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The Great War - Part II

Pairing: Sam (Warfare) x female reader

PART ONE

Summary: When Sam returns from Iraq, alive but gravely injured, he’s not the man you met —at least, not physically. The war followed him home, stitched into every scar, every nightmare. The letters, the words that once bonded you across oceans suddenly become real. And healing is a battlefield of its own, and loving him might demand more courage than anything. Can your love survive the battles he’s still fighting? You survived the distance but the real war starts now.

Warnings: movie spoilers, angst, war, death, serious injuries, parental loss, epistolary relationship, mentions of life in the military/active duty, trauma, family dynamics, PTSD, angst, traumatic past, letters, a little smut, soft, fluff, injuries, jealousy, sam being an idiot

Word Count: +23k

Note: First of all, thank you guys for all the love and the positive feedbacks received on the first part. I'm really happy you liked it and I hope you love this chapter too as much as I loved writing it. This couple has a special place in my heart, it always will, and writing about them was like going on a rollercoaster... of emotions. So, let me know what you think and if you'd like to see more of them in the future, maybe a few bonus scenes. The story is inspired on Taylor Swift's song The Great War, so you will find lyrics from it in both chapters. Just a little reminder: english isn't my first language, so please be understandable. Enjoy it! Taglist: @exorcist912 @meetmeatyourworst @beau-hawkins

The words echoed in your mind, hollow and sharp, drowning everything else. He’s been injured. He’s been injured. He’s been injured.

Your vision blurred as your eyes became glossy. The room tilted slightly out of focus. You could still hear your father talking, but his voice sounded far away, muffled, like underwater.

He was alive —but at what cost?

- That was the night I nearly lost you I really thought I'd lost you -

When you finally managed to process your father's words, you asked him to repeat everything again, slower this time — every detail, every piece of it. You needed to understand, no matter how much it hurt.

He told you about the mission. About the explosion. Sam’s unit was evacuating a conflict zone when enemy forces launched an IED at them. They had just reached the extraction point when the blast hit. The whole unit had been caught in it. Sam and another soldier had been both gravely wounded. Your father remained calm as he spoke, almost clinical, the way he always sounded whenever he talked about work. Sam had suffered multiple injuries to his legs. He’d been flown from one hospital to another in the last days, undergoing saving surgeries in quick succession until they had finally stabilized him.

Now he was finally stable enough to be moved home. In a few days, they would bring him across the ocean to continue treatment in the States. Even though doctors managed to save his life, they weren't sure he would ever be able to walk again. After talking to you father, you started to make some calls and used every contact, every favor you could call in to make sure he’d be taken to your hospital — where he could receive the best care possible, where you could be close to him. Not just as a doctor, but as you. - A week later, you were standing outside the hospital, waiting for the ambulance that was bringing Sam back to you. Your father’s words kept echoing in your head — the explosion, the injuries, the surgeries. Everything. You kept replaying the timeline too, analyzing the events. You father had told you that the mission had started a few weeks later you’d started writing to Sam again.

Which meant he might have never read your last letters. That was why he hadn’t answered.

The realization struck hard, hollowing you out. If you’d only written sooner, if you hadn’t hesitated too long, maybe he would’ve known how you felt. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone into that mission believing you’d walked away. The idea that he’d faced hell believing you didn’t care made your stomach twist.

But he was alive. That was what mattered now. You had a second chance, and this time you weren’t going to waste it. No more silence. No more running. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t even notice the two figures walking up beside you until one of them spoke.

“Ehi.” The familiar voice of Anthony pulled you back to the present. “We figured you could use some company,” he said, smiling. But you could see the worry on his face. You tried to smile back at him, grateful for his presence in that moment. He was both colleague and friend — the kind who could make a joke out of anything, even when you least expected it. Beside him stood Jenny, her eyes soft with concern too. She’d been the one who pushed you to write to Sam in the first place, so she knew exactly what all this meant for you, how difficult it was.

“Hey,” she said quietly, putting gently her hand on your shoulder. “You doing okay?”

You managed another small smile and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

It helped, having them at your side. Beneath the thin surface of calm, your stomach was in knots. It wasn’t the injuries that scared you— you’d seen worse, on the field, in the ER. You weren’t even afraid of the long months of recovery that awaited him. None of that scared you, in fact you were ready to fight that battle.

What terrified you was something else entirely. What if Sam didn’t want to see you? What if your silence had made him change his mind about you? You exhaled shakily, the question slipping out before you could stop it. “What if he doesn’t want me here?”

Antony and Jenny exchanged a quick glance, then they looked back at you. It was Anthony who broke the silence first, a grin tugging at his lips. “Sweetheart, that man wanted to see you so badly he practically blew himself up to come home. I think you’re fine.”

“Anthony!” Jenny scolded, her eyes wide, half amused and half horrified. But you were already laughing, really laughing, for the first time in days. It burst out of you, raw and real, breaking the tension, shattering the tightness in your chest. “You’re an idiot,” you said breathless.

You were still smiling when the sound of sirens filled the air. The ambulance turned into the hospital drive, lights flashing over the glass doors. Your smile faded instantly.

“He’s here,” you whispered.

Your heart stuttered as the vehicle parked in front of you. When the the back doors opened, you finally stepped forward to help. And there he was. He looked different from the man you’d last seen almost one year ago — the one who had smirked at you, who had challenged you to darts just to have an excuse to buy you a drink. Back then, he’d been strong, confident, radiating that quiet defiance that was hard to ignore, even for you. Now, lying on the stretcher, he looked pale, thinner, a faint stubble darkening his jaw. Fragile, almost — and yet, he was still him. Still your Sam. “How is he?” you asked the paramedics, forcing your voice to stay steady.

“The trip was long,” one of them replied. “He’s stable, but heavily sedated. He’ll probably need more morphine for the pain when he’ll wake in a few yours.”

You nodded. “Thank you. We’ll take it from here.” Together, you, Jenny, and Antony guided the stretcher upstairs, through the sterile corridors that suddenly felt too bright, too small. Once he was settled in his room, hooked up to the monitors and IVs, you thanked them both. “Thanks, guys,” you told them softly. “You can go now. I’ll stay with him.” “Call us if you need anything,” Jenny said before they left.

The door clicked shut, and for the first time, it was just you and him. You approached slowly his bed, while the rhythmic beeping of the monitors filled the silence. You adjusted his blanket and checked his bandages with trembled hands. Seeing him like that hurt in a way you’d never been trained to handle.

And yet you were grateful and relieved. Because he was alive. He was there with you.

You slipped your fingers through his, your thumb brushing his knuckles. “I’m here, Sam,” you whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.” A faint smile tugged at your lips. “Besides… You still owe me a rematch at darts. So you’d better wake up soon.”

You pulled up a chair beside the bed and opened his medical file. The words on the pages blurred as you read through the details — bilateral tibia and fibula fractures, extensive soft-tissue damage and third-degree burns. You knew what those injuries meant. Multiple surgeries already done, others still to come. And months of rehab ahead of Sam. With every line, you realized how close he’d come to losing everything — not just his legs, but his life. And the damage went far beyond the physical. The injuries would heal, eventually. But what worried you were the ones you couldn’t see — the invisible scars, the psychological damage that kind of trauma could leave. His road to recovery would be long, brutal even, both physically and mentally. But this time, you were ready, you weren’t running. You had been given a second chance too, and you weren’t going to waste it. -

Hours slipped by. Nurses came and went, checking on him, adjusting his IV, updating the monitors. Outside, the city lights began to flicker against the windows, painting soft reflections across the room. You barely moved as you wanted to be there when he would wake up. You looked around, smiling faintly at the irony of it all — how months ago you hadn’t even wanted to write him back, and now you were there, sitting beside his hospital bed and waiting for him to wake up. If someone had told you that, you would’ve laughed in their face, not believing him.

A soft, broken sound — a groan — interrupted your thoughts.

Your head snapped up toward him. Sam’s eyes were fluttering open, the lids heavy, struggling against the light. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to focus. His breathing was uneven, shallow.

You leaned in, taking his hand. “Hey… it’s okay. It’s me. Y/N. You’re safe. You’re home.” At the sound of your voice, something in his face softened.

“Y/N…?” His voice cracked, rough and dry. “Is it really you? Am I dreaming?” You reached out and brushed your fingers along his cheek, gentle, deliberate. “It’s me. I’m right here. You’re not dreaming.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips before his expression contorted again as a spasm of pain tightened his jaw. His body tensed, his breathing more uneven.

“Sam,” you whispered, alarmed. “Are you in pain?” He nodded weakly, his hand tightening around yours.

“Okay, okay. I’ve got you,” you breathed, reaching for the morphine syringe. Your hands trembled as you filled it — ridiculous, you thought, because you’d done this a thousand times before. But he wasn’t just any patient. You prepared the morphine carefully and administered the dose. “There. You’ll feel better soon,” you murmured.

He exhaled shakily, his eyelids growing heavier. “Don’t go… Stay… Please,” he whispered, barely audible.

You squeezed his hand firmly, your voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Little by little, his body relaxed, the pain fading, his breathing evening out.

You sat back, watching him breathe, the rhythm of the monitors blending with the slow beating of your own heart.

For the first time in days, you let yourself breathe too — really breathe.

Because he was home.

And you were exactly where you needed to be.

-

At some point during the night, exhaustion had won. You hadn’t even realized when your eyes had closed — one moment you were reading his folder on the couch across the room, the next you were asleep beneath a thin hospital blanket. When you finally stirred, it was still dark outside. You blinked, rubbed your eyes, and then remembered where you were. Your gaze moved immediately to his bed.

Sam was lying against the pillow, pale against the white sheets, tired, but conscious — and looking straight at you. He was awake. There was disbelief in his eyes, something raw and hesitant, fixed on you as if he were afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

You sat up quickly, heart pounding. “You’re awake,” you whispered as you crossed the room, stopping beside him. His lips curved faintly, his gaze still on you. “And you’re really here. I thought I was dreaming.” You smiled softly, the tension in your chest easing. “You’re not. It’s all true. I’m here.”

For a moment he simply looked at you, quietly absorbing the sight of you. Then he swallowed hard, voice uncertain. “I thought… after my last letter… I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again. Least of all see you.” You hesitated as guilt washed over you again — sharp, familiar, unwelcome. You’d rehearsed this moment countless times in your mind, in private but nothing could prepare you for the reality of his voice, the vulnerability in it. “I know,” you said quietly. “Your letter — it… it caught me off guard.” You paused for a brief moment, choosing your next words carefully. “Even after all these years, it’s still difficult for me to talk about him… my brother. Sometimes even just the thought of him hurts. I didn’t know what to say at first or how to behave once you knew the truth. But I did write to you, in the end.”

He blinked, a faint flicker of surprise crossing his face. “You did? You answered me?” You nodded. “Several letters, actually. But you were already gone. On the mission. You probably never got them.” Silence stretched between you, thick but not uncomfortable, as Sam absorbed your words and the meaning behind them. Then he smiled again — small, but real. “Guess we weren’t done after all.”

You felt your own smile answer his. “Guess not.” He let out a low laugh that quickly turned into a wince. You immediately leaned forward. “How do you feel? Are you in pain again?” you asked softly.

“I feel like an IED went off a few feet away from me,” he muttered dryly.

You let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a groan, then gently pressed a hand to his chest — careful but firm. “Not funny.”

He winced dramatically. “Easy there, doc. I’m fragile.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could step back, his hand lifted slowly, trembling slightly as it found yours. His fingers brushed yours — almost testing if you were real. You didn’t pull away and let him take your hand. His fingertips skimmed across the back of it and something inside you tightened — sudden, electric, painfully familiar. It’d been months since he’d touched you. Months since the heat of his skin had been on yours.

All the distance collapsed at once. “You’re really here,” he said again, quieter this time, as if he really believed it this time. “It’s actually you.”

You nodded, your throat tightening. “Yeah. It’s me.”

He held your gaze, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes — a mix of relief and disbelief. He sighed and then, with a faint grin, he said, “God, you’re even more beautiful than I remembered.” Heat rushed instantly to your cheeks, not expecting those words from him. You didn’t even try to hide it. “I wish I could say the same about you, but you definitely looked better last time,” you said smiling.

He gave a soft laugh, then winced again, hand going to his ribs. “Brutal. That one hurt.” “You’ll survive,” you said, your voice gentler now. “You’ve seen worse.”

The words hung between you, heavier than they seemed — a quiet acknowledgment of everything that had happened. It lingered in the air, like smoke that refused to fade. But neither of you pushed it. There would be time for it later, when the wounds were less raw. For now, being there with him was enough. It was everything.

He studied you for a while after that, quiet, thoughtful. Then, choosing his words with care, he murmured: “You know… I imagined this moment so many times while I was over there. Seeing you again. I used to wonder if I’d ever get the chance and how it’d be, what I’d say. But I never—” His voice faltered. “I never thought it would happen like this.” You exhaled, a small, bittersweet smile touching your lips. “I know. But nothing between us ever happened the way it was supposed to. We’ve never really followed rules or the order of things, have we?”

He smiled faintly. “Guess not.”

You stepped closer, your voice low, steady. “But look at you. You’re alive, you’re here. That’s what matters now. And when you’re better… we’ll finally have the time to do things right.”

He didn’t answer right away — just nodded slowly, his gaze softening.

A knock broke the silence. A nurse stepped in with a bright morning smile. “Good morning, Dr. Y/Ln. Sam. Just doing a quick check.”

You smiled back. “Morning, Evelyn.”

Sam turned his head toward you, brow furrowing.

“You two know each other?” Sam asked after the door clicked shut behind the nurse.

“She’s a colleague,” you replied casually.

It took him a moment to process that. His eyes widened slightly. “Wait— this is the hospital where you work?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I work here.”

A flicker of realization crossed his face. “So… are you one of my doctors?”

You shook your head, smiling. “No. But you’re in good hands. I promise.”

He stared at you a moment longer, thoughtful. “Still… how did I end up here? Out of all hospitals, I get sent to yours?”

