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The Great War

Pairing: Sam (Warfare) x female reader

PART TWO

Summary: After a one-night stand, you thought you’d never hear from him again. Until his letter from the other side of the world finds you, leading you to break the promises you made to yourself and lower the walls you had put up. As Sam fights a real war, you face the one inside you — between fear and longing, memories and desire, forcing you to confront your past… and your feelings for him.

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

Word Count: +15k

Note: This is a story split into 2 parts. At first, I didn't want to divide it but I was afraid it could be too long 😅 But I'm so happy to finally share it with you, guys. I've been working on it for the last 3 weeks and I really hope you like it! It's inspired on Taylor Swift's song The Great War, so you will find lyrics from it in the text. Just a little reminder: english isn't my first language, so please be understandable. Enjoy it!

There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair - January 2006

The bar was loud and crowded — laughter, clinking glasses, the crack of billiard balls colliding, and music struggling to rise above it all. The air smelled like beer and smoke and something electric — that restless energy that fills a room when people are trying too hard not to think about tomorrow.

Sam sat at a corner table with his team — six men who’d seen more sand and blood than sunlight in the past year. It was their last night before shipping out again. Six months, maybe even more. He tried to listen to Mac’s jokes, to the easy banter bouncing around the table, but his mind was already elsewhere — counting hours, bracing for what waited on the other side of the ocean. His thumb traced the rim of his half-warm beer. He could already feel the weight of the deployment pressing behind his ribs. The hands of the clock ticking quickly. A quick, bright laugh carried across the room — effortless, cheerful. It cut straight through the fog of his thoughts, pulling his head up before he even realized he’d turned. He looked around, scanning the entire room.

Until he saw you.

You were standing at the pool table, one hip resting against the edge, a bottle of beer dangling from your fingers. You wore a white satin top — slightly low-cut, sleeves brushing your arms — paired with fitted jeans and black low-heeled shoes. Casual, but elegant without trying. There was something effortless about the way you moved — confident, unbothered. The kind of woman who didn’t need attention but drew it anyway. The dim lights caught the curve of your jaw, the glint in your eyes when you smiled — a quick flash of warmth that didn’t reach your eyes, not completely. You laughed at something one of your friends said, tossing your hair over your shoulder, and for a moment, Sam forgot how to breathe and everything else blurred out. Then, you lined up a shot, brows furrowed in focus, and sank the ball with a smooth, controlled motion. Your friends groaned; you just smirked, the corner of your mouth lifting in a way that made something in Sam’s chest tighten unexpectedly. When you glanced up, your gaze swept briefly across the room before colliding with his. Just a second — a spark, sharp and curious, but long enough to make Sam’s pulse spike. You looked away, calm, composed, like he hadn’t just been struck by a damn lightning bolt.

Erik followed the line of Sam’s stare and let out a low whistle. “Jesus, O’Neal. You’re looking at her like you’ve never seen a woman before.” Sam blinked, forcing a smirk. “Maybe I haven’t seen that one before.” Erik leaned in, grinning. “Then go say hi. Last night in the States, man. What’ve you got to lose?”

Sam wasn’t the type to hit on strangers in bars. But something about you — something in the way you held yourself like you owed nothing to anyone, the way you laughed like you weren’t afraid of anything — pulled him in. Erik was right. He has nothing to lose. So when you headed to the bar to grab another drink, he pushed himself up and followed you.

He reached the counter just as you set your empty bottle down. “Let me get you another,” he said. His voice was steady but low, with that quiet roughness of someone used to giving orders without raising his tone. You turned, gave him a quick once-over — tall, lean but strong, shaved hair, that quiet, composed. There was something measured in the way he held himself, like he was used to control. And when your eyes dropped to the chain hanging from his neck, you understood why. Dog tags. He was a soldier, of course. Your expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “I appreciate the offer,” you said evenly, “but I don’t accept drinks from militaries. Enjoy your night, soldier.” And just like that, you walked away before he could answer.

From his table, his friends, who had witnessed the whole scene, burst out laughing. “Well,” Mac said, cackling, “that went amazing.” Sam just shook his head, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’d been right from the start — you were something else. Dangerous. Trouble, probably. And, that made him want you more.

-

Later, when he spotted you again — this time at the dartboard — he didn’t think twice. You lined up your shot, eyes narrowing, ready to throw, when another dart whizzed past your shoulder and hit the board before you could release yours. Bullseye.

“What the—” you spun around.

Sam stood a few feet away, one brow raised, the hint of a challenge tugging at his mouth. “Thought I’d give it a try.” Your lips curved in something between amusement and annoyance. “You don’t give up easily, do you?” He tilted his head, eyes steady on yours. “Not when it matters.”

You crossed your arms. “That supposed to impress me, soldier?” “Wasn’t trying to impress you.” His tone softened, eyes locked on yours. “But maybe you could give me a chance to change your mind.”

You sighed, fighting a smile. “How?” “A game,” he said simply. “Whoever hits the bullseye more times wins. If I win, you have a drink with me. If you do, I walk away, no more questions asked.”

He lifted a dart and offered it to you.

You swallowed hard and studied him for a moment. Your mind was racing, scrolling through the various options. The quiet voice inside you was telling you to go away before it was too late. But something about him — maybe that mix of confidence and quiet restraint — was holding you back. Plus, you loved a challenge and never backed down. “Fine,” you said, feigning annoyance and taking the dart. “But don’t cry when you lose.”

-

You lined up your second throw, rolling the dart between your fingers the way you always did when you were settling into your rhythm. The bar noise faded just enough for you to hear your own breath. You inhaled, released, and—

Thud.

