Request: Hiah love! I would like to request a Ronald Speirs one shot with prompt one from the angst/hurt comfort section. I love your writing it makes me feel all types of emotions I didn't know existed. Thank you again!!
Pairing: Ronald Speirs x Reader
Prompt: “Why wont you just let me help you?”
Genre: Pure angst, no comfort, no softness
Setting: Ardennes Forset, Bastonge
Warning: Contains blood and a slight mention of gore. Also, fair warning: the main female character is stubborn, emotionally constipated, and just can’t seem to take a hint herself…so prepare for lots of tension, angst, and messy feelings.
Note || I didn’t mean for this one-shot to get this long…it kind of just…happened. Honestly, it might have ended up as a multipart story, but most likely it won’t be—unless someone asks for more, of course. Other than that, I hope you enjoy the pure, unfiltered angst. This one’s all tension, emotion, and messy feelings, and I had way too much fun letting it spiral.
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The day had started like all the others.
Too quiet, really—but by now, that had become routine. The Ardennes had a way of pretending it was harmless if you looked at it long enough. Snow lay thick and untouched between the trees, a clean white blanket that muffled everything it touched. The only sounds were the slow crunch of boots beneath her feet and the low, mournful whistle of wind threading through bare branches. It creaked through the forest like something alive, something watching.
She adjusted her gloves, fingers already numb despite the layers, and took her position without a word. Same time as always. Same stretch of treeline. Same waiting.
Every day since they’d arrived, it had been like this—an almost peaceful lull that never lasted. The men had stopped commenting on it after the first week. You learned not to trust the quiet here. The forest held its breath at the same hour every morning, and then, without fail, it exhaled hell.
She lifted her rifle, settling in, cheek pressed to cold metal. Her breath fogged the scope as she scanned the treeline, slow and methodical. Nothing moved. No shapes. No flashes. Just trees and snow and silence so thick it rang in her ears.
The blast hit without warning.
One second she had her scope trained steady on the dark line between trunks—controlled breathing, finger resting light on the trigger—the next, the world shattered into sound and light. The ground bucked violently beneath her. Shrapnel screamed through the air, tearing bark from trees and flesh from bone. A deafening crack split the quiet clean in half, and something hot and sharp tore across her face.
Her rifle was ripped from her hands as the force threw her sideways, body slamming hard into earth and mud and smoke. Her helmet bounced away somewhere behind her, swallowed by the chaos. Pain detonated behind her eyes—white, blinding, nauseating. When she tried to blink, instinct screaming at her to clear her vision, the world didn’t sharpen.
Half of it was gone. The other half twisted and pulsed, warped like she was looking through water or broken glass. Shapes bled into one another. Light flared too bright, then vanished entirely. She gasped, breath tearing out of her chest in short, panicked bursts.
Another blast thundered nearby.
She dragged herself forward, fingers clawing uselessly at frozen ground, nails scraping against ice and dirt. Snow melted beneath her palms, turning red and slick. Her head rang, a high, shrill sound drowning out everything else. She rolled blindly—vision useless on one side—body moving on instinct alone.
And dropped straight into a foxhole that wasn’t hers.
She landed hard against a body already there, the impact knocking the breath from both of them as the forest roared on above.
A hand came up instantly, iron-fast on her shoulder, anchoring her before she could even register where she was. Fingers dug through layers of wool and webbing, steady and unyielding.
“Jesus Christ—who the hell—”
Even through the ringing in her ears and the sickening tilt of the world, even with half her vision swallowed by darkness, she knew him. His presence had always carried weight—sharp, unavoidable, like standing too close to a blade. He was crouched beside her in the foxhole, broad shoulders blocking what little light filtered down through the smoke and falling snow.
His face snapped into focus on the side she could still see, hard lines etched deeper by grime and shadow. His eyes moved quickly, efficiently, the way they always did—taking inventory. Blood streaked down the left side of her face, warm and thick, catching in her lashes, dripping off her jaw to stain the snow beneath them. Her scarf was already soaked through, dark and heavy against her throat.
“You’re hit,” he said, voice clipped, decisive, his hand already shifting as if to pull her closer, to look.
“Don’t,” she snapped. The word came out raw, edged with panic and fury both. She twisted violently, jerking away from his touch like it burned her skin.