You looked away, pretending to fix the edge of his blanket. “Well… it’s one of the best trauma centers in the city,” you said, trying to sound casual.

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, clearly not buying it. You sighed — then smiled, caught. “Okay. Maybe… I made a few calls.”

His eyebrows lifted, the corners of his mouth twitching. “So you’re telling me you pulled strings to get me transferred here?”

You shrugged lightly, pretending indifference. “Well, someone had to keep an eye on you. Make sure you didn’t get into more trouble.”

He laughed — a small, genuine sound. “You really did that.”

You smiled softly. “Guess I did.”

His gaze lingered on you, filled with something unspoken — gratitude, affection, and something more. “So,” he said finally, “does this mean I’ll get to see you often?”

You leaned a little closer, feigning seriousness. “Oh, you can count on it. You might even get tired of me.”

His grin widened, slow and warm. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “We’ll see about that, O’Neal.”

You talked a little longer after that — small things at first, the kind of quiet conversation that feels both new and familiar. There was no rush, no need to say everything all at once. You stayed with him while he drifted back toward sleep, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. And for the first time since the day you got the call — you felt peace.

-

December 2006

The days that followed blurred together in a slow, exhausting rhythm of surgeries, checkups, and half-awake moments that never lasted long enough. Sam drifted in and out of consciousness, hovering somewhere between the dull haze of painkillers and the fragile edge of awareness. Every time he woke, especially after surgery, confusion clouded his eyes. Sometimes he didn’t remember where he was; other times he didn’t remember what had happened. But no matter how disoriented he was, he always asked for you. If you were still there. If you’d left.

And, as promised, you were always there.

You split yourself between the chaos of your shifts in the ER and the stillness of Sam’s hospital room. Sometimes you only had a few minutes before running back to a trauma case. Other times, after ending your shift, you stayed with him for hours — sitting beside his bed, holding his hand when the pain crept back in, or talking softly when the nightmares pulled him under. Whenever he underwent another surgery, you took days off so you could be there when he woke up.

Luckily, you weren’t alone. Sam's parents and his sister would go back and forth to be with him. Despite the nervous knot in your stomach at the thought of meeting them the first time, it was good and comforting having them around. Between your shifts and the constant pull to check on him, you had barely time to breathe. But when his parents were there, you allowed yourself to slow down a little. To take a break. They had been gentle from the start. His mother had pulled you into a tight, trembling hug after you’d introduced yourself, recognizing your name instantly. She already knew who you were. His father thanked you more than once, awkward but earnest, the kind of man who felt things deeply and spoke sparingly. His younger sister — tired-eyed, hair in a messy bun, still glowing faintly from new motherhood — had taken to you immediately. Within minutes, she was scrolling through her phone, showing you pictures of her newborn daughter with the enthusiasm of someone who’d known you for years, not days. They made you feel welcome, like someone who already belonged in the small orbit of their family. And yet, you suspected — from the way his mother’s eyes lingered on you sometimes, from the way his sister smiled knowingly — that they knew more than they let on. About you and Sam. But they never pushed, never asked questions about what Sam was to you or the opposite. And both of you were grateful for that. They just… let you be there, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe, by then, it was.

-

Then there were also Sam's friends who came to visit and kept him company. The first time you met them, you recognized a few from that night at the bar. Others, instead, felt familiar only because Sam had described them in his letters — their faces already tied to stories you remembered more vividly than you’d ever admit.

Mac was the loudest, bursting through the door with a grin that didn’t quite hide his relief. “Jesus, O’Neal,” he said with a dramatic grimace, “next time you want time off, maybe try a vacation? Preferably one that doesn’t involve explosives.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Missed you too, buddy.” Ray and Tommy followed, carrying takeout coffee and a small speaker, while Erik offered a quiet nod and a pat on Sam’s shoulder. The room filled instantly with noise — teasing, laughter, easy banter that didn’t need to tiptoe around what had happened. When they turned their attention to you, Sam cleared his throat — already bracing for whatever was coming.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” he said. “She’s… she’s the one who— well. You know.”

You shot Sam a questioning look — what exactly did they know? — while the boys exchanged amused glances. Tommy stepped forward first. “Jesus, man, you suck at introductions,” he told Sam. “You could’ve just said she’s the one you smiled at like an idiot every time you read her letters.” Sam went crimson instantly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, completely defeated. There was no escaping that one.

You barely managed not to laugh, glancing at Sam again.

“Anyway,” Tommy said, turning to you with a warm grin, “I’m Tommy. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

The others followed suit.

“I’m Mac,” he said with an overly dramatic bow. “And thank you for your service. We know putting up with him isn’t easy.”

“I’d like to remind everyone I’m here,” Sam muttered, “and I can hear you.” “Luckily,” Erik added, deadpan, “otherwise how would we make fun of you?”

The room dissolved into laughter, easy and familiar — a kind of normalcy you didn’t realize you’d missed until it was there again. You moved to the small couch tucked in the corner, wanting to give them space. As they talked and joked, you watched Sam’s face light up. For a moment, he looked like himself again — the man you’d come to know through letters, the one who could make you laugh or smile with a single line, even from thousands of miles away.

Every now and then, Sam glanced your way. And every time he did, one of his friends noticed. At one point, Mac nudged Sam’s foot — gently, carefully avoiding any injuries — and said, “Gotta say, man… you did good.”

Sam frowned. “What?” Mac nodded subtly toward you. “Her. You did real good.” The others nodded in agreement. Sam hissed under his breath, “Lower your voice or she’ll hear you.” But he didn’t deny it — because Mac was right. He’d hit the mark with you just as perfectly as you’d hit his that night at the bar. The guys snickered, sharing looks that made Sam groan softly into his hands. From the couch, you pretended you didn’t hear — but the small smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

When they finally left, the room felt quieter, but not empty. You gathered the cups and napkins they’d left behind, setting them on the tray. Sam watched you, his expression soft, unreadable.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “they like you.”

You looked up, half-smiling. “You think?”

“I know,” he replied. “They’re not exactly subtle.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. Without even realizing it, you were quickly slipping into his life, into all the people who mattered to him.

And Sam liked that.

You liked it too.

-

One morning, when you stepped into his room, you found Sam already awake. He looked tired, but clearer somehow, more present than he had the days before after his last surgery. Sunlight filtered through the blinds in thin, pale stripes, catching on the metal railing of his bed.

He smiled when he saw you — soft, warm.

“Morning,” you said. “Hey.” He shifted slightly, winced.

“How are you feeling today?” you asked, approaching his bed and checking the monitors out of habit. He watched you with quiet amusement — and something gentler, something warmer.

“Better, thanks.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh… I’ve got something for you.”

You blinked. “For me?”

He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “Well… It’s more a… return.” There was a hint of nervousness in his voice — unusual for him.

“A return?” you repeated, confused.

You watched him as he pulled something out of his pocket, his hands shaking. And then you saw it. Your necklace. The one you’d forgotten in his bed that morning.

Your breath caught.

“Remember? I promised I’d bring it back to you,” he said quietly. “I fixed the clasp. I didn't want it to get lost again.”

You gently took the necklace from him. His fingers brushed yours briefly — warm, calloused, careful.

“I see you’re a man of your word, O’Neal,” you said, turning the necklace over in your hands and managing a small smile despite the tight ache in your chest.

He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was something heavier beneath it.

“It kept me going, you know?” he admitted. “The promise that I had to bring it back to you. ”

Your chest tightened.

“It gave me something to hold onto,” he continued, voice growing rougher with each word. “A reason to fight. A reason to come back.” Your throat ached. You couldn’t look away.

“Out there, after the explosion…” His jaw flexed, remembering. “When I was on the ground — bleeding, barely able to breathe — I kept thinking I couldn’t die. Not without seeing you again. Not without returning this to you. It felt important.”

You stared down at the pendant resting in your palm. For a moment, all the noise of the hospital — distant voices, beeping monitors, rolling carts — faded into nothing. The confession hitting you harder than you expected. Because in that moment, it felt like part of the reason he was alive — part of the reason he was there — was tied to you. To a forgotten necklace tangled in his sheets a year ago. For once, you were grateful for losing something.

“It was. Important, I mean. It was my brother’s,” you said suddenly.

Sam looked up sharply, surprised, like he hadn’t expected you to explain. His eyes softened. “You don’t have to—”

“No, it’s okay,” you interrupted, voice firmer than you felt. Then quieter, “I want to.”

Something in his expression shifted — gratitude, relief, a touch of awe. He nodded, slow, giving you space. You closed your fingers around the necklace. “He used to wear it every day,” you continued. “It was his good-luck charm. He’d touch it whenever he was nervous… or before doing something stupid with his friends. Like a ritual.” A small smile ghosted across your lips. “Except the day he died. I don’t know why.” You inhaled, shaky. “But I always wondered if that meant something.” Sam listened without interrupting, his full attention on you in a way that made your chest tighten. “I don’t know if it really brings luck,” you murmured. “But it seems to have worked for you. And… I’m glad it did. That kept you safe.”

Sam smiled, not knowing what to say. Still shocked that you were opening up to him about it.

“You two would’ve liked each other,” you added. “ I think he… my brother’d have liked you. You’re both stubborn as hell. But you make people feel safe without even trying.”

Sam’s lips lifted, just slightly. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

Silence settled again between you — not heavy, just full.

You glanced down at the necklace again, then lifted your gaze. “Will you… help me put it on?”

He nodded immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”

You turned, brushing your hair aside. His fingers were gentle on your neck, warm against your skin. The chain brushed your collarbone, cool at first, then familiar. The soft click of it closing felt louder than it should have. “There,” he said, voice low.

You touched the pendant instinctively, as if reassuring yourself it was really there. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For bringing it back.”

Sam watched you with an expression so open, so quietly full of something you didn’t dare name yet, that you felt the world shift just slightly under your feet.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly. “I’m… I’m glad I made it back at all.”

-

The hospital cafeteria buzzed with the usual midday noise — trays clattering, nurses talking over half-finished salads, someone complaining about the coffee machine again. You sat squeezed between Anthony and Jenny, picking at your sandwich while they argued about who’d had the worst patient that morning.

At some point, the conversation shifted — naturally, inevitably — to Sam. “So,” Anthony began, voice dripping with nosy enthusiasm, “how are things going with soldier boy?” You had barely opened your mouth when he added, “Have you already jumped each other like wild animals?”

You almost spat out your food. Jenny slapped a hand over her mouth to hide her laugh as you coughed into your napkin, glaring at your friend.

“Jesus, Anthony,” you managed to say.

He grinned, wholly unrepentant. “What? Am I wrong?”

You hesitated. Then, you exhaled sharply. “For your information, no, we haven’t… done anything.” Anthony paused mid-sip of his drink and stared at you like you’d just confessed something scandalous. “Hold on,” he said, blinking twice, then raising his voice. “You two haven’t even kissed yet? Not once? Since he got here?” Finishing lunch suddenly felt like an Olympic sport.

You shook your head. “No, Anthony. We haven’t. Happy now?”

Anthony threw his hands up. “Unbelievable. You wrote letters to each other for, what, almost a year? The tension should be illegal at this point.” You rubbed your forehead. “May I remind you this is a hospital? Not exactly the most romantic or discreet place.” “Oh, sweetheart,” Anthony said, leaning back dramatically, “we both know that never stopped you, and these walls are witnesses.”

You felt your face heat instantly. Jenny raised her eyebrows and added, “Yeah, even some of us are witnesses too.” Your cheeks went from warm to burning. “Why am I friends with you two?” you muttered.

Anthony pointed his fork at you like a judge delivering a verdict, ignoring your comment. “So what are you waiting for? A written invitation? A sign from above? You know you have our blessing.”

You sighed, pushing your tray away. You were no longer hungry. “It’s not that simple. This thing between me and Sam is… different. It’s delicate. And… he has more important things on his mind right now.” You toyed with your napkin. “It’s complicated.”

Anthony scoffed. “Ok, you’re right. But, honestly, a kiss can only do him good. Love speeds up healing — everybody knows that. And it would make you less nervous.” You looked at him pretending to be offended.

Jenny instead nodded enthusiastically. “For once, I agree with him. He’d probably recover in half the time.”

You tried — and failed — not to smile. They meant well — even if they could be insufferable sometimes.

“Just…” Anthony shrugged, finishing his drink. “Don’t overthink it too much. The perfect moment doesn’t exist. Just do it.” -

Later that night, when your shift finally ended, you dragged yourself down the quiet hallway to Sam’s room. The lights were dim. The world outside his door felt heavy.

Inside, Sam was asleep.

You paused a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. He looked peaceful as you checked the monitors and the IV, trying not to disturb him.

Only when you were sure he was okay did you let yourself lay down on the small couch. As you curled up, you closed your eyes, telling yourself it was only for a moment — but you slipped into sleep before you could finish the thought.

You woke to the sound of him gasping.

Your heart lurched. You were on your feet instantly, crossing the room as Sam thrashed lightly against the sheets, breath ragged, panic written into every line of his body.

“Sam,” you whispered urgently, leaning over him. “Sam, hey. Wake up. It’s okay. I’m here.”

His eyes snapped open. He was trembling — chest heaving, forehead damp, fear still clinging to him. But the second he saw you, something in his expression eased.

“Hey… It was just a nightmare,” you said softly, taking his hand in yours. “You’re safe. You’re here.”

He swallows hard, still trying to catch his breath. “Can you… stay with me? Here?” His voice was small, raw, a fragile whisper. You hesitated. “Sam, you’ll be uncomfortable.”

“I don’t… I don’t care. Please. I… need you.”

His words, his tone broke you. There was no way you could say no to that.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He shifted over carefully, making space. You climbed onto the bed and lay on your side while he stayed on his back. His arm slipped around you, drawing you close but not too tight, as if afraid you might disappear if he held any harder. You rested your hand on his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart gradually slowing beneath your palm. For a while, neither of you spoke. His breathing, which was slowly, steadily returning to normal, was the only sound in the room. Being this close to him again was familiar in a way that made your chest ache. Every point where your bodies touched sent small waves of heat through your nerves. When you glanced up at him, he was staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight with unsaid thoughts. You studied him quietly — the soft shadows on his face, the worry still etched between his brows.