Another bullseye. You allowed yourself a quick, satisfied smirk—until you felt it. His gaze. Sam watched every movement you made with a focus that was… disarming. Not loud or cocky like most men here, but steady, intent, almost curious. You could feel his eyes on you every time you leaned forward, the weight of his attention slide over your spine, warm and unsettling in ways you tried hard to ignore. He was also good. Really good, actually. His focus was unsettling — unshakable. There was something about the way he moved, methodical but unforced, that made your pulse pick up. He was the kind of man who didn’t blink under pressure. You traded point after point, every throw landing with sharp precision. Each time you’d score, he’d answer it. Each time he’d pull ahead, you’d catch up. A quiet rivalry built between you—smiles that lasted a little too long, glances that lingered, an edge of challenge that wasn’t just about the game. Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered around you, cheering softly for the both of you.

It came down to the final throw. Yours skimmed just off-center — barely. His landed perfectly, slicing into the middle of the board with a dull, satisfying sound.

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Fuck.”

Sam’s grin deepened. “Guess that means you owe me a drink.”

“Fine,” you said, arms crossing despite the small smile tugging at your lips. “But you’re paying. Consider it the penalty for beating me.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Fair enough. After you.”

You rolled your eyes, already turning toward the bar counter.

-

Sam took a slow sip of his beer, searching for words. You leaned in slightly, one elbow on the counter, your eyes locked on him — a sharp, guarded gaze that always made people shift in their seats. But not him. He held your stare like it didn’t scare him at all.

After a few sips, your guard started to slip. Just enough to reach out. Your fingers brushed his skin as you slipped the chain free from his shirt, pulling his dog tags into view. Sam didn’t move at all, staying perfectly still as he waited for your next move. His eyes locked on you, tracking every shift of your body with the focus of a soldier on a mission, as if you were his target.

You turned the metal tags between your fingers, glinting under the bar lights. “Samuel O’Neal,” you read aloud. Then your eyes lifted to his. “Which unit are you with?”

He smiled — small, genuine. “Don't you think I should first know the name of the woman I'm having a drink with?”

You hesitated, weighing the thought of giving him a fake name — safer that way. Less problems.

But lying to him felt wrong. “Y/N,” you said finally.

He extended his hand, palm warm and sure. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Samuel but everyone calls me Sam.”

You took it, holding his gaze longer than you intended.

He answered your question then, quietly. “Navy SEALs.” You tilted your head, impressed despite yourself. “A Navy SEAL. That explains a lot of things.” His brows lifted, curious now. “Like what?”

You shrugged as if it were obvious. “Your aim when we were playing. Your focus. Your control.”

He put his beer down and studied you. “You sound like someone who knows what that’s like.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you took a sip of your drink, looking away and letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him wonder.

After a few seconds, he spoke again, carefully. “Earlier you said you don’t accept drinks from military guys. Why’s that?”

You let out a slow breath before answering. “I was… in the army. A few years ago.” Your voice stayed calm, steady, while you were trying to chase away the memories. “Let’s just say I’ve had my share of battles too and I’ve dealt with enough soldiers for one lifetime. That chapter is closed. For good.” He nodded, trying to absorb that. “And now? What do you do?” You shrugged, drinking your beer. “I work at the hospital nearby. I’m an ER doctor.”

That surprised him. His expression softened, something like respect flickering there. “From combat zones to the ER. That’s impressive.”

You shrugged, staring at your bottle. “Not really. Same chaos, just a different kind of uniform. And at least now I get to save more people instead of losing them.”

He studied you, and you could tell he wanted to ask more, to peel back the layers — but you didn’t let him. You’d learned long ago that the less you knew, the less it could hurt later. That world — uniforms, missions, funerals — had taken enough from you. Your father, your brother, your peace. You didn’t want to let it take anything else. So you steered the conversation away. “When do you leave again?”

He hesitated. “Tomorrow.”

You almost choked on the beer, your eyebrows lifted. “Tomorrow?”

He nodded once. “Yeah. Iraq.”

For a moment, both of you just stared at each other, the noise of the bar blurring into something distant. “Wow,” your murmured, looking away, “now I feel a little guilty for turning you down earlier. You know, considering it’s your last night and all.”

He tilted his head, smiling. “You’re still in time to make it up to me.”

You laughed under your breath. “Oh yeah? And what do you want? Any last wishes before you leave?”

He smirked. “Hmm.” His voice dropped a little, almost teasing. “I could think of a few ideas.”

The space between you seemed to shrink, both aware of what was hanging in the air, both pretending it was just a joke. But it wasn’t. Not anymore.

You looked at him. “Well,” you whispered, “don’t think too long. You’re running out of time.”

-

You told yourself it was harmless.

One night. No expectations. No feelings. He’d be gone tomorrow, and you’d go back to your life — clean, simple, safe.

That was all.

His apartment was small, simple — nothing out of place, everything folded, aligned and polished, just like you had expected. A half-packed deployment bag sat near the door, boots lined perfectly beside it. His uniform hung pressed and ready. A silent reminder of who he was and what awaited him tomorrow. The entire space smelled faintly of cedar and clean cotton. He handed you a glass of water and you accepted it.

“Careful,” he said, looking at you, one corner of his mouth lifting. “This is the second drink you’re accepting from me. A soldier. You’re breaking all your rules.” You rolled your eyes, though your pulse jumped. “Just for tonight,” you murmured, stepping a little closer, “I’m calling a truce. One-night ceasefire.”