It was brief—barely a pause—but she saw it. The hesitation. The flicker of something unreadable crossing his expression before it vanished behind that familiar hard mask. Then his jaw locked, muscles jumping as his grip tightened instead of releasing.
“You can’t see,” he said flatly, stating it like a fact that didn’t care whether she accepted it or not.
“I can see enough,” it was a lie. A thin, fragile one. The world on her left side was gone entirely—nothing but darkness and pain—and the right swam and warped, bending at the edges like a bad dream. Even sitting still made her dizzy. But she refused to let him hear it in her voice.
She tried to push herself upright, palms slipping in blood and slush. The ground pitched violently beneath her, stomach lurching as nausea surged. Her head screamed in protest, pain flashing white-hot behind her eyes. For a heartbeat, she thought she might black out.
Speirs caught her before she could fall, this time by the wrist.
His grip was firm. Steady. Unavoidable.
Another explosion tore through the forest, close enough that the foxhole shuddered violently. Dirt and snow cascaded down over them, peppering her helmetless head and shoulders. The air filled with smoke and the sharp, metallic bite of cordite. Somewhere above, someone was yelling—maybe her name, maybe not. Everything blurred together.
Panic clawed up her throat, fast and suffocating.
“Your eye—” Speirs started, voice raised to cut through the chaos.
She wrenched her arm back with more force than sense, nearly pitching herself sideways into the wall of the foxhole. Pain lanced through her skull, bright and vicious, but she bit down hard and welcomed it if it meant she could get away from him. Speirs stared at her, eyes narrowing, like she’d struck him rather than shoved him off.
From the moment they’d crossed paths back in training, it had been like this—him lingering at the edges of her space, always close enough to notice. Too close. A look held a second too long. A comment she didn’t ask for. A presence she could feel even when she refused to acknowledge it.
Hated how he always seemed to be watching. Hated how he always had something to say, even when she wanted silence. Hated how it made her feel—tight and defensive, like her skin was too thin. Speirs unsettled her in ways she didn’t understand and didn’t want to. He made her feel seen, measured, and she didn’t trust that.
So she did what she always did.
Every offer of help met with sharp words. Every attempt at conversation shut down. Every look returned with a glare cold enough to freeze him out. If she made it clear enough, hard enough, maybe he’d stop coming back.
Speirs never understood it.
He didn’t know when it had started, or why his attention kept drifting to her no matter how many times she cut him down. He told himself it was nothing—just another soldier, another face in the line. He told himself her hostility was answer enough.
He should’ve taken the hint.
But somehow, no matter how many times she bristled or snapped, he found himself noticing her anyway—tracking her movement across a field, clocking the way she held herself under fire, remembering details he had no reason to keep. And now, with shells screaming overhead and the Ardennes tearing itself apart, all of that confusion sharpened into something far more dangerous.
“Stop it,” Speirs said, frustration bleeding through the control in his voice, “You’re injured. Sit down before you fall on your damn face.”
“I don’t need you,” she fired back, fury boiling hot in her chest, burning through the pain, “I never have.”
“That’s not true,” he snapped, “And you know it.”
She laughed, short and bitter, the sound tearing at her already-raw throat, “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”
Another blast hit, closer than the rest. The foxhole shook violently, snow collapsing inward as the earth seemed to fold in on itself. The sound was deafening. Above them, someone screamed—a sharp, broken sound that cut off too abruptly.
“Christ, you’re bleeding all over yourself,” he snapped, frustration bleeding through his control, “Sit still.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she shot back, breath ragged, eyes burning, “You’re not my CO.”
“Then write me up later,” she said bitterly, “If we’re still alive.”
Something in his expression cracked. The explosions hadn’t stopped. Shrapnel hissed through the air above them, chewing through trees and earth alike. The foxhole felt too small, too close, filled with smoke and blood and years of unresolved tension.
She wiped blindly at her face, smearing blood across her glove. Her hand shook. She hated that he could see it. Hated that he was seeing her like this—hurt, disoriented, vulnerable.
“I don’t need you,” she said, her voice shaking now, the words splintering on the way out. Fury was the only thing holding her upright, the only thing keeping her from collapsing into the pain and the vertigo and the sickening wrongness of her vision, “I never did.”
Something in Speirs finally snapped.
