Today’s mission went sideways fast. You took a bullet to the thigh, and by the time the team made it back to base, you were half-carried, half-dragged straight to the infirmary.

Ash—your boyfriend and your lieutenant—was pacing the corridor like a caged animal, waiting for the medic to let him in. His uniform jacket was smeared with your blood. So were his hands.

Inside, the medic and two nurses worked quickly on your leg, talking to you nonstop, making sure you stayed awake. Pressure, clamps, commands you barely registered. Pain burned, then dulled. Somewhere in the blur, the bullet came out. Stitches followed. A thick bandage wrapped around your thigh.

About thirty minutes later, the doctor stepped into the corridor. Ash shot to his feet immediately.

“Is she okay?”

“She’s out of danger,” the medic said. “The bullet’s out, and I stitched her up and she’s resting. But…”

Ash’s jaw tightened. “But what?”

The medic hesitated, took a breath, then met his eyes. “…During the check-up, I found something.”

Ash didn’t blink. “Found what.”

“This soldier is pregnant, Lieutenant.”