“I’m honored to be your exception” he said, amused, putting a hand over his heart.

You moved toward him. “Careful. I can still leave.”

“But it’s not what you want.”

His hand brushed your hip — subtle, testing.

You didn’t pull away. And that was the answer, all the permission he needed.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek before his lips finally found yours. The kiss was slow at first, deepening with every second you didn’t stop him. Your fingers curled into his shirt. His hand slid up your spine, pulling you closer with a quiet, restrained urgency. You cupped his face with your hands.

You stumbled together toward his bedroom, lips never parting.

In a rush — urgent, breathless — jackets slid off shoulders, shirts tangled and fell to the floor. Buttons were fumbled open with impatient hands. The soft thud of clothes hitting the hardwood filled the room, one piece after another, leaving both of you naked. You kissed like you were trying to memorize each other before time took him away. A kiss that tasted like goodbye before it had even begun. His breath caught when your nails traced his shoulders. Yours hitched when his hands gripped your waist, firm, certain. The air cracked with heat and want and something dangerously close to longing. When he lifted you, laying you down on the mattress with a mix of hunger and unexpected care, you let yourself stop thinking — just for tonight. Just this once.

It felt like surrender. Like relief.

A ceasefire with yourself.

-

The light slipped through the blinds, pale and soft, waking you before him. Sam lay beside you, breathing slow, peaceful, one arm draped loosely across the sheets.

You sat there for a second, memorizing the calm on his face, his features — before reality could catch up.

Because dawn meant the ceasefire was over.

You slipped out of the bed quietly, gathering your clothes from the trail you had both left across the room. You dressed fast, quietly, your heartbeat steadying back into the familiar rhythm of someone who survives by leaving first.

For a moment, you considered writing a note. Something simple. A good luck. A goodbye. But then you remembered what goodbyes did — how they linger, how they could hurt. So you just walked out the door, the sound of it closing behind you the only trace you left.

You told yourself it was better that way.

You’d never see him again.

And maybe that was the mercy in it. - Uh-huh, the bombs were closer My hand was the one you reached for All throughout the Great War -

February 2006

The heat in Iraq was the kind that got under your skin — dry, relentless, heavy with dust. The air smelled of gun oil, sweat, and sand.

Sam sat at the edge of his bunk. The room around him buzzed with low voices, the distant hum of generators, the occasional thud of boots on floor. He rolled the pen between his fingers, staring down at a half-finished letter addressed to his sister back home.

But his mind wasn’t really there. It was back in that dimly lit bar, the smell of whiskey and wood polish, the sound of your laughter slicing through the crowd. He could still see your hair fall over your face when you'd leaned over the pool table, the look you'd given him when you finally told him your name — like you were giving away a secret you hadn’t meant to.

“Just one night.”

No contact. No feelings. No complications. That had been the unspoken agreement between you. And at the time it’d been easy to accept, to keep it. He was leaving the next morning; even if he’d wanted to see you again, he wouldn’t have had the chance. But day after day, Sam found himself wanting nothing else. At night he closed his eyes hoping he’d dream of you — and when he didn’t, he retreated into his memories just to see you again. If only he’d had more time. If that night hadn’t been his last one in the States, he wasn’t sure he would’ve managed to honor the silent deal you’d made. He probably would’ve gone back to that bar, searching for you, hoping you’d walk in again. What could he do now? He was thousands of miles away from you, unable to reach you, unable to see you. He looked at the unfinished letter to his sister and an idea sparked. He set it aside and pulled a new blank sheet in front of him. He stared at it for a long moment, weighing whether this was a good move or a suicide mission. He didn’t know much about you — just a name, a profession you’d hinted at. And he had the necklace. Your necklace. He’d found it tangled in his sheets that morning, after you’d left. A thin gold chain with a small charm that had caught the first light filtering through his window. He’d told himself that when he got back, he’d find a way to return it to you. A promise to himself. To you. That thought had stayed with him for weeks; it’d became his reminder that he had to make it home. Alive. And maybe, if he was lucky, he could see you again. Until then, he’d wear it under his uniform, close to his skin. He told himself it was for luck, protection, but deep down, he knew better.

He had also an address. Not yours but the bar’s. That night, he’d watched you walk through the place as if you owned it, as if you knew every inch by heart. Maybe you were a regular. It wasn’t much — but it was something. Better than nothing. And maybe his plan could work.

So, that night, under the dim yellow light of the room, he let out a slow breath and lowered his pen to the page. Maybe it was stupid — writing to someone he barely knew, sending a letter to a bar of all places. What could he even say? You’d made it clear there wouldn’t be a next time. He looked around thoughtfully. But what did he have to lose? Nothing.

So Sam began to write.

When he finished, he folded the page carefully, slipped it into an envelope, and scrawled the address of the bar. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he had.

When the mail truck left the base the next morning, his letter was among the hundreds heading west — a single thread thrown into the unknown.

He didn’t expect an answer. But he needed to try.

-

You tried not to think about him — and at first, you’d even succeeded.

Work drowned out everything. Long shifts, tired nights, the kind of exhaustion that left no room for thoughts or memories. Some nights you wanted just to go to bed and sleep. But then, one evening, you’d found yourself back at the Rusty Anchor. And then again. And again.

Every time you sat there, you glanced at the spot where you and Sam had talked, replaying in your mind the memories of that night.

You remembered the way he’d listened without asking for more, how he’d understood things without saying them aloud. His confidence when he’d challenged you to darts. Or his smile when he’d beaten you. Sometimes you caught yourself wondering if he was still alive. If he’d been hurt. If he thought about that night too.