His hand shot out, fingers fisting in the front of her jacket, and before she could react he had her slammed back against the packed earth wall of the foxhole. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, a sharp, startled gasp tearing free as dirt crumbled down around them. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t careless. It was controlled in the way only someone who lived by control could be—and that terrified her far more than rage ever could.
His face was suddenly inches from hers, too close, filling what little of the world she could still see. His eyes burned with something feral, something raw and unmasked, and for the first time she realised how much effort it usually took for him to be cold.
“Enough,” he barked, the word ripped from his chest, barely audible over the roar of artillery but carrying a weight that crushed straight through her. Spit flecked his lips, breath hot against her face, “You’re bleeding, you can barely stand, and you’re going to get yourself killed just to prove a point.”
She glared back at him, refusing to look away even as her pulse thundered in her ears. Hatred flared hot and familiar—but underneath it, coiling tight and ugly, was fear. Not of him. Of what he was saying. Of how close she was to the edge. Of how easily this could all end here, in a frozen hole in the ground, without her ever having meant for it to.
Her hands trembled at her sides. She curled them into fists so he wouldn’t see.
“I don’t care if you hate me,” Speirs went on, his voice dropping, losing that sharp edge and turning rough instead, scraped raw by something dangerously close to desperation. This wasn’t the voice she knew—the clipped, detached one that gave orders and carried out violence like it was nothing. This one shook, “I don’t care if you never want to look at me again. I don’t care if you spend the rest of this war pretending I don’t exist.”
His grip tightened just enough for her to feel it, anchoring her whether she wanted it or not.
“But you do not get to die in front of me,” he said, each word deliberate, carved into the space between them, “Not like this. Not because you’re too damn stubborn to accept help.”
Another blast rocked the ground, close enough that the walls of the foxhole shuddered violently. Snow and dirt cascaded down around them, dust filling the air, but neither of them moved. They were locked together in that moment, breaths overlapping, hearts hammering, the rest of the world reduced to noise and fire and shaking earth.
For a heartbeat—two—the war ceased to exist.
There was only the press of his hand against her collar, the heat of his body so close she could feel it, the way his eyes searched her face like he was trying to memorise it. Like he was bracing himself for something he didn’t want to name.
And for the first time since she’d known Ronald Speirs—since training, since every sharp look and unwanted word and unexplainable moment—he looked afraid.
And that terrified her more than the shrapnel ever could.
“Get off me,” she demanded, this time her voice didn’t raise…just frustration, “I didn’t ask for your goddamn help—”
“You don’t get to refuse it right now!” the words cracked between them, loud and final.
She froze, chest heaving, anger and fear colliding hard enough to leave her shaking. Speirs leaned closer, his face inches from hers, eyes dark and blazing. There was no confusion left in them now. No patience. Just fury—hot, restrained, and dangerous.
“I’ve let you push me off since Toccoa,” he snarled, every word tight with something long-contained, “I’ve let you like I’m just some problem you can glare away. Fine. Whatever. But this—” he gestured sharply at her blood-soaked face, at the way she swayed even sitting still, “—this is not the time for your pride.”
Her breath hitched, the fight in her warring violently with something else—something colder, more fragile, “I don’t want you,” she said, voice hoarse, shaking despite herself.
“I don’t care,” he shot back without hesitation, “You’re hurt. You’re staying right here. And if you try to crawl out of this foxhole blind, I swear to God I’ll drag you back myself.”
For a long moment, the world narrowed to the space between them. The thunder of artillery faded beneath the weight of everything unsaid. Snow drifted quietly into the foxhole, settling on blood, dirt, and torn earth alike.
She stared at him, trembling with pain and fury and the terrifying realisation that, for the first time, Ronald Speirs wasn’t going to back down.
And in the heart of the Ardennes—death screaming overhead, the forest burning around them—something between them finally, irreversibly broke.
Camp Toccoa, two years earlier
She’d hated him from the start.
Not because he’d done anything overt. Not because he’d said the wrong thing or crossed some clear, unforgivable line. She hated him because from the very first moment, he made her feel seen—and not in the way instructors watched, or soldiers sized each other up. It was sharper than that. Too personal.
