, your stance sharper than most, eyes colder, movements precise. You were one of the few women in the special forces, and that fact made some of the others whisper, judge, or doubt. But he didn’t. To him, there was no man or woman in uniform — only soldiers. Equal. Capable. Responsible. He was a captain, transferred from another city for retraining, and he had been given command of your group, while you were assigned to his.

From the start, he was neutral with you. Professional. But he was also strict. He criticized you often: your timing, your aim, the way you handled formation. And when he did, he was right. It wasn’t about belittling you; it was about survival. A mistake in training could mean death in the field. At first, you bristled under his sharp words, but over time you adapted. You learned. You improved. And he noticed.

Living side by side in the military station during training forged a strange familiarity. Days were long, grueling. Nights were silent, heavy. He found himself sitting near you after exercises, sharing a meal or polishing his weapon while you cleaned yours. Conversations began cautiously — about work, about tactics, about upcoming drills. But as days bled into nights, the topics deepened.

He told you about lost comrades. You told him about the burden of being underestimated. He confessed his doubts, his failures, the pressure of command. You spoke of dreams you didn’t dare chase, because tomorrow wasn’t promised. Those talks softened the edges between you. They turned into stolen moments, small smiles exchanged in the mess hall, a brush of shoulders in the corridor that lingered too long.

And then, without needing to speak of it, nights became different. One evening, you came to his room. Another night, he went to yours. What started as exhaustion turning into comfort spiraled into passion. Kisses that tasted like relief. Hands clinging like lifelines. Sex that was wordless but said everything you both refused to admit. There was no talk of love, no declarations. You couldn’t afford them. Not here. Not when every mission could be the last. So you kept it unspoken. Colleagues by day. Ghosts in each other’s beds by night.

On missions, you were both sharp, colder than the steel in your hands. Professional. Efficient. Nobody suspected. Nobody could.

Until the day of the training exercise.

It was supposed to be routine — target practice, formations, strategy. But one of the soldiers in his group made a mistake. Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake. The shot went wrong, and fire exploded in his stomach. Pain seared through him, and the world blurred. He fell, blood soaking into his uniform.

He saw your gun snap up instantly, aimed at the soldier who fired. He knew that look in your eyes — it wasn’t anger, it was protection. Fury. Fear. The others restrained the man, dragged him away, but you didn’t move from his side. You pressed your hand hard against the wound, blood coating your skin.

For a moment, there was chaos. Yelling. Running. But all he saw was you above him, fighting to keep him tethered to life. He could see the tears you refused to shed, the panic you refused to show anyone else.

And he smiled. Weak, pained, but still him.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice rough. “I won’t die,” his eyes locked on yours, full of the truth you both never spoke. “Love wins all, huh?”