But every time you shut those thoughts down quickly, pushing them aside like a reflex. Telling yourself it was just curiosity, nothing more. After a shift that had drained you down to the marrow, you pushed open the door of the Rusty Anchor for a quick drink. It was a weekday, so the place was quieter than usual — a low murmur of conversations, clinking glasses, the soft hiss of the fryer from the kitchen. You hair were pulled back in a messily, your entire body tense and aching.

“Rough day?” John, the bartender, asked, already sliding your usual drink toward you.

“You have no idea,” you muttered as you took your seat across from him at the counter.

He grinned. “Then this should help.”

Before you could take a sip, he held something else out to you — a white envelope. “This came for you.” You blinked, confused. “A letter? For me?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Got dropped off a few days ago.”

You frowned, taking the envelope from him. “John, nobody sends me letters. And definitely not here.”

He shrugged, wiping the counter with a rag. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. I'm as surprised as you are.”

“When did it get here exactly?” “Three, four days ago, I think.” “And who delivered it?” He sighed, rolling his eyes. “The mailman, genius. It’s a letter, not a bomb. Read it.” You rolled your eyes, but your attention snapped back to the envelope. You turned it over in your hands, the paper rough beneath your fingers — worn, sun-bleached. Like it had traveled far. Then you saw the name in the corner.

Samuel O’Neal.

You froze, your throat went dry.

For a moment, you just stared at it. You hadn’t expected to hear from him. Not after the way you’d left. And the quiet you’d forced between you. You’d been careful with him that night — you had shared only fragments of yourself. Nothing personal. Nothing too traceable. And yet he had found a way to reach you anyway. He had written to you. A real letter, from a war zone. It shouldn’t have meant anything — and yet, it did. You were surprised, caught off guard, of course, but also… moved. You found yourself admiring him a little — that stubbornness, that quiet determination. Like that night, in that same bar, when he’d challenged you. Relief washed over you too. Because that letter meant he was also alive. Or at least he’d been when he’d written the letter, probably a few weeks ago. And for reasons you didn’t quite understand, that simple fact made you feel lighter. You set the envelope on the bar. You brought your drink to lips, and took a slow sip, your eyes never leaving the paper, undecided whether to read it or not. You exhaled, placed the bottle down, and finally tore the envelope open. The bar faded away as you unfolded the letter.

Hey, Not sure if you remember me — though a part of me hopes you do. In case you don't, I’m Sam, the guy from the bar. The one who beat you at darts. Sorry, I couldn’t resist reminding you.

You smiled despite yourself.

I really don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because the days all start to look the same out here, or because thinking about that night keeps me sane when everything else feels too far away. I know you said no complications, and I’m not trying to start any. Honestly, given where I am right now, writing to you might be the least complicated thing I’ve done in weeks. Besides, if you really didn’t want to hear from me, you probably should’ve been more careful — you left something behind that morning. Your necklace. I found it tangled in my sheets after you left. Maybe that's also why I'm writing to you, to let you know. Don’t worry, I’ll give it back to you someday — that’s the plan, at least. But until then I'll consider it my lucky charm. I hope you’ll survive without it.

Your throat burned. Your necklace. The one you’d spent weeks searching for. He had it. You instantly cursed yourself for not being more careful.

How are things back home? Things are quiet here, for now. The kind of quiet that makes you think too much and make bad decisions. Maybe writing to you is one of those. Maybe this won’t even reach you. But if it does… if this finds you, I guess that means I got lucky twice. Sam

You stared at his name at the bottom. Then, you read the letter again. And again. While your drink stayed unfinished on the counter.

You hadn’t planned on hearing from Sam ever again. But now that you’d… you weren’t sure you could ignore him.

- I drew curtains closed, drank my poison all alone You said I have to trust more freely But diesel is desire, you were playing with fire -

For days, the letter followed you everywhere — tucked in your agenda or in your pockets, inside your bag, its paper worn from being read over and over again. You kept telling yourself you wouldn’t reply, that it would be pointless. If you wrote back, he might write again, and then again. And you didn’t want that. You’d promised yourself no complications. No soldiers. No ghosts from that world you’d left behind. And replying to him could become a complication.

Still, you couldn’t throw his letter away. You’d find yourself re-reading it in the quiet moments — in the locker room, in your car, in the evening before going to sleep.

On the fifth day after receiving it you told your friends about it. Jenny, the most romantic of the group, was the first to speak. “So let me get this straight,” she said, eyes wide, coffee cup in hand. “He’s a soldier. He’s in Iraq right now. Risking his life every day. But despite this, he took the time to write you an actual letter. And you’re telling me you’re not going to respond?”

You sighed, leaning against the chair. “There’s no point, Jen. It would just… complicate things. And I don’t want that.”

She folder her arms. “Complicate things how? It’s just a letter. And think about it — he’s out there, miles away from home. Maybe he has no one waiting for him. And your letter could be the only good thing he’d get for weeks. Maybe he's just waiting for that. You really want to deny him that?”

You rolled your eyes. “Jenny, he’s in Iraq. He has bigger things to worry about than waiting for a letter from me.”

But her words stuck with you. At first, you tried to brush it off, but as the days passed, you found yourself thinking about what she’d said. Maybe she wasn’t wrong. A few words wouldn't have hurt anyone after all. They were just that… words. And besides, it would have been rude of you not to respond.

Others days passed and the idea of writing back circled you slowly, quietly, like something inevitable.

And then came the night that broke you, forcing you to lower your defenses.