Georgia wrapped itself around them like a wet fist. The heat pressed down from every direction, thick and suffocating, making even the act of breathing feel like work. Sweat soaked through her uniform, darkening the fabric along her spine and under her arms, the cloth sticking uncomfortably to her skin. Grit clung to her hands and forearms, dust mixing with sweat until she felt perpetually filthy. The air smelled like metal and pine and men pushed past their limits.
The rifle felt heavier in the humidity, its weight dragging at her shoulder as she raised it again. The metal was warm against her cheek, almost hot, like it had absorbed the sun itself. She adjusted her stance by instinct—feet planted, shoulders squared—muscle memory already burned deep, even this early in training. She lined up her shot, exhaled slowly, let the noise of camp fade to a dull hum at the edges of her awareness.
That was when she felt it.
Not a sound. Not the crunch of boots or the shift of fabric behind her.
Just the unmistakable weight of someone watching.
Her spine stiffened, every nerve flaring to life. She didn’t turn. Didn’t react. She refused to give whoever it was the satisfaction. Instead, she focused harder on the target downrange, jaw tightening as her breath went shallow.
“Relax,” a voice said quietly, close enough that she felt it rather than heard it, “You’re locking your shoulders.”
Her finger tightened on the trigger. She lowered the rifle just enough to glance sideways. Ronald Speirs stood there like he’d always been there—helmet off, sleeves rolled, eyes fixed on her with an intensity that felt unearned for someone she barely knew.
“I didn’t ask,” she said, voice flat.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologise. Just tilted his head slightly, studying her like a problem he was already halfway to solving, “Didn’t say you did.”
That made her angrier than if he’d argued. She lifted the rifle again, pointedly turning her back to him, “Then stop hovering.”
A pause. Then, mildly, “You always stand like that?”
Her jaw clenched, “Like what.”
“Like you’re bracing for something to hit you,” he said, “Even before it does.”
She fired before she could stop herself—the crack of the shot slicing clean through the heavy air. The recoil slammed into her shoulder, sharp and grounding. She exhaled hard, lowering the rifle again, pulse hammering faster than it should have.
“You always analyse people without permission?” she shot back.
“Only the ones worth paying attention to.”
She turned on him then, heat and irritation flaring together in her chest, “You don’t know me.”
“No,” he agreed easily, “But you move like someone who’s been doing this longer than most.”
They were still new then—barely past introductions, names exchanged in passing, ranks and roles still settling into place. And yet the way he spoke to her, the way he looked at her, carried the weight of familiarity. Like he’d known her habits already. Like he’d recognised something in her that had taken others years to notice.
“You should keep your observations to yourself,” she said, stepping past him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm, “We’re not friends.”
His gaze followed her, steady and unblinking, “Didn’t say we were.”
The distance between them felt charged anyway—too tight, too aware—as if some unspoken history already existed between them, invisible but heavy. Like two people who’d known each other in another life and couldn’t quite remember how—or why—it had ended badly.
She hated that feeling most of all.
Because it made her feel like no matter how hard she pushed him away, Ronald Speirs had already decided she mattered.
She fired before she could stop herself—crack—the recoil biting hard into her shoulder. The shot rang out sharp and clean, echoing across the range before being swallowed by the thick Georgia heat. A heartbeat later, the instructor’s voice cut through the air, barking corrections down the line, but the words slid past her without meaning. Her pulse was too loud. Her grip too tight.
She lowered the rifle and finally turned her head.
Ronald Speirs stood just behind her, helmet tucked under one arm, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate. Too close. Too calm. Like he hadn’t just startled her on purpose. Like he’d known exactly what he was doing when he spoke into her space.
Up close, his expression gave nothing away—no apology, no challenge. Just those watchful eyes, steady and assessing, as if he were cataloging her reactions instead of regretting them.
She stepped past him sharply, shoulder slamming into his chest hard enough to make the message clear, “Find someone else to bother, Speirs.”
His brows lifted a fraction, more curiosity than offence flickering across his face, “Just an observation.”
“I didn’t ask,” she shot back without slowing.
She dropped back into position, resetting her stance with stiff, deliberate movements. The target blurred slightly as she forced herself to breathe evenly again. She waited for his footsteps to fade. Waited for the pressure at her back to lift.
Not that day. Not the next.
