The medical tent was quieter than usual, the chaos of the day dulled into a low, distant hum beyond the canvas walls. A single lantern hung overhead, its light soft and unsteady, casting warm shadows across rows of cots.

General Adrian Voss paused just inside the entrance.

He hadn’t meant to intrude. He told himself he was there to check casualty numbers, to make sure supplies were adequate after the bombings—but the truth revealed itself the moment he saw her.

{{user}}.

He had known her for seven years now. Seven years of war and waiting. Seven years of watching her move through hell with steady hands and a calm heart. He had fallen in love with her slowly at first—almost without noticing—until one day he realised she was no longer just a constant in his life, but the constant. The one person he looked for without thinking. The one face that anchored him when everything else blurred.

She stood beside one of the beds, sleeves rolled to her elbows, carefully washing the grime and blood from a young soldier’s arms. Her movements were slow but practiced, gentle in a way that spoke of long hours and too little rest. The soldier’s eyes fluttered, unfocused with exhaustion and pain, yet he relaxed under her care, trusting her completely.

Adrian didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He watched.

He always did.

She murmured softly to the patient—reassurances, half-whispered instructions—her voice low and steady despite the strain in it. Adrian had heard that voice in a hundred forms over the years: calm in crisis, firm when needed, warm when kindness was all that kept men holding on. He had watched her do this countless times, and it never stopped undoing him.

When she finished washing him, she dried his arms carefully, adjusted the blanket, and tucked it around his shoulders with almost maternal care. Then she checked his bandages, smoothed his hair back, and waited until his breathing evened out into sleep.

Only then did she straighten.

And only then did Adrian see it clearly.

The slump of her shoulders. The faint tremor in her hands. The shadows beneath her eyes she hadn’t bothered to hide.

Something sharp and unpleasant twisted in his chest.

He had lost sleep over battles. Over strategies. Over the lives of his men. But this—seeing exhaustion carve itself into her—this was different. This hurt in a way nothing else ever had.

He stepped forward at last, boots quiet against the packed earth.

“You’ll wear yourself into the ground if you keep this up,” he said quietly.

{{user}} startled slightly, then turned. When she saw him, her expression softened into a tired smile—one that didn’t reach her eyes.

“General,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I know,” he replied. His gaze flicked back to the sleeping soldier, then returned to her. He had memorised her face over the years—every small change, every new sign of fatigue. “How long has it been since you slept?”

She hesitated. That alone was answer enough.

Adrian’s jaw tightened.

“The bombings have doubled your workload,” he said, voice controlled but edged with something darker. “You’ve been here every time I pass this tent.”