Then, he finally broke the silence.

“It wasn’t really a nightmare,” he murmured. “Not completely.”

Your hand stilled. “What do you mean?”

He exhaled shakily. “I dreamed the accident. Or… remembered it.” His throat bobbed. “It felt so real. Like I was back there and it was happening all over again. The blood, the screams… Everything.”

You swallowed hard as you knew that feeling too — the way trauma didn’t fade, only slept. How it woke you in the dark, dragged you back into moments you’d tried to bury. After your brother’s death, you had relived his last moments for months — sometimes even now they clawed their way back into your dreams.

You touched his cheek gently. He closed his eyes at the contact, leaning into your hand. You guided his face toward you.

“Sam,” you whispered. “Look at me.”

He opened his eyes.

“You’re not there,” you said. “You’re here. Alive. Safe. And with me.”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at you — eyes tired, vulnerable, open in a way he rarely allowed. The distance between your faces was barely a breath. Your noses almost touched. His gaze flickered down to your lips, then back to your eyes, full of something unspoken and overwhelming. You looked away for a split second, unable to hold the intensity of his stare. He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made you forget how to breathe again. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Your pulse thudded hard against your ribs. Anthony’s words echoed in your head: “Don’t overthink it too much. The perfect moment doesn’t exist. Just do it.”

“Don’t stop,” you whispered.

The word broke whatever restraint he still had, closing the distance between you.

The kiss began soft — hesitant, careful, like rediscovering a language you once knew by heart. But then your hand slid over his chest, and something inside both of you broke open.

The kiss deepened. Slow turned urgent. Gentle turned hungry. A year’s worth of longing spilled into it — all the unsent words, all the nights spent wishing and remembering, all the almosts and not-yets finally collapsing into now. It was like both of you were trying to memorize the other all over again. It was like coming home after a long time away.

When you finally pulled apart, you stayed forehead to forehead, breathing the same air, his thumb brushing your cheek, slow and tender, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I saw you again,” he whispered.

A quiet, shaky laugh escaped you. “Me too.”

He kissed your forehead — warm, soft — before drawing you closer into his chest. You rested your head against him, his arm tightening protectively around you in a way that felt completely natural.

Within minutes, the two of you drifted to sleep. Wrapped around each other, breathing in sync, as if something in the universe had finally clicked back into place.

And that kiss — that long, overdue kiss — turned out to be the first of many. From then on, any moment was an excuse to kiss each other: a quick peck whenever you entered the room, a lingering kiss when no one was around.

You hadn’t put a name to whatever the two of you were but you didn’t need to. For now, that was enough. -

You stepped out of the elevator, still smoothing the wrinkles out of your scrubs. The hallway of Sam’s floor smelled of antiseptic and fresh coffee. You spotted Daniel, one of Sam’s doctors, leaning over the nurses’ station, scribbling notes.

He looked up as you approached, pen paused mid-air. “Hey,” he greeted. “You headed to see O’Neal?”

You nodded.

“Good,” Daniel added, lowering his voice. “Then maybe you can talk some sense into him.” You froze. “…Sorry? What?”

Daniel blinked. “I assume he hasn’t told you yet.”

Your stomach tightened. “Told me what?”

He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable. “Sam agreed to the operation. The additional one Harding suggested last week.” He lifted a shoulder. “He’ll do it in a few days.”

For a moment, you genuinely wondered if you’d misheard him. “Wait— what?”

Daniel nodded, sympathy flickering across his features. “I was surprised too. I don’t think he’s ready. Not physically. He’s still stabilizing from the last surgery he had. But from what I've seen, he seems determined to proceed.”

You stared at him, speechless. Anger and disbelief twisted inside you, sharp and hot.

“But that's not the right thing to do!” You exclaimed. “It’s too soon. He needs to recover first.”

Daniel sighed. “I agree. Maybe…” He paused. “Maybe you could try talking to him.”

You swallowed, your throat tight. “Oh, you can bet I will. Immediately. Thanks, Daniel.” And you left before he could say anything else.

Your pulse hammered, frustration building with every step.

By the time you reached Sam’s room, you didn’t bother calming yourself. Erik and Ray were inside, sitting on chairs near the foot of the bed and chatting with Sam. They both smiled when they saw you — until they saw the expression on your face and their smiles fell instantly.

Sam looked up too, eyes warming, already opening his mouth to greet you. “Hey,” he started, “I was just—”

You didn’t let him finish. “What’s this story about you agreeing to Harding’s operation?” you demanded, walking straight toward his bed.

Sam blinked, taken by surprise. “Oh. Right. I was going to—”

“Going to tell me?” you cut in. “When? During surgery?”

Erik and Ray exchanged a silent ‘we should leave’ look, but neither dared to move.

Sam exhaled. “Look, it’s not a big deal—”

“It’s a big deal, Sam,” you snapped. “You just had surgery and you’re still recovering. Why would you even consider another one?”

“Because it will help,” he said, jaw tight. “It’ll speed things up.” “Or slow you down,” you shot back. “If it goes wrong, Sam, you’ll set your recovery back by weeks. Maybe even months.”

He shook his head, sighing. “I know. I’m willing to take that risk.”

“Well, you’re being reckless!” The words came out louder than you intended. Ray shifted uncomfortably, Erik rubbed his jaw, both lowered their eyes to the floor. Sam’s eyes flashed with irritation — something you had never seen turned toward you before. “And you’re acting like you get to decide what I do with my own body! You’re not my doctor.” You stared at him, stung. Silence fell so abruptly it felt physical. You saw the regret on his face the moment the words left his mouth — but it was too late. You kept your face steady, but inside something cracked. “ You’re right. I’m not your doctor.” You paused for a moment before continuing. “So what am I, Sam?” you said quietly.

Sam’s irritation vanished instantly, replaced by panic and regret. “Wait, I didn’t— that’s not—”

“I should get back to work,” you said, cutting him off. Your voice was thin, trembling. “I’ll… come back later.”

You turned before he could answer.

“Hey—wait,” he called, voice raw. “Please—just—listen—”

And even though you heard him call your name — once, twice — you didn’t look back.

-

The cafeteria was nearly empty during mid-afternoon. You sat alone at a table by the wall, fingers wrapped around a cup of tea that had gone lukewarm without you noticing as you tried to calm down.

Anger simmered beneath your ribs, tangled with something far more painful. The argument kept replaying in your mind — his tone, his words, the way he’d snapped at you like you were overstepping. Like you didn’t matter.

And maybe you didn’t. Not really. After all, a few kisses didn’t make you important.

You hated how much it hurt. The uncertainty of not knowing what you were to him.

You lifted the cup to your lips when someone stepped into your line of sight.

“Mind if I sit?”

Erik. You shook your head slowly.

Even though you didn’t know him well, you liked Erik. He was the anchor of the group, calm, reflective and steady. The kind of man who always knew what to do, that you could trust.

He sat across from you with deliberate quiet, studying your face in that gentle, perceptive way people trained to recognize pain often did. You broke the silence first. “I’m sorry you and Ray had to see that,” you murmured, voice low, a little embarrassed. Erik shrugged. “Don’t apologize. If anything, Sam is the one who should.” Then he offered a small, knowing smile. “He can be a real pain in the ass.”

Despite everything, a faint laugh escaped you. “Yeah,” you agreed softly. “He really can.”

Erik nudged his cup aside and leaned forward a little. “And you’re right about the surgery. He knows it too. Deep down.” He paused, tapping his fingers lightly against the table. “But… do you know why he wants it so badly?”

You rolled your eyes. “Because he’s desperate to walk again. Obviously.”

But Erik shook his head. “That’s part of it, of course. But it’s not the only reason he’s pushing himself this hard.”

You frowned, not understanding what he meant. “Then why?”

Erik folded his arms, eyes lowering as if choosing his words carefully. “He wants to walk again for you.”

Your breath stilled. “For… me?” Your voice was barely audible.

Erik nodded once, leaning back on the chair. “He wants to take you out. On a real date. He wasn’t to pick you up in a car. Go somewhere that isn’t this hospital. Hold your hand without being stuck in bed. You know, do all the things he imagined while he was stuck overseas reading your letters.” He hesitated, then added with a soft huff, “he has probably already planned the entire date in his head. Every detail.”

Your breath caught in your throat, not expecting that confession.

Erik went on. “But now that he’s finally here — now that you’re here with him — he can’t. He still needs to wait because he’s trapped in that bed. And it’s killing him, slowly.”

You stared down at your tea, shocked, your pulse suddenly too loud in your ears. “I… I didn’t know,” you whispered. “I thought he wanted to recover quickly so he could go back. You know. To the field.”

Erik shook his head firmly. “No. Honestly? I don’t think he’s even thought about that. Not now. Not when he has something — someone — here worth staying for.”

Your eyes lifted slowly to meet his. And you understood. Every unspoken word. Every implication.

You swallowed hard.

He touched your arm briefly — a gesture of reassurance, nothing more. “Look, he’s probably better at talking about his feelings in letters than saying them out loud. But talk to him,” he added softly, a faint smile ghosted across his lips. “He didn’t mean what he said. He’s just tired. Scared. And probably in a lot more pain than he’ll ever admit to anyone.” Your heart clenched so sharply it almost hurt. You nodded, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. Erik hesitated — then offered what felt like the closest thing to a secret. “I’ve known Sam a long time, and I’ve never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you.” He paused, letting the words settle. “You matter to him. More than he knows how to show right now. You may not be his doctor…” A small smile tugged at his lips. “But you’re definitely someone important.”

For the first time since you walked out of Sam’s room, something inside you eased — not completely, but enough to calm the storm inside you — and you let yourself believe Erik might be right.

You nodded slowly, fingers tightening around your cup.

Erik gave you one last reassuring nod and looked away, giving you space to feel everything without the pressure of being watched.

- When you pushed open the door to Sam’s room a few hours later, you were still in your uniform. Your lab coat hung slightly crooked over your scrubs, the fabric creased from the long shift. A nurse was standing by his bedside, tightening the cuff around his arm as she checked his blood pressure. She gave you a polite smile as you stepped inside. You stopped just past the doorway, hands tucked loosely into your coat pockets, letting the nurse finish. Sam’s eyes found you the second you appeared — not surprised, but intent, almost relieved, as if he’d been waiting for you the entire day. You met his gaze for a brief moment; then you looked down, overwhelmed by everything unsaid. His attention hovered on you, steady and cautious, as if he feared you might change your mind and disappear before he could speak to you again.

When the nurse finally stepped away and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her, silence settled again. You remained where you stood, unsure if moving closer would help or hurt, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t that you didn’t know what to say — you knew too well — but saying any of it felt like peeling something raw open.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” Sam said first, his voice softer than you expected — unsteady at the edges, stripped of all defensiveness.

You looked up at him.

“I’m sorry too,” you replied quietly, taking a slow step closer.

He exhaled shakily, eyes lowering. “It’s just that… I had all these plans,” he muttered. “Things I wanted to do when I finally got home. Things I wanted to do…with you. Like —”

He hesitated, helpless.

You couldn’t help it — a small, involuntary smile pulled at your lips, remembering Erik’s words. “Like inviting me out and taking me to dinner?”

Sam’s head snapped up. Confusion flickered across his face for half a second before realization settled in. “Erik talked to you, didn’t he?”

You nodded. Sam groaned, dropping his head back against the pillow. “That little snitch.”

“Actually, you should thank him,” you murmured. “It was… enlightening.”

“Really?” Sam looked at you, cautious, waiting.

You nodded again, this time more earnestly. “Really. At least now I understand better your decision. Even though I still don’t agree with it.” You held his gaze, steady. “I’m not changing my opinion, Sam. But you were right about one thing: it’s your body, your life, and the choice is ultimately yours. If this is what you truly want, then… fine, go ahead. But do it for yourself. Not because you think I need some perfect date with you walking around like nothing ever happened.”

His jaw loosened, something vulnerable slipping through.

You continued, softer, “I don’t need that. I mean, it would be nice someday but now what I want is for you to get better. I’ll be here, in any case — whether it takes two weeks or two months for you to recover. And when you’re better… we can have all the dates and the walks you want.”

And you really meant that. Every single word.

He stared at you as though he wasn’t sure he deserved any of it.

“So,” Sam said after a beat, a tentative smile tugging at his mouth, “you’re saying we have a date?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your amused exhale. “That’s the only thing you heard of my speech?”

“Possibly.”

“Well,” you said, crossing your arms, “that depends on how you ask me, O’Neal. And on how you behave.”

His laugh was short, quiet, but real — the kind that made his shoulders relax for the first time since the argument. Then his expression softened into something earnest. “So… do you forgive me?” he asked, almost timid.

You stepped closer to his bedside, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of antiseptic on his sheets mixed with his cologne.

“I do,” you whispered. “But don’t make a habit of it.”

A relaxed, relieved smile spread across his face, transforming him. Then he hesitated — only a second — before admitting, “I spoke to Harding, anyway. I’m not doing the surgery. I’ll wait.”

You stared at him, startled. You didn’t expect him to change his mind. “Are you sure?” you asked carefully.

“Yeah,” he replied. “You were right. It's not worth it... not when there's so much at stake.”

You swallowed, moved more than you could say. You felt heard.

A small spark of mischief lit his eyes. “So… what else did Erik tell you? Please tell me he didn’t reveal all my plans, or I’ll need to come up with new ones.” You laughed softly. “I’d say you have plenty of time to do that.”

He huffed, pretending to be offended. “Rude.”

“For someone who almost got himself scheduled for surgery just to go on a date, you’re surprisingly sensitive.”

He pointed a halfhearted glare at you. “I take these things very seriously, okay?”

You talked like that for a while — gently, cautiously, letting the earlier tension dissolve until the conversation settled into something warm and easy. Time slipped by unnoticed, until the window light had shifted into the muted gold of early evening.