Over the next days, then weeks, he kept appearing in her periphery like a bad habit she couldn’t shake. Lingering near the firing line long after he’d finished his own drills. Standing just off to the side during formation, gaze flicking to her even when it had no reason to. Watching her like she was something he couldn’t quite figure out—and refused to stop trying to.
“You’re pulling the trigger too fast,” he said one afternoon as they cleaned their rifles, voice low enough that it didn’t carry. The tent was stifling, the air thick with oil and sweat and the scrape of metal on metal.
She didn’t even glance up from her work. “Worry about your own.”
“I am,” he replied calmly, “Yours affects mine.”
That made her look at him, “Excuse me?”
“You’re compensating left when you’re tired,” he went on, unfazed, “It’ll throw you off at distance. You’ll start missing high.”
Her jaw tightened. She slammed the bolt back harder than necessary, the metallic clack ringing sharp in the space between them, “Did I ask for coaching?”
“No,” he said easily, like the answer had never mattered, “Doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
Not that he spoke—plenty of men spoke out of turn—but that he was right. That his observations landed clean and precise, cutting straight to things she hadn’t realised she was doing. Like he’d been studying her long enough to notice patterns she’d kept buried beneath muscle memory and pride.
Hated the way his words lingered even after she told herself to ignore them. Hated that later, on the range, she caught herself correcting her stance exactly the way he’d described.
And the way he watched—quiet, intent, never leering, never crude—made her skin crawl all the same. There was no obvious disrespect in it, no easy reason to call him out. Just a steady, unnerving focus that followed her movements like a shadow.
It felt like being stripped bare without permission.
“You look at people like they’re problems to solve,” she snapped one evening, finally turning on him when she caught his gaze yet again.
“Only the ones that matter,” he said.
“That’s not a compliment.”
She stared at him, chest tight, heat and anger coiling together until she didn’t know which one made it harder to breathe. “You don’t know anything about me.”
His eyes held hers, unflinching. “No,” he said quietly. “But I will.”
She turned away before he could say anything else, heart pounding too hard, hands shaking as she clenched them into fists at her sides. She told herself she hated him because he wouldn’t leave her alone.
But deep down—somewhere she refused to look—she hated him because it felt like he was already seeing through her.
And she didn’t know how to stop him.
She started pushing back harder. Sharper words. Colder looks. If he lingered, she moved. If he spoke, she shut him down. Made it clear, unmistakably so, that she didn’t want him near her.
“Do you make a habit of hovering,” she snapped one evening, sweat streaking her temples, “Or am I just special?”
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something else, “You notice.”
“I notice you don’t know when to back off.”
For a moment, something flickered behind his eyes—confusion, maybe. Or frustration. But it vanished just as quickly, buried beneath that same unreadable calm.
From his side of it, he couldn’t explain why his eyes kept finding her. There were dozens of soldiers on the field—men better liked, easier to read—but she drew his attention like a pulled trigger. The way she held herself. The way she fought every correction, every authority, like the world had already decided she didn’t belong and she was daring it to say so out loud.
She was all sharp edges and coiled restraint.
And she hated him for seeing it.
“You don’t get to look at me like that,” she told him once, late in the evening when the camp had finally gone quiet.
“Like you think you know me.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. He studied her then—not her stance, not her hands—but her face.
“Maybe I’m just trying to,” he said.
Her voice dropped, dangerous and low, “Then stop.”
She walked away before he could answer, heart pounding, anger burning hot and bright in her chest. He should’ve taken the hint then. Should’ve let her go, let the distance settle.
But Ronald Speirs had never been good at taking a hint or walking away from things that mattered—even when he didn’t yet understand why they did.
And she never forgave him for that.
Back in the foxhole, another blast went off close enough to knock the breath from her chest. The concussion hit like a physical blow, rattling her teeth and sending a sharp pain lancing through her skull. Dirt and snow collapsed inward from the rim of the hole, showering down over her shoulders. Her ears rang, the sound high and hollow, like the world had dropped underwater.
She scrambled toward the edge, fingers digging into the frozen earth, intent on getting out—back to her position, back to where she knew what she was supposed to do. Where she could still function. Control was everything. Control meant survival. She couldn’t stay here, trapped and half-blind and useless.
She made it halfway up before something yanked hard at the back of her webbing.