A long, brutal shift. Two red codes. One life saves, the other lost. A mother and her child. The hallway had smelled like antiseptic and blood, and for a split second, it felt like being back in the field — that same helplessness, that same hollow quiet after the chaos. You drove home in silence, hands shaking on the wheel. You dropped your bag next to the door, exhaling and sat at the kitchen table.

You needed someone to talk to. Someone who might understand that weight, who knew what it meant to watch life and death walk side by side. And somehow, impossibly, the only person who came to your mind was him.

You reached for a pen, a paper and started writing.

- March 2006

It’d been weeks since Sam had sent his letter, and he still hadn’t received anything back from you.

In the beginning, every time the mail arrived and the letters were handed out, Sam found himself hoping — just a little — that there might be one from you. He’d stand by with the others, hands in his pockets, pretending not to look too eager while they called out names and tossed envelopes like cards in a game he couldn’t win. But each time it didn’t happen, something in him dipped lower, even though he told himself it didn’t matter.

Some nights, when the desert finally fell quiet, he’d replay it all — the bar, the game, the way your hand had brushed his when you’d taken the darts from him. He’d also curse himself for writing that letter in the first place, wondering what the hell he’d been thinking. It had been a doomed mission from the start — a reckless, stupid mission of the heart with no cover, no backup, no odds. He hadn’t even told the guys in his unit about it, he didn’t have the guts to. They would’ve laughed, and honestly, he wouldn’t blame them.

After a few weeks, Sam stopped looking up when the mail came. He told himself you probably never got the letter — maybe you weren’t a regular at that bar as he’d thought, or maybe it’d ended up lost somewhere in the backroom of some post office. It was easier to believe that than the alternative — that you’d received it and simply hadn’t cared enough to answer.

Not that he blamed you. Why would you have answered him?

He’d taken a shot and missed. That was the truth.

But then, one morning, while sorting through a stack of envelopes just delivered to him, something caught his eye — his name, scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting. And yours, in the corner. He couldn’t believe his eyes. His chest tightened. He turned it over in his hands, a little afraid to open it.

When he finally tore it open, carefully, as if afraid the paper itself might vanish, he found more words than he’d ever let himself hope for.

You hadn’t told him off or to stop writing.

You’d written about your life. Your patients. Your day.

A smile crept over his face — small, private, unnoticed by anyone around him. He could almost hear your voice in the rhythm of your sentences — see you, maybe sitting at the bar, drink in hand, brows furrowed as you searched for the right words.

Sam, Or should I call you Mr. Insistence? Seems fitting — you’ve got determination to spare, I’ll give you that. You're also full of surprises, O'Neal. No one’s written me a letter in years. And I definitely didn’t expect one from you. I wasn’t planning on writing back. Honestly, I told myself I wouldn’t. But then again, I also told myself I’d never sleep with a soldier… and we both know how that turned out. Truth be told, you need to thank my friend Jenny for this. She’s the hopeless romantic of the group — the kind who thinks every story deserves a happy ending. And apparently she’s your fan already. She guilt-tripped me into it, saying it’d be cruel not to write back, especially considering where you’re and what you’re doing. According to her, although I hope it is not so, you might not have anyone else out there. So here I am. I wish I could say things are quiet here too, but they’re not. I’ve had a rough week and I lost a patient tonight — a mother. You think you've gotten used to it but it never gets easier. You’d probably understand that better than most. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. Maybe because you asked how things were, and ignoring you felt wrong. Or maybe because you’re the only one who might actually get it — without me having to explain every little thing. About that dart game — you just got lucky. I’d had a few beers that night, so I wasn’t exactly at my best. We might have to call for a rematch someday. Take care of yourself, O’Neal. Stay alive — so you can bring me back my necklace. It means more to me than you think. Y/N

When he finished reading, he held the letter for a long while, turning it over in his hands. Then he read it again. Over and over again. As if he wanted to memorize it. He took the envelope and noticed that the return address on it wasn’t the bar’s. It was a street — a real address. Yours, most likely.

He knew he shouldn’t. He’d already been lucky twice: first when his letter reached you, and then when you’d answered. But the temptation was too strong to resist. He took out his pen and started to write. The words came easily, as if his hand already knew the direction his heart was taking.

Y/N, First off — thank your friend Jenny for me. From what you’ve told me, she sounds like a very wise woman. I’m glad you listened to her — and I hope you’ll keep doing it, especially if that means I get to read from you again. I’m sorry you had such a rough day, and about your patient. You’re right, losing someone never gets easier. Every time feels new, doesn’t it? But I’m sure you did everything you could. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who gives up easily. Or am I wrong? You said you’re not sure why you told me about your day. But I think I might know. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger, someone who doesn’t expect you to be okay all the time and won’t judge you. Anyway, I’m glad you opened up to me, whatever the reason. I bet your patients are lucky to have you. Who wouldn’t want an intelligent and beautiful doctor taking care of them? Probably half of them get better just from having you walk into the room. I’ve been thinking about the night we spent together. And I realized you probably know more about me than I do about you. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? We should fix that. Maybe we can start with something simpler. The basics. They matter too. For example, what’s your favorite color? Movie? The song you never skip when it comes on? I’ll go first. Color: orange — not too bright. Softer. The kind you see at sunset. Movie: The Big Lebowski. Have you ever watched it? Song: “Heroes” by David Bowie. Always hits different out here. Your turn, doc. Sam

When he sealed the envelope, he hesitated for a moment, thumb pressed against your name. Sam knew that with this letter — with the gentle teasing, the questions, the attempt to know you better — he was taking a risk. Another one. Maybe you’d find it too much. Too personal. But that night, under the starry desert sky, he felt just brave enough to try. To find out what’d happen next.