“I should go,” you said reluctantly, glancing at the clock. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll be here.” You leaned down slightly, and he met you halfway. The kiss was gentle, unhurried — the kind of kiss that didn’t try to prove anything, that didn’t ask for anything. Just a soft press of lips, warm and reassuring, a quiet we’re okay after the storm. His hand rose briefly to your waist, your fingers brushing his cheek for a moment before you pulled back. You gave him one last small smile before slipping out into the hallway.

Inside the room, Sam stared at the door long after you’d left. He let out a slow breath, sinking into the pillow, his mind spinning in a direction entirely different from before.

All that talk about plans… about dates… about waiting… But he didn’t want to wait anymore. Not until he could walk. Not until he got discharged. After everything you’d done for him, he wanted to do something for you too. Something small but meaningful. Something that told you, unmistakably, that you mattered.

A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

The first date didn’t have to wait for him to walk. He could bring the date to you.

-

Tears on the letterI vowed not to cry anymoreIf we survived the Great War -

The next morning, you decided to stop by Sam’s room before your shift began. It was still early, the hallway was quiet. As you passed his window, you saw him speaking on the phone. He sat upright, hand running through his hair in that way he did whenever he was trying to keep something under control. When you entered the room, his eyes widened, and he ended the call so fast it was almost clumsy.

You raised a bow and stared at him. “Sorry, did I interrupt you?” you asked, curiosity breaking through despite your effort to sound casual.

He straightened, pretending to appear relaxed. “No,” he said too fast. “It was just Tommy. I asked him to stop by my place and grab a few things. He’ll bring them later.”

You nodded, though doubt still tugged at you. But before you could interrogate him further, he cleared his throat. “I wanted to ask you something. Do you… have plans tonight?”

You frowned. “No. Why?”

“Would you like to spend it with me?”

Your suspicion only grew. “What do you have in mind?”

“Come here at eight,” he said, trying — and failing — not to smile. “You’ll see.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Okay, now I’m curious. Do I need to bring something?”

“No.” He hesitated, then added, “I just need you to do one thing.”

“What?”

“Before that time… you can’t come into my room.”

You blinked. “Wha— what? Why?”

You were used to going to visit him several times a day, whenever you could and Sam had always been happy about it

“It’s part of the surprise.”

You stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Then, slowly, you sighed, giving up. “Fine. But that’s a weird request.”

“I know,” he said, grinning. “But it’ll be worth it. Trust me.”

“Alright. I guess I’ll see you later, then.”

- A few hours later Jenny appeared in the hallway, nearly gasping when she saw you still in your uniform.

“What are you still doing here? You should be getting ready!”

“Ready for what?” you asked, genuinely confused.

She stared at you. “You’re going to Sam’s, aren’t you?”

“Yes, when I finish my shift, like always.”

“You’re going like this?”

You glanced down at yourself. “I mean… I was going to take off the lab coat or put on the clothes I wore this morning.”

Jenny looked genuinely offended. “What is wrong with you? You can’t go to a date dressed like this!”

You opened your mouth. “It’s not a—” And then you froze.

Jenny’s words echoed in your mind. Sam’s request. His tone. The way he acted. And he’d talked about a surprise.

Jenny watched your realization dawn, eyebrows lifted.

“Oh my God,” you almost screamed. “It could be a date.”

“It’s definitely a date!” Jenny exclaimed, almost exasperated.

You looked down at yourself again in horror. “But I have nothing suitable to wear! And I look horrible. And I need a shower!”

“Then go,” Jenny said, already pushing you toward the locker room. “I handled the clothes. Move.”

Thirty minutes later — heart still racing a little — you stood in front of the mirror. Somehow, against all odds, you looked… good. Surprisingly good. The black dress Jenny had chosen hugged your figure perfectly, simple but elegant, the thin straps framing your shoulders and the soft V-neck flattering but not too much. The skirt fell below your knees. The short green cardigan added just the right touch of casual softness. The black boots grounded everything. Your hair was loose, falling naturally and your makeup was light, just enough to brighten your features. And around your neck — always — was your brother’s necklace.

Now you looked like someone going on a date.

At 7:58 p.m., you started walking toward Sam’s floor, pulse quickening with every step. It was ridiculous how nervous you felt — as if this were a proper date, not an improvised hospital version of one. And yet… it was a real date. The first one, technically.

When the elevator doors slid open, you spotted him immediately. He was waiting outside his room, sitting in a wheelchair. He’d trimmed the stubble along his jaw — not clean-shaven, but tidy in a way that made your stomach twist. He wore a dark navy long-sleeve shirt, the kind that stretched across his shoulders just right, and grey sweatpants that still somehow looked good on him.

At the sound of your footsteps Sam lifted his head, his breath caught.

“You look amazing,” he said when you were close enough to hear him.

You stared at him. “And you’re supposed to be in your bed.”

He ignored that entirely and reached behind the wheelchair, pulling out a small bouquet of flowers. “These are for you.”

You took them, heart doing something strange in your chest. “Ok, you’re forgiven. But just this time.” You stared at the flowers. “They are beautiful, thanks” you murmured.

He grinned — that rare, boyish grin he didn’t show often. “Good. Because I also have something else.”

You watched, suspicious, as he dug into the pocket of his sweatpants. When he pulled out what looked like a blindfold, you blinked. “Is that— Sam. Seriously?”

“A blindfold,” he confirmed, as if presenting a perfectly reasonable object.

“And I’m supposed to do what with that?”

“Put it on.”

You gave him a long, unimpressed look. “Sam, I’d like to remind you that we are in hospital, we cannot do anything inappropriate.”

He laughed softly. “It’s not for that. Trust me. Please” he said, soft, almost pleading.

Your heart flipped. Damn him. “Fine,” you muttered and tied the blindfold, fingers brushing your own temple. It was weird how much you suddenly relied on him, on his voice, on his presence.

“Now what?”

“Now open the door please and go in.”

You reached blindly for the handle, fingertips grazing metal. Your pulse thudded, loud in your ears — not nervous, exactly. More like anticipation. A different kind of adrenaline.

You stepped inside his room and immediately stopped. It felt different. It didn’t smell like disinfectant or plastic or anything remotely hospital-like. It smelled warm, like vanilla, cedar and something faintly sweet, like amber or brown sugar. And there was music too: a low, gentle melody with soft piano and strings, something that wrapped around the space instead of filling it. “Can I take it off?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.”

Your breath caught as you lifted the blindfold.

The room was dark except for dozens of tiny warm lights strung across the walls and ceiling, twinkling like scattered stars. The table was set — plates, napkins, a small candle flickering between you. Two pizza boxes sat on top from your favorite pizzeria. You turned slowly, looking around, overwhelmed by how thoughtful and intimate it all felt.

For several long seconds, neither of you said anything.

Then Sam finally murmured, “I know it’s not the perfect date—”

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “It’s beautiful.”

His eyes lit up. “Really? You like it?”

You nodded, still staring around in awe. “No one has ever done anything like this for me. How did you even do all this?”

He smirked. “I had some accomplices. Some good friends.”

You didn’t need more explanation.

You sat at the small table it had been set up by the window — white hospital linens disguising the tray table, real cutlery, even a tiny battery-powered candle flickering between the pizza boxes. Sam rolled into place across from you, adjusting the footrests with one hand. When you lifted the lid of your box, you laughed softly. “Margherita,” you said. “You remembered.”

“Sometimes the simplest things are the best,” he said, softly, timidly.

Dinner passed in warm, unhurried conversation — soft banter, small jokes, a few lingering glances that said everything words wouldn’t.

After eating, Sam gestured toward the projector you hadn’t even noticed earlier and showed you a DVD. “Another favorite of yours,” he said. “Rear Window.”

You smiled, touched to your core.

You helped him back onto the bed, adjusting pillows behind him until he was comfortable. Then you climbed in beside him, both of you semi-reclined against the raised mattress and stacked cushions. Your shoulder brushed his chest; your head fit naturally against the curve of his shoulder. His arm settled around you with slow, careful certainty, fingers resting just above your hip.

Halfway through the film, you felt Sam shift slightly — not away, but closer, just enough that your bodies aligned more fully. His thumb began tracing idle patterns against your arm. Not intentional at first. Then… maybe just a little. By the time the credits rolled, neither of you’d moved. The space between you felt charged — a soft, building warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets. You turned your face toward him at the same moment he angled toward you. The kiss happened naturally—inevitable, quiet. His hand slid into your hair; your fingers brushed along his jaw. You shifted closer, half draped over him, his arm tightening around your waist. The warmth deepened, your breaths mingling.

Another kiss. Then another. Slow at first, then quicker, hungrier.

You kissed like two teenagers hiding in a place where you absolutely shouldn’t be caught. It made everything sharper, sweeter, reckless. His breath trembled against your lips. “God,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours, “I don’t think I’ve ever hated being stuck in this hospital more than I do right now.”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers along the back of his neck. “Remember, this is our first date. You’re lucky I even let you kiss me.”

He stared at you. “Really?”

You smirked. “Consider it a special privilege for having fought bravely for our country.”

He laughed—a low, warm, undone sound. “Well, I’m honored. And extremely lucky. Not everyone gets a smart, sexy doctor taking care of them.” You raised a brow. “I thought I wasn’t your doctor,” you teased, quoting him without malice.

He looked at you—soft, honest. “No, you’re not,” he said quietly. “You’re a lot more than that.”

Your breath hitched and you kissed him again—slowly, tender —your fingers tracing his jaw, his hand settling carefully on your waist. His fingers traced the line of your spine. You stayed like that for a long time — soft kisses, quiet breaths, your bodies tangled in the gentle glow of the projector light. And eventually, with your head resting over his heart and his arm still securely around your waist, the exhaustion of the day slipped over you. Little by little, your breaths matched. And still wrapped around each other, still holding on, you both drifted into sleep. - You pushed Sam’s door open with the same casual confidence you had every time you came to check on him, expecting to find him alone. But the moment you stepped inside, something in you snapped taut.

Red hair, perfectly curled at the ends. Green eyes. Full lips. And a chest that her scrubs were definitely not doing enough to hide. An unfamiliar nurse was standing close to Sam’s bed. Far too close, in your opinion. She was laughing at something he’d said, touching his arm in a way that made your stomach twist. A light, flirty, unnecessary touch. She was so focused on Sam that she didn’t even glance your way when you entered. But Sam did. His eyes flew to you immediately, face lighting in that way he only reserved for you.

“Let me fix your pillow, Sam,” the nurse said in a sugary tone, still looking only at him, her hand on his shoulder. “It looks a little low.” Watching another woman touch him—touch something that was yours in a way, even if neither of you’d said it aloud—sent a flare of something hot and sharp down your spine.

You cleared your throat, stepping closer to Sam’s bed. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here,” you said with a forced smile, your voice calm but carrying an edge she absolutely heard.

She looked up at you —finally—acknowledging your existence with a tight, polite, utterly fake smile, that you didn’t reciprocate.

“Oh, sure,” she said cheerfully, adjusting a strand of her copper hair behind her ear, “I’ll… come back later.”

You rolled your eyes the moment she wasn’t looking.

She winked at Sam before leaving, without greeting you. Again. You tracked her until she disappeared into the hallway. Only then did you exhale and turn back to Sam who was watching you with an amused, knowing expression. You raised your brows dramatically, mimicking the nurse’s soft, breathy tone. “So, Sam,” you said, fluttering your eyelashes with exaggerated sweetness, “Do you want me to fix your pillow? Maybe bring you a glass of water? Do you need anything at allll? Everything for my brave soldier.

Sam laughed—warm, deep, unguarded. “No,” he said, still smiling. “I have everything I need.”

“Oh, really?” You crossed your arms. “Then maybe you should tell that to Miss A-ha-ha-ha.”

“She was just being nice,” he said lightly.

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, please. So nice she forgot I existed.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” you said quickly, raising your voice slightly. “I just think her behavior was… unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional,” he repeated, lips twitching.

“Yes,” you insisted, gesturing with your hands. “She was touching you, laughing at every word you said… Come on, she was flirting with you. And it’s inappropriate.”

His brows lifted slightly, and for a moment he looked like he was trying not to laugh. “You do realize,” he said slowly, “that you and I have been… very unprofessional in this room too. More than once.”

Your mouth fell open. “That’s different.”

“Is it?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

“Yes, and you know that.” You crossed your arms, chin tilting. “But fine. If professionalism is suddenly so important to you, maybe from now on I should behave. No more kissing you. No more lying down on your bed or being too close. No more… anything. Is that what you want?”

He blinked—then let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Oh no, that’s not happening.”

You narrowed your eyes, pretending to be offended. “Why not?”

“Because,” he said, voice dropping to something warm and certain, “you can be as unprofessional with me as you want.”

You stared at him for half a second, heat flickering up your spine despite yourself. Then you shook your head, muttering, “you’re such a naughty boy, O’Neal.”

His smile turned slow and absolutely sinful. “Only with you.”

-

January 2007 After a few weeks from his final surgery, Sam’s body was finally strong enough for daily physical therapy, and he’d been transferred to the rehabilitation wing. His days were now built around a strict schedule: three hours of physiotherapy a day, two of strengthening, balance work, mobility drills, and endless tests to measure progress. His doctors were optimistic — with time and patience, they believed he would walk again. If he continued improving at this pace, he would soon be able to go home to continue rest and care in his own bed. At first, Sam had almost been relieved to start the rehab program as he was determined to regain the ability to walk. Physiotherapy felt like proof that his body hadn’t given up on him, like a tangible sign he was getting closer to leaving the hospital. On the good days, when his legs responded, he managed to bear a little more weight, raise his leg without shaking or stand supported for a few seconds longer. But those days were rare. More often, the bad ones and the pain he was still feeling outweighed everything else, making Sam feel like his body belonged to someone else. The deeper he went into rehab, the worse his mood became, turning him into someone you barely recognized anymore. Every session left him more frustrated, more defeated and more convinced he wasn’t improving fast enough. If he managed to take one assisted step, he hated that he needed help. If he took two, he hated that he hadn’t taken five. It reminded him that his body refused to obey him the way it once had. And when a session went poorly — when the pain sharpened or the muscles trembled too soon —, those were the worst days. He shut down completely, struggling not only with physical pain but also with his mental state. Day by day, he grew more withdrawn. Irritable. Snapping at people who tried to help, refusing small things out of pride — water, assistance, even your hand when he struggled to sit up. He lashed out more often than he apologized. There were moments when he could barely look at you, as if your presence alone reminded him of everything he couldn’t do. And yet you stayed. Through every bitter silence, every clipped answer, even when he turned you away. -

One afternoon, when you pushed the door open, Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the black athletic shorts he wore for his sessions. His shoulders were hunched and his hair was damp with sweat, sticking unevenly to his forehead and temples. He didn’t look at you. You didn’t need to ask to know it’d been a bad day. A bad session.