The force dragged her down so abruptly she lost her footing, knees slamming back into the mud. Her breath tore from her lungs in a sharp, panicked gasp as she hit the bottom of the foxhole again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Speirs barked, voice raw and furious in her ear.
She clawed at his grip, heart hammering, “Let me go!”
“You’re blind on one side and bleeding all over my damn foxhole!” he snapped back, hauling her fully against the wall, his grip unyielding.
“I don’t need you!” she shouted, the words ripping out of her throat along with everything else she’d been holding back.
Her vision swam violently as she twisted, trying to break free. Shrapnel whined overhead, a screaming metallic hiss that made her flinch. The forest roared around them—trees splintering, artillery hammering the ground until it felt like the earth itself was coming apart.
“You’re not leaving here,” Speirs yelled over it all, rage and authority colliding in his voice, “That’s an order, Y/L/N!”
She wrenched against him again, desperation burning hot and reckless, “I don’t care!”
Not the explosions. Not the chaos tearing the Ardennes apart above them.
For a second, the world narrowed to the two of them—her crouched and shaking in the mud, blood dripping steadily from her face and splashing dark into the snow; him frozen mid-motion, chest heaving, eyes locked on her like he’d just been struck.
The noise dulled. The forest screamed on, but it felt distant now, unreal.
“I don’t care,” she repeated, her voice breaking despite herself, “I can’t just sit here. I can’t with—” her breath hitched. She didn’t finish the sentence.
Speirs’ hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. His jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth down to bone. He took a step back, then forward again, frustration radiating off him in waves.
“Why won’t you just let me help you?” he yelled, the words tearing out of him like something ripped loose, something he’d been holding back for years, “Why is it always like this with you?” the question echoed in the cramped space between them, heavy and unanswerable.
Not because of his rank. Not because of the danger raining down around them.
But because something in his voice finally broke—cracked wide open with fear and fury and something that sounded an awful lot like desperation. Gone was the controlled officer, the cold authority. What stood in front of her now was a man pushed past his limits, watching someone he couldn’t stop caring about bleed out in front of him.
For the first time, she didn’t know what to say.
Ronald Speirs never understood it.
Why she hated him so much.
He told himself it didn’t matter—that it shouldn’t. He’d fought alongside men who despised him openly and thought nothing of it. He’d learned long ago how to exist without needing approval, how to let resentment slide off him like water. This should have been no different.
No matter how often he told himself he didn’t care, he always noticed where she was. Not consciously. Never deliberately. He didn’t seek her out or scan the line looking for her face. His eyes just…found her. Like a reflex. Like his attention snapped into place before he could stop it.
There she was—moving through the trees with a quiet confidence that didn’t demand space but took it anyway. She belonged in the forest in a way most of them didn’t, reading the terrain like a second language, choosing positions with an instinct that came from something deeper than training. He watched the way she shifted her weight before taking a shot, how she never rushed, never wasted ammunition. One pull of the trigger. One breath. Clean.
She never asked for help. Not from him. Not from anyone.
“Stubborn,” someone muttered once, watching her reset her position after a drill.
Speirs hadn’t disagreed. He hadn’t agreed either.
Every time she snapped at him—every sharp word, every cold look—it felt like confirmation of something he already suspected but refused to name. That he hovered too close. That his presence pressed where it shouldn’t. That whatever instinct drew his attention to her was the same one that made her bristle and push back.
Too much, he thought more than once.
“You ever think maybe you should leave her alone?” a soldier asked him once, half-joking, half-serious, after she’d walked away from him yet again.
Speirs hadn’t answered right away, “Probably,” he said eventually.
Because even when she wanted nothing to do with him—especially then—he couldn’t stop watching. Not because he thought she needed him. Not because he believed he could fix anything about her. But because there was something in the way she carried herself, in the way she fought to remain self-contained and untouched, that pulled at something he didn’t have words for.
He saw the cracks she worked so hard to hide. The exhaustion she masked with anger. The way she held herself like letting anyone close would cost her something she couldn’t afford to lose. And he recognised it. It looked too much like his own. So he stayed. Watching from the edges. Saying too much. Saying the wrong things. Letting her hate him if it meant she stayed alive.
He told himself that was all it was.
But standing in a foxhole in the Ardennes, watching blood run down her face while she tried to tear herself away from him, he finally understood the truth he’d been avoiding for years.