-

April 2006 When another letter from Sam arrived — this time at your home address — you didn't know whether to be relieved or irritated. Part of you had hoped he’d let things go after your reply, while another part wasn’t surprised at all. He hadn’t given up that night at the bar, so why would he stop now?

You were coming home from work, exhausted, your shoes digging into your feet, when you found the envelope in your mailbox as if it’d been waiting for you all day. The moment you saw his name, a quiet breath escaped you, feeling immediate relief. Another letter meant he was still alive.

You ran upstairs faster than you intended, kicked off your shoes and set your bag on the table.

You poured yourself a glass of red wine and curled up on the couch before finally opening it.

You said you’re not sure why you told me about your day. But I think I might know. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger, someone who doesn’t expect you to be okay all the time and won’t judge you. Anyway, I’m glad you opened up to me, whatever the reason.

You caught yourself smiling at that. He wasn’t wrong.

I bet your patients are lucky to have you. Who wouldn’t want an intelligent and beautiful doctor taking care of them? Probably half of them get better just from having you walk into the room.

You rolled your eyes at the blatant flirting, though another smile threatened to form as you kept reading.

I’ve been thinking about the night we spent together. And I realized you probably know more about me than I do about you. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? We should fix that. Maybe we can start with something simpler. The basics. They matter too. […] Your turn, doc.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the letter, thoughtful.

This time he was asking questions. He wanted to know more about you. And even though a part of you wanted to answer him immediately, your hand stalled as you reached for the pen. Answering his questions meant opening up — letting him in. And getting to know someone was the first step to becoming attached to them. You didn’t want that. You couldn’t. Not to him. A soldier. Not when the odds of losing him were higher than anything else you could have or build.

You’d learned the hard way a long time ago that it wasn't worth it. It was too risky. Too painful.

The army had already taken so much from you — too much — and you weren’t willing to lose anything, or anyone, ever again. That’s why you’d left that world behind and going back, even through him, meant reopening wounds you’d tried so hard to close. Writing him back had been a mistake, you’d given him false hope and a reason to write to you again. You still could end it before it was too late, telling him to stop writing. Or you could simply ignore the letter altogether. Tear it, burn it, pretend you’d never read it. Simple, right? It was easier that way, you thought, trying to convince yourself.

But Jenny’s voice echoed in your head, needling at your conscience. “It’s just a letter. And think about it — he’s out there, miles away from home. Maybe he has no one waiting for him and your letter could be the only good thing he’d get for weeks. Maybe he's just waiting for that. You really want to deny him that?”

“Damn Jenny,” you muttered.

Besides walking away like that would’ve been cowardly — something you were not.

You had to face him, even if it meant telling him to stop. Sure, it was still cruel, but not as much as not answering him.

You grabbed a sheet of paper and tried to write, but every line sounded wrong — too sharp or too soft. You crossed out and rewrote, crumpling sheet after sheet on the floor until the fifth failed attempt finally broke your patience. You stood, gathered the discarded pages, and threw them in the bin, sighing. “Enough for tonight”, you whispered to yourself. You’d try again tomorrow.

You slipped Sam’s letter into a box along with the first one, telling yourself it was better that way — out of sight, out of mind. Then you went to bed, more tired than when you’d arrived, hoping the night would bring clarity. -

Days passed and you hadn’t reread the letter, hadn’t written back.

You always found an excuse — too tired, too busy, a headache, anything to push it off another day.

And yet his words kept finding you.

In the quiet moments.

In the spaces between thoughts.

Like the chorus of a song you couldn’t forget. As had happened with his favorite song, Heroes. You’d started listening to it.

The first time, it’d happened almost by mistake — you were out jogging, scrolling through the playlists on your iPod, when, without realizing, your fingers had already typed the title. By the time you thought to stop the song, Bowie was already singing. And in the days that followed, you caught yourself playing it again. And again. One evening, with a glass of wine in hand, you were flipping through channels when a movie caught your attention. You checked the title. The Big Lebowski. Sam’s favorite movie. Instead of changing the channel, you set the remote down on the table and leaned back on the couch.

You told yourself it was just curiosity — you’d never seen it, after all. You weren’t watching it because of him. But by the time the credits rolled, you were smiling faintly. During the movie you’d even laughed — real, warm laughter that felt foreign after days of weight on your chest. You understood why he loved it — there was something oddly comforting about it, an odd mix of absurdity and warmth, the kind that made you forget the rest of the world for a while. When it ended, you sat there in silence, feeling unexpectedly alone as you realized the only person you wanted to talk to about it was Sam. You couldn’t, of course — he was thousands of miles away. But you could write to him a letter. That thought lingered. You told yourself you didn’t have to send it. You could simply… write. Put down your thoughts and get them out of your system.

You opened the box, where you’d put his letters and you read them again. Then, almost without hesitation, you pulled out a blank page and grabbed a pen. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you were already writing. In the end, they were just words. Weren’t they? They could do no harm, you said to yourself. Even if you weren’t so sure.

Sam, You really don’t know when to quit, do you? Anyway, I think you’re wrong. If we look at it a certain way, I’d say you already know me pretty well. Or have you forgotten the night we spent together?

Your pen moved almost on its own.