“Hey,” you said quietly, closing the door behind you. “How did it go?” you asked anyway, hoping you were wrong.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Same as always.”

That meant bad.

Even though you knew it wasn’t. His therapist told you every day that he was progressing exactly as expected—sometimes even better. Everyone was satisfied—except him, who already wanted to walk out of the hospital on his own two feet.

He was blinded by haste and impatience, pushing too hard, too fast, every chance he got.

His hands were shaking—not from pain, but from frustration. Anger. You took a step toward him. “Sam—”

“I’m tired,” he muttered, voice low and flat in a way that made something in your chest tighten.

He still didn’t look at you.

You moved toward him, ready to help him lie back properly, but the moment you reached out, he shifted—just an inch, barely a movement, but enough to withdraw. His hand lifted in a small, dismissive flick, the kind that wasn’t meant to hurt but did anyway. Then he eased himself back on the mattress with a strained breath, turning his head sharply to the opposite side, away from you. His jaw clenched as he stared at the wall, refusing even the chance of eye contact. “I’ll try to get some sleep,” he said. “You can go.”

The words hit harder than he probably intended. But the message was clear: he didn’t want you there. You swallowed and forced a small smile, even though he couldn’t see it. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He answered with a noncommittal “Mm,” not even glancing at you.

You hesitated at the doorway, hoping—foolishly—that he would call your name and ask you to stay. But he didn’t.

So you walked out, pulling the door closed behind you with a soft click that felt far louder than it should have. - The next day he barely looked at you.

A nurse wheeled him back from the gym and you intercepted them halfway down the hallway. You greeted them and placed a hand lightly on the wheelchair handle. “I can take him from here,” you told the nurse. “Thank you.”

She nodded and walked off.

Sam didn’t acknowledge you. You tried small talk while pushing him through the hall—updates from your morning, anything to lighten the heaviness around him. He answered with grunts, one-word replies, or silence.

When you held the door open for him, he snapped: “I can do it myself.”

Your hand froze on the handle. “I was just trying to help.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

You inhaled slowly, counted to three, then let the irritation slide—mostly. “I’m not the enemy, Sam,” you said quietly.

He froze for a second, guilt tightening his expression. Then he looked away and rolled himself inside without another word.

You followed, heart sinking. -

After that, things only got worse.

A few days later, you came in and found him halfway through transferring from the wheelchair to the bed—forcing the movement, pushing well past what he was cleared for. His arms trembled with the effort. His injured leg shook violently.

“Sam!” You rushed forward. “You’re going to fall!”

“I won’t!” He snapped, even as his body swayed, betraying him.

You caught him by the arms just before he could hit the floor.

His breathing was sharp, furious—at himself. At the weakness he couldn’t hide. At the fact that you were there to witness it. And he couldn’t stand that.

“Let me go,” he barked, voice breaking with humiliation.

“You shouldn’t be doing this alone.”

“Don’t you have other patients to take care of?” he cut in sharply. The words landed like a blade under your ribs. You froze, his weight still half-supported in your arms.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he added, harsher this time, as if he needed it to hurt.

That one hit deeper. You swallowed, stepped back, letting his weight shift carefully as you guided him—not as tenderness, but as instinct— into the bed. Once he was safely seated, you let your hands drop.

“I'll let you rest. It looks like you need it,” you said quietly.

Sam closed his eyes, jaw locked, like he wished he could sink into the mattress and disappear.

You waited one breath. Two. Three. You gave him every chance to stop you.

But he didn’t.

So you walked out and closed the door behind you. -

The next morning, before entering to his room, you hesitated for a moment, hoping that things would be different. Better. Oh, how wrong you were.

When you pushed the door, Sam was trying to stand on his own again, this time gripping the crutches so tightly his knuckles were white. Sweat clung to his hairline. His injured leg trembled visibly.

“Sam, what are you doing?” you asked, immediately stepping toward him.

“Can’t you see it?” he said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, but you can’t—”

“I know what I can do.”

You moved closer. “Sit down before you—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” He turned too fast, the motion throwing him off balance. You grabbed him again, hands firm on his sides, preventing the fall, and putting him on the wheelchair.

“Let me!” he yelled—at himself more than at you.

“Sam,” you said sternly, “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“And what if I do? It can’t get any worse than this.” The words came ragged, hollow.

You were running out of patience. It was like dealing with a child, if not worse.

You looked at him, sighing. “Why… why are you acting like this?” you asked quietly, but with an edge sharp enough to cut.

He finally looked at you, his eyes tired, defeated, full of something he was trying too hard to hide. “And why do you care?” he asked, nervously, ignoring the question. “We both know you didn’t want any of this.”

The world fell silent as his words hit you like a punch in the stomach. Something hot surged through your veins. “What? What… are you saying?”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Come on. You didn’t want this. A broken soldier. Someone who can’t even stand on his own damn legs. Someone you have to take care of. You didn't even want to deal with a soldier in the first place.”

He was throwing your own words back at you — twisted, painful. And a small, terrified part of you wondered if he really believed it. Your breath left you and for a moment, you couldn’t even speak. Then the anger hit—slow, cold, controlled. “Now you’re being cruel, Sam. And unfair.”

His face folded into something like guilt and rage mixed together. “I’m just telling the truth. Maybe it’s better if you… go.” You laughed, incredulous. “You want to speak about truth? Fine, let’s talk about it,” your voice shaking but strong. “You’re right: I didn’t want this.”

He blinked, surprised, but you kept going. “Of course I didn’t want this. I didn't want you to get hurt on duty. I didn’t want you to be here because of an explosion. No sane person would want that, Sam.”

He stayed silent, his jaw tightened, pain flickering in his eyes like a struck match.

“But it happened anyway,” you continued, stepping closer. “And do you know why?”

He didn’t answer.

“Because I can’t control my feelings. It happened despite everything I tried to prevent. Just like you didn’t wake up that morning knowing an explosive would go off a few meters away and change your entire life.” You leaned in, eyes burning. “We can’t undo what happened to you. The only thing we can do is face it and move forward.”

He exhaled, shaky, but you didn’t stop. “And I am facing it. Every single day. I’m here. I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you. So don’t you dare tell me to leave.” You stepped back just enough to look him in the eyes fully. “YOU started this. Months ago. YOU wrote to me. YOU, not me. And now that I’m here, you’re pushing me away?”

Sam opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak. “You think this scares me?” you whispered fiercely. “Seeing you hurt? Having to help you? Sam, I’ve been in warzones. I work in an ER. I deal with death and pain every day.” Your voice softened, but didn’t lose strength. “I can handle this. But I can’t stand you pushing me back. Do you really think I'd be here putting up with all this if I didn't want to? Do you know what would have terrified me?” You swallowed hard. “The thought that you’d died.”

The room went silent.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “Unless you want me to.” Your voice broke only slightly. “But if you do, you’ll have to say it to my face. Tell me you don’t feel anything for me. Tell me you don’t want me here.”

For a moment he just stared at you, breathing heavy. Then his expression broke — completely, painfully — like someone finally cracked the armor he’d been holding together by force. “I’m… sorry,” he whispered. “I’m… such an asshole.” His voice cracked — the first crack you had ever heard from him. “I’m so damn sorry,” he said, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean any of that. I don’t want you to go. I just… I’m tired. Angry. All the time. And I hate all this. I hate needing help. I hate not being able to be… the guy you deserve. And I know I’ve been pushing you away, I know I’ve been unbearable, and I—” His breath stuttered. “I don’t want you to go,” he said hoarsely. “I never wanted that. I just don’t know how to handle all this. And sometimes I think you’d be better off without this. Without me. And that scares the hell out of me.”

You felt your own chest tighten.

He dragged a hand over his face, eyes damp. “I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered again as if he wanted to convince you, scared that you might leave. He looked at you like you were the only solid thing in the world. “There’s no one else I want here. Just you.”

Your anger softened, melting into something aching and tender. You knelt slightly so you were eye-level with him, cupping his face gently. He leaned into your touch like he hadn’t let himself in days, eyes closing, breath trembling. “Sam, listen to me,” you murmured, thumb brushing his cheek. “I know it’s not easy at the moment for you but I don’t want better. I don’t want someone else. I want you.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. And the moment they left your mouth, you knew there was no going back.

He took your hand in his — and held it tightly.

“I want you too,” he whispered.

“You’d better,” you said, smiling.

He exhaled a long, shuddering breath, head bowing slightly as if the weight of everything he’d been carrying finally loosened.

You leaned in until your forehead rested lightly against his. You knew the future would be difficult, that the road back to walking would be long and that his demons would visit again. But the argument had cleared something. It’d taken both of you to the edge and forced the honest lines into daylight.

- I vowed not to fight anymore

If we survived the Great War

-

You were halfway through the movie when you noticed it again—the quiet shift of sheets, the way Sam’s gaze cut toward you before snapping back to the TV like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

He’d been doing it since the opening credits. A restless kind of tension rolled through him every few minutes—not pain, not discomfort. Nerves. Pure, unsteady nerves. You’d never seen him like that, not even the night you met him at the bar when he’d thrown that first reckless challenge your way.

Every time he glanced over, his lips parted—just barely—as if he was about to speak. And every time, he shut his mouth again, swallowed hard, and pretended to care about the movie he clearly wasn’t watching. After the fourth failed attempt, you lowered your gaze, pretending to adjust the blanket just to hide your smirk.

At one point he exhaled sharply through his nose—frustrated with himself—and you turned your head just in time to catch him looking.

He jerked his gaze away too quickly, like a teenager trying to hide a crush.

That was the moment you stopped pretending you were paying attention to the screen.

You picked up the remote and turned the TV off.

Sam’s head whipped toward you.

You shifted to face him. “What’s going on?”

He blinked. “What—nothing.”

“Don’t.” You tilted your head, studying him. “You’ve been strange all day. And now, instead of watching the movie, you’re watching me.” You raised an eyebrow. “So? Are you going to tell me what’s happening or do I have to guess?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached—slow, hesitant—beneath his pillow.

Your brows pulled together. “Sam…?”

He cleared his throat. “I, uh… I have something for you.”

When his hand came back up, he was holding a plain envelope. Your name written on it in his handwriting—the one you recognized instantly.

Your breath caught. It’d been months since he’d written you a letter.

“A letter?” you whispered, taking it gently from his hand.

“Can I read it here?” you asked quietly.

A long hesitation. You could see the fight in him—a part of him wanting to say no, to tell you to wait, to run from whatever came next. But finally, he inhaled slowly and nodded.

You opened the envelope carefully, as if the paper might fall apart in your hands. When you glanced at his handwriting, you noticed the faint tremor in some of the letters.

Sam watched you like a man bracing for impact—tense, alert, terrified.

You looked at him one last time before lowering your gaze to the page.

Y/N, This is probably the hardest letter I’ve ever written. Harder than anything I wrote overseas, even when rockets were going off in the distance. But this one… this one scares me more. First, I need to tell you thank you. For staying. For showing up. For putting up with me even when I made it impossible. You didn’t walk away and I’m glad you didn’t because you make the worst days bearable and the good ones better. In the last months, my life has changed in ways I never expected, but something hasn’t: how I feel about you. If anything, it’s only become clearer, stronger. I don't think I can ever thank you enough but I want to try, day after day. There’s something I should’ve asked you weeks ago. But even though I’m better at writing than speaking, this is a question I need to ask out loud, not on paper. So when you’re done reading, look at me. Sam

Your throat tightened as you lowered the letter, your hands trembling slightly. You looked up, just as he’d asked. He was already staring at you, eyes wide, chest rising and falling too quickly. He tried to look confident, but you saw right through him—saw the fear, the hope, the vulnerability he almost never let anyone see. You set the letter gently on the bed.

“Ask me what?” you said quietly.

Sam swallowed hard, then he reached for your hand. His fingers brushed yours, warm and uncertain and with a steadiness you knew he had to fight for, he said: “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

For a moment, you just stared at him. Not because you were surprised by the question—no, you’d felt it coming for weeks. You already acted like a couple, cared and worried like one. But hearing him say the words—hearing him ask—it made something inside you settle. Like a puzzle piece finally clicking into place.

Your lips curved. “Wow,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Took you long enough, O’Neal.”

His jaw dropped. “Took me—?”

You held up a hand. “Hold on, I’m still thinking.”

He blinked, genuinely confused.

You crossed your arms dramatically. “I mean… I don’t know. I told myself I don’t date soldiers. And technically, I’m not even supposed to date patients. Are you worth the risk, O’Neal?”

He stared at you, deadpan, completely unamused. “What? But wait… You’re not my—” He stopped at the sight of your amused expression. “You’re hilarious. And cruel.” But his voice was soft, the kind of softness he only saved for you.

“I know,” you said. But I will admit this—” you tapped the letter, “—is a damn good piece of writing. One of your best. So maybe you earned a chance.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile breaking across his face was unmistakable—soft, relieved, almost disbelieving. You let the teasing fall away, stepping closer to the bed. Your voice lowered. “Yes, Sam. I want to be your girlfriend.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. Then he tugged gently at your hand, pulling you closer. You sat on the edge of the bed, while his hand reached for your waist instinctively. “Come here,” he murmured.

You leaned down and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, certain, like two people finally stepping into something they’d already been living without naming it. His hand curled behind your neck, pulling you just a little closer, and you felt the way he melted into it—the way he kissed you like he finally understood you weren’t going anywhere.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads touching lightly and your thumb brushing against his cheek, he whispered, “I know I’m not exactly the ideal boyfriend right now. And this probably wasn't how you imagined starting a relationship…”

You pressed a finger to his lips. “Stop.”

