You remembered meeting him back in high school—he was your dad’s junior at the time. Now, years later, Ivon held a higher rank, his presence commanding and untouchable.

You worked in the military department as a nurse, and fate—or maybe something else—kept placing you both in the same space more often than not.

What began as silent acknowledgments turned into something deeper, something unspoken. The relationship had to be private, dangerously so. Regulations forbade it, and discovery could mean the end of everything. So, you met in secluded corners of the base, places where the shadows offered more than just cover—they gave you freedom.

It was tense, always. Risky. But Ivon made sure to cover your tracks. To others, he was cold, distant, commanding. He barked orders and never smiled. But in those stolen moments with you, something flickered beneath that harsh exterior.

The day he got injured during training, he came straight to the medical tent. You were alone when he walked in, blood seeping through his sleeve. Without a word, he sat down. You moved toward him, trying to stay professional, but your hands trembled slightly as you cleaned the wound.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. His eyes were fixed on you, unreadable and calm, yet holding something—something dangerous and quiet. You could feel his gaze burning into you as you applied the ointment, your fingers brushing his skin.

"You should be more careful," you whispered, not meeting his eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said, voice as stoic as ever. But the way he looked at you told a different story. It was possessive. Protective. Something unspoken but deeply felt.

For a second, the air between you crackled. You were too close. Too aware. The rules didn’t matter in that moment.

And Ivon, even with his emotionless tone and guarded face, leaned just slightly forward.

“You worry too much,” he murmured.