I have to admit, though: you’ve got good taste in music. Heroes is really a good song, it has been stuck in my head for days. And you probably won’t believe this, but I just finished watching The Big Lebowski for the first time. Before you say anything — no, I didn’t watch it because of you. It was on TV, and since I’d never seen it, I figured I’d give it a chance. Pure coincidence. So don’t get too full of yourself. You just got lucky. It wasn’t bad, though. Actually, I liked it more than I expected and it also made me laugh. I can see why you like it but I’m not gonna lie, your choice surprised me. I would’ve bet on Fight Club or The Godfather. I've to admit: you keep surprising me, O’Neal. Anyway, I guess it’s my turn now. -Favorite color: navy blue. -Favorite movie: Kill Bill. Uma Thurman is brilliant, fierce and unapologetic. Easily one of Tarantino’s best. Also Rear Window by Hitchcock. I’ve always had a soft spot for thrillers, whether in films or books. -Favorite song: Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush. Even if Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield has been an obsession lately. I love the part that says: Release your inhibitions Feel the rain on your skin No one else can feel it for you Only you can let it in… Today is where your book begins. There’s something about it, a sense of freedom, of starting over. I can’t quite explain it, but it makes me feel… lighter, carefree. Like I could breathe again.

You paused, rereading what you’d written, surprised by how much you were writing, how much you were revealing about you. You’d answered his questions. That should’ve been enough and for a moment, you considered stopping there — maybe rewriting it, making it sound less… personal. Writing less details. But the thought faded as quickly as it came. And before you could realize, you started writing again.

Anyway, since you started this little game between us, I think it’s only fair that I get to ask you a few things too. Favorite food? Mine’s pizza. Pizza margherita, in particular. Simple, I know, but hear me out, you can’t go wrong with it. It never disappoints. Do you like animals? I think that says a lot about a person, so be careful how you answer. It could be your last chance. If the answer is yes, which one’s your favorite? And here’s a harder one — why did you enlist? We never talked about this. Was it something you always wanted? Or something that just… happened? Feel free not to answer if you don't want to. Anyway, that’s enough for tonight. The interrogation is over. Take care of yourself, Sam. And be careful out there. I know you'll write to me again, Mr. Insistence, so see you in the next letter, I guess. Y/N

When you finally looked up, the clock on the wall read 1 a.m. You blinked, surprised by how much time had passed. Before you could change your mind, you folded the letter, slipped it into a cream-colored envelope, and sealed it shut. You wrote his name and the address you had already memorized, then placed it beside your keys so you wouldn’t forget it in the morning. The next day, before heading to work, you dropped the envelope into the mailbox without a second thought. As you watched it disappear through the slot, your chest felt lighter — for the first time in days.

There’s no turning back now, you thought.

As you walked away, you caught yourself smiling — quietly, uncontrollably — already waiting for his reply.

-

“O’Neal!”

The voice cut through the heavy air like a gunshot.

Sam was in the middle of doing push-ups, killing time and trying to quiet the restlessness that never left him. At the sound of his name, he froze mid-motion, palms pressed into the ground, heart skipping once — reflex.

“There’s mail for you,” the same voice called again.

Sam pushed himself to his feet in one swift motion, dusting his hands off as he jogged toward the man standing in the doorway with a bundle of letters. When he took the envelope, he immediately recognized your handwriting scrawled across the front. Something shifted in his chest. That familiar, stupid smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. You’d replied him. Luck, apparently, was still on his side.

He muttered a quick thanks and headed back to his cot, already opening the flap with impatient fingers before he even sat down. He unfolded the pages carefully, as if they were something fragile. And, in a way, they were.

Not only you’d written back but you’d answered his questions, shared pieces of yourself, little details he hadn’t expected you to share. And you’d asked your own questions too. It was a good thing, Sam thought. It meant you wanted to know more about him too.

He was halfway through reading your letter a second time, eyes scanning each line like it might reveal something new, when a voice snapped him out of it.

“Earth to Sam,” Ray called, waving a hand in front of him.

Sam blinked and lifted his gaze. Ray, Mac, Erik, and Elliot were all staring at him with matching grins, like they’d just caught him doing something he shouldn’t.

“What?” he asked, defensive, folding the letter halfway shut.

Mac tilted his head and smirked. “You gonna tell us who’s been writing you, O’Neal? And don’t give us that ‘it’s from my mom’ crap. Nobody smiles like that reading a letter from home.”

The others laughed, already circling in.

Elliot whistled low. “Must be serious if he didn’t even hear Ray calling him. He was gone, man. Gone.”

Erik leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, shit, I think I’ve got it. It’s that girl from the bar, isn’t it? The one from your last night out before deployment.”

Sam said nothing, but his silence gave him away. He could feel the heat rise in his neck before anyone said a word.

“Oh, it’s her!” Erik crowed, pointing at him. “Look at his face, guys!” The others joined in, half-teasing, half-genuinely surprised.

“Gentlemen,” Mac announced dramatically, “war is officially over: Samuel O’Neal has fallen.”

The laughter grew louder, echoing against the walls of the room. Ray crossed his arms, smiling. “Hold on. You’ve got a girl back home and you don’t tell us? Seriously? That’s cold, man. I thought we shared everything here.”

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. “It’s not like that,” he said finally. “She’s not my girlfriend. We just… write letters. That’s all.”

“Oh, sure,” Mac said, drawing out the words and clapping him on the shoulder. “You just write. That’s what they all say before they start doodling little hearts in the margins.”

That sent them all off again.

“You’re all idiots,” Sam muttered, though there was no bite in his tone.

When they finally drifted away, leaving him alone again, Sam exhaled slowly and looked back at the letter. He unfolded the pages again, letting his eyes trace your words.