He froze. “Sam,” you said softly, “when I met you, I didn’t even want a relationship. After my brother… I convinced myself it was safer not to love anyone. I thought it could be dangerous, that would only bring suffering. And I didn’t want to suffer again.” Your voice shook but you kept going. “I didn’t imagine this because I didn’t let myself imagine anything at all. And then you showed up, you made it real. You made me want something again.” You smiled, brushing his hair gently. “It’s real. And we have all the time in the world to make it perfect.”

“Can’t wait”, he said, smiling.

You smiled back and kissed him again, a soft brush of your lips against his.

-

Nothing had really changed after Sam had asked you to be his girlfriend. Life didn’t suddenly flip or reinvent itself—you were still the two of you, just a little steadier, a little more certain in the way you reached for each other. The world stayed the same; what shifted was the quiet awareness that you belonged on the same side of it, that you belonged to each other.

Within those four hospital walls, you tried to settle a rhythm, to create a temporary version of a life that felt like yours. Sam kept pushing through therapy— some days he was optimistic, joking with the nurses; other days he was in pain and exhausted. But he didn’t spiral like he used to. Because now he knew he wasn’t carrying the weight alone, that he could count on you. Whenever you could, you accompanied him to therapy. You learned how to steady him when he practiced with the crutches, how to help without taking over. He tried not to show it, but he liked when you were there—liked the way your presence made the hard parts feel less heavy, less impossible.

You spent as much time together as your schedules allowed. You visited him between shifts and sometimes you brought dinner after work, sitting on his bed while he ate and listened to you talk about your day. Then he told you about his —with honesty now, without the old habit of pretending everything was fine. He shared the small victories, the frustrating setbacks, the things he used to hide from everyone else. Some nights you watched movies without finishing them and ended up falling asleep or you played cards, talking about everything and nothing. You were learning each other in the gaps between interruptions, trying to make the best of a place that wasn’t made for beginnings. But you didn’t let that stop you. You’d already wasted too much time apart.

And the tension between you — God, it grew. It sharpened, deepened, coiled beneath every shared moment. The more time you spent tangled up in small intimacies — your fingers in his hair, his hand resting on your thigh, the way his body leaned instinctively toward yours — the harder it became to ignore the pull under your skin. Sometimes, kissing him felt like standing on the edge of something overwhelming. His hands would slide up your back; yours would curl behind his neck; your breaths would catch in the same moment. You felt how much he wanted you in the way he exhaled against your mouth, in the tension running through his body as he held himself back, in the soft, frustrated sound he tried to hide when you finally pulled away. And you wanted him with the same urgency, the same quiet hunger that made your pulse jump every time his lips brushed yours. But you had to wait. He was still healing, and you were in a hospital. The circumstances weren’t right, not yet. So you stopped yourselves every time, breathless, frustrated, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. And still, there was something strangely tender in that restraint—something comforting in knowing your connection wasn’t just physical longing. It was deeper, intimate, intense. Something that already felt like love.

Somewhere inside that calm, imperfect routine, you realized just how deeply you’d fallen for Sam.

-

You'd only meant to stop by his room for a minute before joining your colleagues for a drink. Just a quick hello, a kiss before you left. Nothing more. You were already dressed to go out—hair styled, jacket pulled tight around you, the faint scent of your perfume tracing the air behind you.

Sam looked up as soon as you walked in, like he’d been waiting for that exact moment. He sat propped against the pillows, a book open on his lap and a pen tucked behind his ear. His face softened immediately when he saw you. “Well, look at you,” he said, amusement warming his voice. “Going somewhere? Somewhere I should be jealous of?” “Just a few drinks with the others,” you laughed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Nothing to worry about.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I wish I could come.”

“Next time you will,” you said, stepping closer and taking his hand. “You still owe me a rematch at darts, remember?”

He smirked. “Oh, I didn’t forget it. I’m training for it mentally. Are you sure you want to lose again?”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up,” you said, unable to keep the grin from breaking through.

And before he could fire back, you leaned down and kissed him—soft, warm, enough to cut him off mid-smirk. When you pulled away, his lips parted in a quiet exhale as if the kiss had taken something with it. His expression caught somewhere between amused and helpless.

“That’s cheating,” he murmured, voice low, eyes fixed on your mouth. “Straight-up cheating.”

You laughed softly. “Then stop talking.”

His smile deepened, slow and fond.

You straightened, smoothing your jacket. “I really have to go now,” you said gently.

He nodded once, like he knew but still hated it. “Have fun,” he said quietly. And then, effortlessly, instinctively— like a breath, like a reflex — “I love you.”

The words came out so naturally that for a fraction of a second neither of you realized what had happened.

I love you.

Like it was the most normal sentence in the world. Like he’d said it a thousand times before.

Both of you froze.

His eyes widened at the exact same time yours did, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“I—shit,” he blurted, hands flying up as if to physically catch the words hanging between you. “I didn’t mean—no, I did mean it, I just didn’t mean to say it like that or right now—”

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you felt it in your throat, while your mind flooded with panic, going a hundred miles an hour. “Sam,” you whispered when you finally found the words, “it’s okay. Really.” You began to back away towards the door. “Don’t worry. It’s fine. Actually, I should go, they’re waiting for me… at the bar.”

“Hey, wait a secon—” But you were already out the door, leaving him mid-sentence.

Your footsteps echoed down the hallway, too fast, too loud, chasing your own heartbeat. You practically sprinted down the hall, your heartbeat outpacing your footsteps. -

Anthony spotted you first, waving wildly from their table. The bar buzzed with laughter, low music, clinking glasses. You slid into the empty chair beside Jenny, still dazed.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jenny said, raising a brow.

“He said he loves me,” you blurted.

Silence. Four jaws dropped, exchanging looks between them and then their voices exploded at once.

“WHAT?” “No, he didn’t.” “Oh my god. I knew it.” “Finally!”

You groaned and covered your face with your hands, wishing you could crawl under the table.

Lizzie leaned forward. “Okay. Start over. Every detail. Slowly.”

You told them everything—his slip, the panic in your eyes and the way you’d bolted out of the room like you’d been set on fire.

Kate slapped her palm on the table. “Do you love him?”

Jenny gently put a hand on your shoulder, while the others collectively leaned in.

You hesitated at first. “I don’t know,” you answered weakly. “I mean—I think so—no, I do—I just—he caught me off guard. How do you even know if you love someone? I’ve never… I’ve never really been in a serious relationship. I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like. How do I know if I am or not in love with him?”

Anthony nodded thoughtfully. “Fair question.”

“Okay. How much do you like him?” Lizzie asked.

“A lot,” you said without hesitation. Maybe too quickly. “I really like him… He makes me feel safe. And happy. And insane. All at once.”

Jenny smiled at your words. “Do you think about him when he’s not around?”

“Yes,” you admitted.

Kate raised a brow. “More than anyone else?”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t know the answer but because you were a little embarrassed to admit that it was true. So you nodded.

Lizzie continued, “Does it scare you? Caring that much about him. In a good way, I mean.”

Your heart tightened. “…yes. A little, I guess. Sometimes.”

They exchanged looks. Then Anthony inhaled dramatically and leaned closer to you, taking your hand. “Sweetheart,” he said softly, “I don’t want to shock you, but you wrote to that man for months. The minute you learned he’d been injured, you moved heaven and earth to get him transferred in the same hospital where you work. You take care of him. And, last but not least, you spend every free moment you have with him.” He squeezed your hand. “If this isn’t love, I honestly don’t know what is.”

The words hit you like a quietly detonating grenade—silent, bright, rearranging everything inside you.

Love.

The word echoed in your mind.

Anthony was right.

Samuel O'Neal loved you. And you loved him too.

Your breath wavered. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “I love him.”

“Then why didn’t you say it back?” Kate asked gently.

You let out a shaky breath. “I was terrified. It felt too big. Too real. And I panicked.”

They exchanged another round of knowing looks—like they’d all expected this long before you’d. Jenny squeezed your arm. “Then go tell him.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes, now,” Lizzie said. “Before you overthink it and combust.” “It’s not too late,” Anthony said.

You checked the time. It was still early.

Your heart made the decision before your brain caught up.

You stood, grabbed your jacket, muttered something like “I have to go,” and rushed out of the bar. -

You were half-running, half-tripping through the corridor, breath unsteady from the cold night air. A coworker walking out of a patient room blinked in confusion at the sight of you.

“Hey! Forgot something?”

You swallowed, heart pounding. “Yeah. Something… important.” But you didn’t explain further. Instead, you kept running.

Your pulse pounded as you made your way down the hall and pushed open the door to Sam’s room.

He looked up from the TV, remote loosely in his hand. When he saw you, his brow furrowed immediately.

“…Hey,” he said slowly, checking the time. “You’re back early. Did something happen?” he asked, a little worried.

You were breathless. Chest heaving. Heart racing for too many reasons. “Sam,” you said, stepping inside and closing the door behind you, “earlier—when you said you loved me—” Your voice cracked on the word. “Did you mean it? Really?”

He blinked. Then, without hesitation, he nodded. “Yes,” he said softly. “I meant it. I know it wasn’t the right moment, or the right place, but—” His eyes softened. “I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time. Maybe since that night at the bar. So yes, I love you. I really do.”

Your breath left you all at once. You felt tears sting your eyes—not from fear this time, but from relief so sharp it nearly buckled your knees.

“Good,” you breathed, voice trembling, a tear slipping down before and unable to hold back a smile. “Because I love you too.”

He stared at you like he’d been struck, chest rising hard, eyes warming so quickly you felt it like heat across the room. “You don’t have to tell me back if you don’t want to. I can —”

You stepped closer, tears slipping down your cheeks, cutting him off. “No, no, I do. I really do. I didn’t say it earlier because I panicked. I’m not used to this,” you said, pointing at you two. “To feeling this much. I didn’t know what being in love was supposed to feel like,” you swallowed. “But now I do. I…”

He leaned forward and kissed you—deeply, urgently, holding your face like he’d been waiting his entire life for this exact moment. You melted into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, breath catching in your throat. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “So you love me, huh?” he teased, voice barely above a whisper. You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning. “Yes. Don’t get cocky now.”

He smirked. “Too late. Already did.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, and he gently caught your wrist, pulling you down into another kiss.

-

You walked into Sam’s room that morning expecting a quiet five-minute visit before your shift started— just an innocent kiss, a quick “good morning. Instead, when you opened the door, you found him talking to a man you’d never seen before.

You recognized the type instantly—straight posture, regulation haircut, that unmistakable military sharpness. A soldier. Like Sam. He was dressed casually, leaning against the wall, arms crossed and talking like he owned the place.

Sam looked… annoyed. Deeply, profoundly annoyed.

“Morning,” you said, smiling. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”

Both men looked up. The stranger’s eyes traveled from your face to your shoes, then back up again, slow enough to make any other girl want to fold her arms over her chest. He grinned, bold as hell. “Well, damn,” he said. “Sam, you didn’t tell me your doctor looked like that.”

You blinked once, while Sam’s eyes rolled so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. The man stepped toward you, extending his hand. “Johnny. Same unit as Sam.” He jerked a thumb toward Sam. “I was in the area and figured I’d swing by to see how the cripple’s doing.”

You stared at him flatly, shooting his hand out of politeness, nothing more. “I’m Y/N.” Sam’s eye twitched.

Johnny kept going, oblivious. “Well, damn, you lucky bastard. If I had a doctor that pretty, I’d probably take forever to recover too.” Sam clenched his jaw so hard that you thought he'd break a tooth.

Johnny shook his head. “And what a coincidence, I just developed this sudden chest pain.” He pressed a dramatic hand over his heart. “Maybe I need to be checked out, sweetheart.”

You gave him that tight, polite, painfully professional smile you saved for insufferable people.

“I’m sure Sam doesn’t mind if you take care of another patient,” Johnny said, elbowing him. “Right, Sam?”

Sam inhaled sharply, ready to speak, but you cut in smoothly: “I’m not his doctor.”

Johnny brightened instantly, clearly thinking he’d just scored. “No? Even better. Guess that means I might get you all to myself.”

How arrogant, you thought. You hated guys like him, so sure of themeselves and unable to accept a no.

Sam exhaled a long, deadly slow breath, his fingers curled into a fist over the blanket. He was almost out of patience.

You smiled again and stepped closer to Sam, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m not. Treating him would be against hospital policy. Considering he’s my boyfriend.” Johnny’s grin didn’t even falter at first. “Right, hospital policy—wait.” He replayed your sentence in his head. Then his eyes widened. The room went perfectly still.

Johnny blinked once. Twice. Then he looked at you. Looked at Sam. Back at you.

“Oh,” he said finally, voice cracking. “I—oh, shit.”

You waited, folding your arms, amused by the discomfort blooming on his face.

“I didn’t—uh—I wasn’t—shit.” He scratched the back of his head. “Sorry, I didn’t know. Really didn’t. Sam, man, congrats. Seriously. She’s—uh—wow. Anyway, I should go.” “Wait,” you said sweetly. “If you’re still having chest pain, I can call someone. Maybe even schedule a full check-up. Prostate exam included. Prevention’s important.”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing.

Johnny went pale. “No! No, I’m— I’m good. Perfectly fine. The pain is gone, actually.”

“Sure?” you asked innocently.

“Yep! 100%.” He backed toward the door so fast he tripped over his own heel. “Good seeing you Sam—nice meeting you—bye!”

Johnny practically fled the room.

The door clicked shut.

A beat of silence passed before you burst out laughing.

“What an idiot,” Sam muttered.

“What a creep,” you said simultaneously.

You turned to him, still laughing. “Thank God you’re nothing like him.”

“Please don’t compare me to Johnny,” Sam begged dramatically. “I have actual dignity.”

“Yeah. But you were you jealous, weren’t you?”

“No,” he replied immediately.

You raised a brow. “Are you sure?”