He didn’t just notice her.
He’d been afraid of losing her long before he ever knew her name.
Her legs finally gave out.
She collapsed against the dirt wall of the foxhole, the impact jolting through her like a hard reminder of just how exposed she was. Breath hitched in her chest, ragged and shallow, and her fingers trembled violently as they clawed at the earth to keep her upright. The world tilted again, swaying beneath her vision. Dark spots bled across the corner of her remaining eye, shifting with every attempt she made to focus. The edges of the foxhole felt unreal, hazy, like she was submerged in water she couldn’t escape.
Speirs was on her in an instant, a weight that should have been suffocating, but wasn’t—not entirely. His hand pressed firmly to her shoulder, holding her steady, while the other hovered near her face as if he feared touching her the wrong way. The proximity made her chest tighten, every instinct screaming to push away, yet she couldn’t. Couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t even make the muscles in her legs obey.
“You’re losing too much blood,” he said, his voice low, rough with something raw and restrained beneath the surface, “I need to look at it.”
“No,” she gasped, voice small but stubborn, carrying all the fury and pride she could muster.
“No,” she repeated, weaker now, the edge gone from her protest. Her throat ached from shouting, from fighting, from trying to be everything he had no right to see her be.
Another blast hit close enough to rattle the foxhole’s walls, showering them in dirt and snow. Speirs snapped. The suddenness of it, the sheer volume of his reaction, made the world tremble again.
“MEDIC!” he bellowed, voice tearing through the chaos like a gunshot, raw and commanding.
She tried to argue, to force out some sharp protest, but it came as a broken, stuttering sound that meant nothing in the face of everything crashing down around them. Speirs didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. His focus was absolute, every ounce of himself tethered to her survival.
He didn’t look at her when he spoke again, “I don’t know what I did to make you hate me,” he said, voice low, shaking with a restraint that made her chest ache in some way she didn’t want to name, “But I’m not letting you die because of it.”
The words hung in the air, impossible to dodge, impossible to untangle. Her gaze fixed on him with the one eye that still worked, taking in the set of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the almost imperceptible trembling in his hands as he held her steady. And for the first time since she’d known him—since training days and snide remarks and stubborn refusals—she really looked at him.
Not interest. Not some obsessive curiosity she had always hated.
Raw, unguarded, desperate fear.
Roe slid into the foxhole moments later, moving with practiced efficiency. Speirs didn’t release her, not until Eugene took over and insisted, not until he absolutely had to. Even then, his hands lingered slightly longer than necessary, brushing against her jacket, steadying her without her asking.
She didn’t thank him. She couldn’t—pride, pain, and stubbornness wrapped tight around her chest like barbed wire. And the war didn’t offer them space to say what had been rotting between them for years, festering in silence, in every glance, in every argument, in every half-step toward one another that ended in fury instead of connection.
The shelling kept coming, each blast tearing through the forest, echoing across frozen ground, hammering the air until it felt like the sky itself was breaking.
And still, the silence between them—charged, dense, full of words unspoken—was louder than all of it.
It demanded acknowledgement.
And they both pretended not to hear.
But something had shifted. Something had broken and stayed broken and been reshaped into a new weight neither of them could ignore.
Her pulse was slowing. Her breathing was steadier. Yet she felt it—the press of his fear, the tether of his attention, the truth they would never speak aloud.
And in that small, frozen foxhole in the Ardennes, with the world fracturing around them, they were the only things that still mattered.
She had never been good with her emotions. Never.
That was part of the reason she hated having Speirs around so much. Because if she let him linger, if she let herself notice him, if she let herself feel…she would start to care. And caring meant vulnerability. And vulnerability meant loss. And loss—well, she already knew what that felt like.
So she pushed him away. Always. Even when the world was falling apart around them, even when he was the only one who saw her clearly, even when he was the only one who could have kept her from being buried in the mud and snow of the Ardennes.
She hated the way he pressed, the way he refused to leave. Ronald Speirs really couldn’t take a hint. He never had. He never could see the walls she built around herself—or the reasons she built them.
Because deep down, she wanted someone to see her, to care, to stay. But she couldn’t let herself.
“You really can’t take a damn hint, huh Speirs?”
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