Sam held your gaze for half a second, then sighed, shoulders dropping. “Fine. Yes. Maybe a little. Johnny looked at you like you were the dessert tray.”

“A little?” you repeated. “Sam, you looked like you were about to throw your water bottle at him.”

“I was considering it,” he admitted.

“Jealousy looks cute on you.”

“It doesn’t,” he insisted.

“It does,” you insisted back.

He stared at you, trying to stay irritated, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, tugging upward “Well,” he murmured, “can you blame me? He was staring at you like he was starving. And I’m here stuck in this bed, unable to do anything but watch.”

You softened instantly and reached for his hand, brushing your fingers. “Relax. Watching is all he’s got. The rest is yours.”

He stopped breathing for half a second. “Yeah?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. All yours,” you whispered in his ear.

Sam exhaled, thumb brushing your palm. “Good. But he’s never visiting again.”

You laughed. “He was just trying to be friendly.”

“He was trying to be something,” Sam muttered.

You leaned in and kissed him—slow, sweet, lingering—erasing whatever irritation Johnny had caused. When you pulled back, Sam’s annoyance had dissolved completely, replaced with that soft look he only ever gave you.

“You know,” he said, “if this is what happens when guys flirt with you, maybe I should be jealous more often.”

You nudged his shoulder lightly. “Don’t push your luck.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

You stayed like that for a moment—your hand in his, the morning quiet again, the room suddenly feeling much smaller and much warmer.

Then Sam added, “Next time someone tries anything, I’m telling them you’re my wife.”

Your eyes widened. “Sam!” You exclaimed but then you burst out laughing.

“What?” he said innocently. “Just trying to be prepared.”

You shook your head, then you leaned down and kissed him again.

-

March 2007

The doctor’s voice filled Sam’s hospital room, steady and professional, while you both listened to him with attention. Your arms were crossed loosely, your weight leaned forward just a little, eyes fixed on him.

The doctor cleared his throat, smiling. “If everything continues like this” — he tapped the chart — “you’ll be able to go home in a few days, Sam.”

Sam straightened instantly, brows lifting. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” the doctor confirmed. “You’ll still need plenty of rest. Limited movement, crutches or the wheelchair for a while. And you’ll have to come in every day for physiotherapy.” A smile broke across your face before you could stop it. Sam’s eyes met yours, bright in a way you had missed desperately, and before you could even reach for him, his hand found yours. You squeezed back, your chest expanding with something almost painful in its intensity.

He was going home. Home.

You kept smiling for him, but something cold settled deep in your stomach.

The doctor’s words echoed again, reshaped by all the things they implied. And then the reality hit you like a small, unexpected punch. Because “home” meant leaving the hospital and not seeing him every day, every hour. It meant no more accidental sleepovers in the chair beside his bed, no more breakfast trays meant for one but eaten by two, no more almost-living together in this strange suspended world.

“And,” the doctor continued, oblivious to the shift inside you, “it would be ideal if someone could stay with you at home for at least the first weeks. You’ll need help with some day-to-day tasks.”

Sam immediately shook his head. “No, no, that’s not necessary. I’ll manage. I—”

“He can stay with me.”

The words shot out of your mouth before even one functioning brain cell could object. It wasn’t until you heard your own voice echo in the room that you realized what you had just said.

He can stay with me. As in… live with me. As in… move into your apartment.

Sam’s head quickly snapped toward you. “At your place?” You swallowed. “Yes. I mean, temporary. I live close to the hospital and you’ll have to come in every day for physiotherapy. It would be convenient for you. And I’m a doctor, so if you need anything, I’d be—uh—right there.” You forced a smile. “It makes sense. Its seems… very… practical.”

Sam was still staring at you, eyes wide, stunned, like you had just dropped a live grenade on his lap.

The doctor, however, seemed delighted and was nodding. “It sounds like a good solution,” he said while scribbled something onto his chart. “I’ll let you discuss details.” And then he slipped out of the room.

Silence pressed in the moment the door clicked shut. A silence so heavy you could hear your own pulse.

After a few seconds, you burst out: “I don’t know why I said that. No—that’s a lie, I do know. I meant it, I really did, but maybe we should’ve talked about it first.” You rubbed your palms together nervously, words spilling out faster and faster. “Are you angry? I don’t want you to think I’m rushing into living together, because I’m not— I mean, I wouldn’t hate the idea one day, sure, but we’ve been officially together for, what, five minutes? And we’re still getting to know each other. I know it’s not the best time but in that moment it seemed like the best option, it made — I don’t know— it made sense. It’s not a terrible idea, is it?”

“Hey.” Sam reached out, gently touching your wrist. “Slow down.” You inhaled sharply, trying—failing—to catch your breath.

He hesitated a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not angry. And it’s not a bad idea. I mean… on paper it seems great. It’s just—” He gestured vaguely between you. “It surprised me. Living together is a big step, even if it’s only temporary.”

You nodded, heat rushing to your face. “I know. A few months ago this would never have happened. I would’ve shut this idea down immediately… if it had been with anyone else. I would’ve said it was too fast or too much.” You bit your lip. “But this is us, Sam. When have we ever done things in the right order or followed the rules? We met in a bar. We slept together that same night. We got to know each other and fell in love through letters without even seeing each other for months. And we already spend practically all our time together.” You took a breath, steadying yourself and forcing your thoughts into order. A slow grin spread across Sam’s face. “I know it’s a big thing,” you added quietly. “And that maybe it’s not the right time. But if you go back to your place, seeing each other will be harder. Your apartment isn’t so close to the hospital and I’ll be here almost all day. I’d have to drive across the city every day to see you, it’d be exhausting. But if you stay at my place, I’ll still be here most of the day, but you’d have a whole apartment to yourself. And when I finally get home… we could spend some time together. Real time.”

Sam leaned back slowly against the pillows, processing your words. And then you saw it. The shift. He went still. Focused. He had slipped into soldier mode. His eyes sharpened, scanning invisible variables you couldn’t see. He was assessing variables, risk, outcomes —just like he would have on the field. Calculating the chances of survival and considering the possible harms and benefits. After a long moment, he exhaled. “It’s not that I don’t want to stay with you,” he finally said. “Because I do, actually.” His voice softened, careful, honest. “I’m just scared of ruining what we have. Things are really good between us right now, aren’t they?” A quiet smile tugged at your lips. “Yes, better than good.”

He scratched lightly at the bandage on his arm, uneasy. “The doctor said I’m still going to need help with… well, a lot. And I don’t want you to end up feeling like my nurse, or like I’m a burden. You already have your job, your patients…” Your heart softened painfully. “Sam,” you whispered. “I already help you. And it hasn’t ruined anything. If anything, it brought us closer.”

He held your gaze a long moment, the tension in his jaw shifting—still weighing, still calculating.“But what if…” he started slowly, “what if living together brings out the worst in us? What if we fight about stupid things? Like… me leaving clothes everywhere.”

You snorted. “Sam, I’ve been to your place. Every single thing was set at a perfect angle. If anyone’s leaving clothes everywhere, it’ll be me.” You softened, stepping closer to him. “And if we fight? Then we fight. And we get over it… maybe with some good sex. We’ve survived things much worse than dirty laundry.”

He let out a small huff of laughter. Then his eyes lifted to you—uncertain, searching. “Are you sure you want this?” he asked. “Actually sure?”

You shocked yourself with how easily the answer came. “Strangely? Yes.” You exhaled. “Let’s see it as a test run.”

“A test,” he repeated, lips twitching.

“Yeah. I mean, if things keep going well between us, we would’ve ended up living together eventually. That’s what couples do, right? So it’s better to find out early if we’re good at it. Better than discovering it too late.”

Sam raised a brow. “You know, that’s not exactly comforting.”

You winced. “You know what I mean.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Then slowly, intentionally— he nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s try.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach, your eyes widened. “Really?” you whispered.

“Really,” he said, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

You felt your face break into a grin so big it almost hurt. Excitement, nerves, warmth—everything collided in your chest at once.

Sam laughed when he saw your expression. “You look like someone told you you won the lottery.”

“Well,” you said, cheeks warm, “I just like when people say yes to me.”

His eyes gleamed with mischief. “Or maybe,” he said slowly, raising a brow, “you just can’t stay away from me.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “Please. I can still change my mind and send you to your own empty apartment, all alone, limping around in the dark.”

Sam laughed, head falling back against the pillow. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

You crossed your arms, fighting your grin. “Don’t test me.” As Sam settled comfortably, the reality of what you had volunteered hit you fully.

You were doing this. You were actually doing this. He was moving with you.

And instead of panicking like you always thought you would—something calmer and deeper settled into you. Something right. Sure, it was crazy. Too fast. Most couples waited years before living together, while you had only been together for a few months. But most people hadn’t lived what you and Sam had lived. And after everything—the time apart, the letters, the fear of losing him—you couldn’t bear the thought of distance. Not after coming this close to a future where he wasn’t there. You wanted every hour, every moment you could have with him. Yes, there would be arguments and bad days. But there would be also quiet mornings, late-night kisses, and all the messy, beautiful things that made a life with someone real. For the first time in your life, you wanted all of it. And more. Because you knew—deep in your bones— you could face anything. As long as he was beside you.

With Sam, everything felt possible. You weren’t afraid. Not anymore. -

You were sliding a folded sweatshirt inside his duffel bag, when your fingers brushed something thick. Paper. A stack of it. You paused, then pulled it out just enough to see the edges—cream envelopes, worn soft, marked by sand and time.

Your letters. All of them.

You froze. Sam noticed the change in your posture before he saw what you were holding. When you lifted your eyes to him, your voice was barely a breath. “You kept… all of them.”

He looked almost offended by the obviousness of the answer. “Of course,” he said. “I could never throw them away.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, taking a few envelopes from your hand. His thumb brushed the familiar curves of your handwriting, tracing it the way someone touches a scar they’ve memorized. “I used to re-read them when I was deployed. Over and over.” His voice softened. “They kept me company. Actually… I still read them sometimes.” He hesitated, eyes lifting. “But reading them now it’s different. Because you’re here with me.” You swallowed, heat spreading through your chest. “I re-read yours too,” you admitted quietly. “But having you here is better.” For a moment, neither of you moved. There was a stillness in the room—quiet, full, almost sacred. Then you slipped the letters carefully back inside, like something precious, and zipped the bag closed. “Ready to go?”, you asked, smiling at him.

His answering smile was immediate, bright, unguarded. “Never been more ready.”

The drive was quiet. Beside you, Sam seemed calm. Peaceful, even. He sat with his forehead leaned against the window, watching the world like someone seeing it for the first time. In a way, he was, after months in the hospital. You, on the other hand, were anything but calm. With every passing street, every decreasing mile between the hospital and your home, your nerves tightened. You were grateful for the distraction of the road, of your hands on the wheel—something to occupy you and your mind while tension curled low in your stomach. -

By the time you pulled into the garage, your pulse was a drumbeat. Not from regret—not even close. But because this was new territory for both of you. A shift from almost-living-together in the hospital to genuinely sharing a space, a life.

You helped him out of the car, steady hands on his arm as he found his balance on the crutches. Then you slung the duffel bag over your shoulder and led the way.

Your fingers trembled slightly when you unlocked the apartment door. You stepped inside first, setting everything down. When you turned to him, you managed a small, steady smile. “Welcome home.”

The apartment was clean but lived-in, lights warm, everything arranged to give him space to move comfortably. You’d made sure of it—cleared pathways, shifted furniture, added soft touches that made the place feel less like your apartment and more like yours, plural. Then he noticed the details.

His record player on your console. His vinyls stacked neatly next to it. A framed photo he kept in his bedroom—now sitting on your shelf like it had always belonged there.

He blinked. “…Isn’t that mine?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “When the other day I went to your apartment to grab your clothes, I thought you’d like having some of your things here too. You know… so you’d feel more at home. I hope you don’t mind.”

He looked at you. Warmth, gratitude, and something deeper flickered in his eyes. “It’s more than okay. Thank you.” He stepped further inside, smiling. “And honestly? This record player looks better here than it ever did at my place.” -

You guided him through the apartment, showing him the little changes you had made. When you reached your bedroom, the air shifted. After months of hospital walls, sterile sheets, too-bright lights… the space felt almost too intimate. Too real. Too charged.

Sam sat carefully on the edge of the bed, his crutches leaning against your nightstand. You gestured toward the open drawers. “I left some space for your things. And you have your own nightstand too. But if you’d rather use the guest room, I can set it up for you. Maybe you want more space, or—”

He cut you off with a small shake of his head. “Here is perfect.”

Your heartbeat stuttered. “Do you want to rest?” you asked. “Sleep a little maybe?”

A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “I wasn’t really thinking about sleeping.”

You gasped, scandalized on purpose. “Saaaam.”

He laughed—right until his breath caught and his hand went to his thigh, fingers pressing gently around the scarred skin. You moved instantly, stepping between his legs, your hands sliding into his hair with instinctive tenderness.

“Hey,” you whispered. “How do you feel? Does your leg hurt?”

“A little,” he admitted, forcing a smile. “But nothing serious. Don’t worry.”

But you already were. You always were, especially now—now that he was here, in your room, on your bed, where you had spent so many nights staring at the ceiling imagining what it would feel like to have him close again.

You held his face, guiding his gaze back to yours. “Let me take care of you, Sam.”

His breath hitched. He nodded once, slow, like he was surrendering to something he’d been fighting for months.

You helped him ease back against the headboard, while you climbed onto the bed. The tension between you was quiet but electric—months of closeness without touch, months of wanting without being allowed to want. You knelt at his feet and gently took off his boots, one at a time, careful. He watched you the whole time, breath steady but too deep, like he was trying to keep it under control. Then your fingers went to the waistband of his pants. His muscles tensed immediately.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly.

His answer came out rough. “Yeah. It’s… it’s more than okay.”

You worked slowly, careful not to drag the fabric against the sensitive scars on his thigh. You moved your hands along his calves first, gentle, slow circles that eased the tightness he carried there. His breath deepened almost immediately, shoulders dropping as the tension slipped away under your palms. Then you moved higher, deeper, closer to where you knew he wanted you most. Your touch skimmed up his legs— over muscle still healing, over history carved into skin and bone. It was slow, deliberate and torturously patient. You felt the way his muscles twitched beneath your fingers, the way his breathing grew uneven, catching at the back of his throat. His breath deepened, while his eyes followed your hands, darkening with every inch.

You weren’t rushing.

You wanted him to feel every second, every inch, every moment you’d spent wanting him, missing him, fearing for him—all of it rose to the surface like heat under your skin. You slid your hands along the inside of his thigh with a feather-light touch, and Sam sucked in a sharp breath, his head falling back against the headboard.

“You’re killing me…” he whispered, voice already rough.

You only hummed, pretending innocence, fingers drifting a little higher—then retreating, tracing down again. Up. Down. Slow.

His fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together molecule by molecule. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, voice frayed at the edges.

But you did. You saw his thighs tense every time you got close, saw the way he fought for control and lost a little more of it each second you touched him. Every twitch, every shiver, every breath told you exactly how hard he was holding on. And how close he was to snapping. When your fingers dragged upward one more time—a little too slowly—he broke. His hands shot out, catching your wrists, not rough, not demanding, but desperate. In one fluid motion he pulled you toward him, guiding you carefully, gently, until you straddled his lap, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. You steadied yourself, mindful of his injuries, your palms braced on his shoulders for balance. His hands slid to your waist, holding you as if afraid you'd vanish. Your faces hovered inches apart, both of you breathing hard. Then he kissed you, hungrily, as if he’d been starved for it—starved for you.

You kissed him back, fingers threading through his hair, while his hands slid slowly up your back, under your shirt, pulling you closer. He groaned into your mouth, the sound low and raw, like it’d been trapped in his chest for too long. It was months of need, distance crashing all at once—hungry, desperate, impossibly soft in the same breath. Between kisses—ragged, breathless—he whispered against your lips: “I need you. Now.”

Your heart stuttered and you pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, searching. “Sam… are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

His grip tightened on your hips—not painful, just pleading. “You won’t.” Another kiss—brief, trembling. “I’m sure.” His voice dropped to a whisper, almost a plea. “Please.”

That one word undid whatever restraint you’d left. You cupped his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek. His eyes were dark, wide, full of trust—full of you. You tugged at his shirt, he pulled yours over your head, and suddenly every movement became frantic with urgency. Clothes parted from skin with clumsy, impatient hands. In minutes, your clothes were a trail on the floor—his, yours, all tangled together. He pulled you back into another kiss, deeper this time, the kind that stole your breath and made your stomach flip. Your mouth found his throat, his jaw, his shoulder. You started moving slowly at first, carefully, deliberately, checking every shift of his body for even the slightest sign of discomfort. But his hands on your hips urged you closer, guiding you deeper into him. You took your time. Both of you did—rediscovering each other, relearning the shape of each other’s bodies, letting the world fall away until there was only the warmth of his mouth and the tremor in his voice when he whispered your name like it was something holy. You whispered his like a confession, like something you’d been holding under your tongue for months. It was slow, consuming, the kind of release that left your whole body trembling against his.

You collapsed onto his chest, breathless, flushed, your heart racing against his. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just breathed together, slowly finding your way back into your bodies.

Finally, he let out a shaky laugh, still breathless. “I feel… so much better now.” You laughed softly into his neck. “Good. But I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

He cupped your face, tilting it up so you’d look at him. “It was perfect,” he murmured. Then, with a smirk that sent heat straight to your stomach— “Better than perfect.”

You traced a finger along his chest, teasing.“Good. I thought I’d be a little rusty. After almost a year.”

He blinked, thinking he misunderstood. “A year?”

You hesitated only a second, then nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t been with anyone else… not since that night.”

His breath caught, sharp, stunned. “Really?”

“Yes. You were the last person I was with.” You paused before continuing, without embarrassment. “I went out with a few guys, even kissed some of them… but I couldn’t go further. I kept thinking about that night with you and… everything else just felt short. I think I was just trying to convince myself that what was happening between us wasn’t real. That I wasn’t falling for you.” He stared like you’d just undone something inside him. His fingers brushed your cheek, unbelievably gentle and pulled you into his arms, smiling against your hair.

“Then we have to make up for all the time we lost,” Sam said, with that smile that lit up his eyes more than he meant to show.

And over the next days, you did —over and over again, with a mixture of tenderness and urgency. You rediscovered each other in stolen moments, in long nights, in quiet mornings, memorizing each other’s bodies, intertwined in passion and love. You made up for all the time you had lost it in every possible way.

On the bed, of course. But then also on the couch—where all it took was for you to sit beside him, or for Sam to brush his fingers against your waist, for something inside both of you to snap. Any movie you tried to watch never made it past the first ten minutes. In the kitchen— where an ordinary conversation turned into a kiss against the counter, Sam’s hands sliding around your hips, lifting you just enough, his mouth finding yours with a need that felt dangerously addictive.

It was as if you had both spent too long holding yourselves back, and now nothing could stop that hunger, that mutual pull that seemed to ignite every room of the house.

You were always careful, delicate. Every movement measured, every shift of Sam’s body accompanied by a look asking for permission. But behind that gentleness, the passion was fierce enough to steal your breath every time. And you matched him. Every time your fingers slid over him—his neck, his chest, the line of his ribs—his whole body responded immediately. A kiss behind his ear, a slow stroke under his shirt, was enough to make him melt back into you, completely and hopelessly yours. -

1 year later

Nothing had changed, and yet everything had.

In the end, Sam never went back to his apartment. He simply stayed with you. At first, when he’d moved in with you, it’d been a temporary arrangement, a practical solution — something you’d both agreed would last “only until he was back on his feet”. But days folded into weeks, then months, and by the time either of you addressed it out loud, he was already home. His clothes stayed in your closet, his toothbrush beside yours, his body pressed against yours on your bed every night.

In the meantime, Sam had finished the intensive phase of his rehabilitation and was walking again. Sometimes his leg still hurt, a low ache that never fully left him, but you were always there—massaging the scars, bracing his weight, pressing soft kisses where the pain lingered.

You’d finally gone on a real date—no hospital bracelets, no sounds of monitors beeping, no rushing nurses. Just the two of you, sitting in a dim restaurant, knees touching beneath the table, pretending not to stare at each other like idiots in love.

He also never returned to service. Instead, he’d taken a job at a private security agency — still helping people, still purposeful, but far from gunfire, far from the desert, far from goodbyes. And you couldn’t be more happy about it. Also deeply, honestly, overwhelmingly relieved. The nightmares still came sometimes. In the darkest hours, his face would tense as if the world had tilted, and he’d wake gasping, sweating—dragged back to a place you both knew by scent and memory. When it happened, you were there to bring him back to reality, whispering truths until the nightmare loosened its grip: “You’re safe. You’re home. I’m here.”

You still wrote each other letters. For holidays, anniversaries, birthdays— even for no reason at all. Not because you needed to, not anymore, but because it’d become part of your language. Sometimes you’d find a note on his pillow; sometimes he’d discover one inside his pocket.

And then there was Guinness. The golden retriever you swore you would never name after a beer… until he looked up at you with those big brown eyes and somehow it just fit. He became your third roommate who begged shamelessly under the table and always managed to charm food out of someone.

There were arguments, too. Days when you fought about dishes or whose turn it was to walk Guinness, and others when old wounds resurfaced and fears clashed. But you always came back to each other, stronger, closer.

Slowly, day after day, you were building a life together. And you liked that.

Ray’s laugh pulled you from your thoughts, making you look around. You and Sam were hosting dinner in your new apartment. All your friends were there. The place was loud, warm, alive. Mac was in the middle of some ridiculous story, Guinness weaving between everyone’s legs hoping for scraps, laughter echoing against the walls you thought you’d never share with anyone. Across the table, Sam looked at you. You smiled at him, softly, and in that simple exchange, you both felt the same thing.

You were home.

-

2 years later Three years after that night in the bar— where everything had begun—Sam asked you to meet him there again. You thought it was a simple anniversary date to commemorate your first encounter. A quick drink, then dinner. But when you arrived, something felt off. There was no crowd spilling onto the sidewalk, no music drifting through the door. The neon sign wasn’t glowing and the windows were dark.

You frowned, checking the time on your phone. It wasn’t early. If anything, the bar should’ve been at its loudest. When you reached for the handle, the door opened easily, and you stepped inside.

The bar you knew—the warm chaos, the clinking glasses, the buzz of chatter—was gone.

Instead, many tiny lights suspended from thin wires across the ceiling, glowing like constellations in a soft, shimmering night sky. Candles flickered everywhere, casting gold across the dark wood floors. Shadows danced gently against the walls. In the center of the room a small table was set for two. On one of the plates there was a white envelope with your name scrawled in a handwriting you’d read a thousand times. Your chest tightened. Your fingers trembled as you opened it.

Y/N, Do you remember? Three years ago, everything started here. And to think I didn’t even want to go out that night. But I’m grateful every day that Mac and the guys dragged me along. After that so much happened, between us, and in this place too. Anniversaries, birthdays, dates… and all those darts rematches. It felt right to bring you back here — because there’s something important I need to ask you. If you’re done reading, turn around.

You hesitated a few seconds before turning around.

Sam stood a few meters away.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re beautiful.” “Thanks. You’re not bad either.” Your voice broke on the last word. “I think you have something to ask me.”

He took a slow step forward. “Three years ago I saw you from right over there,” he said, nodding toward the spot. “And from that moment on, I couldn’t get you out of my head. I knew instantly that I had to talk to you. To know you. Even if it had been the last thing I did. Even if I had to beat you at darts to have a chance with you.”

You scoffed, playfully indignant. “You beat me by one point.”

He grinned, laughing under his breath. “Yeah. But truth is… when I hit the bullseye, you’d already hit the center of my heart.”

Your breath faltered. Tears stung your eyes.

His voice softened. “Before you, I never belonged anywhere. I was always… moving. From base to base, country to country. Until I met you. Then, for the first time, I didn’t want to wander anymore. I felt at home.”

Your knees almost gave out as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. You froze, your vision blurred.

“Everything started here,” he said, voice trembling faintly. “And this is where I want the rest of our life to begin. If you want it too.”

He knelt down and opened the box. An elegant ring sparkled up at you. “Will you marry me?”

Your hand flew to your mouth as tears spilled free, slipping down your cheeks.

Before Sam, you’d never pictured marriage. Never even wanted it. After losing your brother, you’d convinced yourself love was too dangerous, that it only carved out new spaces for grief. You’d kept people away and buried every thought of marriage, of a future with someone, deep where no one could reach it. But Sam changed everything.

He made you want a future. A home. A family. A life built side by side. With him, you wanted everything you’d once feared.

“Yes,” you whispered, then stronger. “Yes, yes—of course I will.”

He laughed softly, almost disbelieving, then swept you into his arms and kissed you as if to seal a promise. His hands shook as he slid the ring onto your finger.

You laughed and smiled through your tears, while he held you tight around his arms.

Half an hour later, the doors burst open and your friends—clearly in on the plan—poured into the room cheering. You looked at Sam across the chaos. You’d both survived different wars and somehow ended up there, stitched together by letters and feelings, by the stubborn decision to stay. The place where everything had begun had just given you a new beginning.

- I will always be yours 'Cause we survived the Great War -

6 months later

You’d never imagined what you wanted your wedding to be like, much less imagined a grand one. And neither had Sam. So when the day arrived, it felt right that it was quiet, simple—nothing extravagant or chaotic, nothing that didn’t belong to the two of you. A small civil wedding, intimate and warm.

The ceremony took place at the town hall, in a small sunlit room where the windows were open just enough to let the breeze move the curtains. The place was filled only with the people who mattered most — your closest friends and families, the ones who had seen you through every storm and calm, witnesses of your love.

You wore a short white dress, effortless but still elegant, the kind that made Sam look at you as if he couldn’t believe you were real. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, soft and natural, and a delicate veil framed your face. When Sam saw you for the first time, as you made your way to the altar, everything in him stopped. “Jesus…” he breathed, stunned. Then, softer, with a smile pulling slowly at his lips: “You’re breathtaking.”

The ceremony was brief, but emotion thickened every word. A few vows spoken with voices that trembled more than either of you’d expected. Sam’s hand was warm around yours, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles as he promised to love you, to grow with you and to stay. You said “yes” again — this time without tears, but with the same certainty, the same quiet joy with which you’d said it when he’d proposed to you six months ago. When the officiant declared you married, Sam kissed you—slowly at first, reverently, then with a smile you felt against your lips as your families and friends erupted into cheers.

Outside, Guinness barked excitedly when he saw you, tail wagging hard enough to shake his whole body. Sam laughed, bent down to scratch his ears, then took your hand again as if he had no intention of ever letting it go.

“Ready to go, Mrs. O’Neal?” he whispered.

You smacked his arm, blushing and nodding. Sam smirked — he wouldn’t stop saying it for the rest of the night, as if he still couldn’t quite believe he finally got to call you “wife”.

After the ceremony, all of you walked—together—to the place where your story had begun. Your bar.

For the occasion it'd been transformed entirely — warm lights, candles, soft music drifting through the air. The tables had been rearranged to make space for dancing. Flowers sat in mason jars on the counter. And the same bartender—who had been there the night you met—waved at you with a grin. Your families mingled with your friends, laughter weaving through the room like a melody, while you and Sam could barely keep your eyes and hands off one another.

Sitting beside him, his arm draped over your shoulders. “Four years ago, we were just two strangers sitting there… and now look at us,” he whispered in your ear.

You followed his gaze to the counter of the bar where you’d sat down to have a drink. Your chest tightened. You thought about everything you’d lived. Everything you’d survived. And how you’d still found your way back there. In that same bar. Four years later. But this time as husband and wife.

You looked back at him, leaning into him. “We’ve come a long way,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed your cheek. “Every step worth it.”

And as you rested your head on his shoulder, you felt it again, with absolute certainty.

You were exactly where you were meant to be. In the bar where it all started, your forever was beginning.

-

There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair

And we will never go back to that

-

THE END

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