You really don’t know when to quit, do you?

No, he didn’t. And he didn’t want to.

Anyway, I think you’re wrong. If we look at it a certain way, I’d say you already know me pretty well. Or have you forgotten the night we spent together?

Forgotten? Not a chance. Sam even doubted he ever could. That night had burned itself into him — every second of it. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, the memories came back in fragments: your smile, the way you’d looked at him in the half-light of his apartment, and your voice screaming his name while he was inside you. The warmth of your skin against his, your hair brushing against his shoulder, the quiet between you that didn’t feel empty. And your scent — vanilla and caramel — the same one that had lingered on his sheets the morning after, when he woke to an empty room and sunlight spilling across the floor. He’d never admit it, but every now and then he’d catch a trace of something that smelled like you — a passing stranger, a bar of soap, coffee with too much sugar — and it would hit him like a memory he didn’t know he still carried.

And you probably won’t believe this, but I just finished watching The Big Lebowski for the first time.

Sam chuckled softly under his breath. Not only had you approved of Heroes, but you’d watched his favorite movie. That was something. He leaned back against the thin metal frame of his cot, picturing you on your couch or bed, with a beer in hand, laughing at the same absurd moments he always did. And then he allowed himself to picture the two of you watching it together someday — you next to him, your legs tucked under you and a bowl of popcorn between you. Maybe, after, you’d make him watch Kill Bill. He could already hear you quoting Uma Thurman, pretending to wield a katana. He would’ve loved that. Every single moment of it.

He grinned at the thought and shook his head. He took mental notes of the others details you’d shared — navy blue, Unwritten, Running Up That Hill, pizza margherita. Maybe one day he'd need that information. To surprise you. Maybe for your first date. If there ever was one.

But that day was far away. Right now, all he could do was writing back.

He looked down at the blank page in front of him, the paper was slightly creased, corners bent from being shoved into his pack. He stared at it for a long moment, keeping a pen in hand.

It felt like walking across a minefield. There were so many things he wanted to ask, but no page would ever be big enough to write them all. And he had to choose carefully his words. If he said too much, too soon, he might scare you away. That couldn’t happen. Not now. Not when you were finally starting to open up. He took a deep breath, weighing every word before letting the pen touch the paper — as if each one could bring him closer to you, or push you further away.

-

August 2006

After your last letter, others followed — both yours and Sam’s. Weeks turned into months, and the box where you kept them was slowly filling up, its corners growing soft from being opened again and again. What had started as short and cautious exchanges had become longer, richer, filled with stories and confessions that felt like small windows into each other’s worlds.

Every day before work, and again when you came home, you checked the mailbox. Every time you found a letter from him, it felt like waking up to Christmas morning. Reading them and replying had become part of your routine. When weeks went by with nothing new, you reread the old ones, from the first to the last, tracing his words with your fingertips as if they could somehow bring him closer. Sometimes, between one letter and the next, you caught yourself wondering if he was still alive — if the silence wasn’t just distance, but something worse. The thought terrified you each time — but then, when another letter finally arrived, the relief was so sudden, so physical, it felt like breaking the surface after being underwater for too long.

Through each letter, you were getting to know each other. You’d learned he loved mac and cheese — homemade, he’d underlined, not the powdered kind. He liked dogs; he and his younger sister had always had one growing up, and someday he wanted one of his own. He even had names picked out: “Guinness,” after the beer, or “Dude,” after his favorite movie character. You’d laughed at that and teased him that they were terrible names. Before you could realize it, you were suggesting better ones — as if you were naming your future dog too, not just his.

He’d also told you why he’d enlisted. After high school, he’d been lost — no plan, no clear idea of what to do next. College hadn’t felt right, home had felt too small, and one day, almost without meaning to, he’d found himself filling out enlistment papers. “It just felt like the right thing to do at the time,” he’d written. And you understood what he meant. Maybe too well.

Month after month, you’d let your guard down, breaking the promises you’d made to yourself long ago — not to let another soldier into your life, not to get tangled in anything tied to the military. But Sam had found his way in. Maybe even into your heart.

At first, you’d been careful, answering his questions without giving too much away, but little by little, you found yourself writing more than you meant to: about your job, the difficult patients, the things that made you laugh or kept you up at night. You’d even started sending him things along with the letters — a book, a CD, a photo of you that you told yourself it was casual but had taken twenty minutes to take. You wanted him to have something real to hold on to, something that could distract him from the war, the blood and the missions. Something of you. Slowly, the tone of your letters had began to shift. What had started as innocent and cautious had became something else — more intimate, warmer, threaded with a quiet kind of longing. Sometimes you wrote about that night you spent together — the one neither of you seemed able to forget — hinting at what you remembered, what you missed, and what you’d do if you were together again. There was something thrilling — something undeniably exciting — in knowing you were the last woman he’d been with. That even across miles of desert, through the dust and the silence, you were the one he dreamed of. The one he still wanted. He’d been the last for you too. It wasn’t that you hadn’t tried. You went on dates, met new people, but no matter how kind or charming the guys you dated were, you couldn’t go further than a kiss. Every time, your mind drifted back to him — the feel of his hands on your skin, the way he’d looked at you, the sound of your name on his lips. You kept telling yourself you owed him nothing. He wasn’t your boyfriend. But then, what was he to you? What were you to him? Friends? No. A friend shouldn’t know the way you taste. Friends didn’t fall asleep replaying the way their bodies fit together like they were made for each other. And yet, that was exactly what you did. He was the one you thought about at night when you tossed and turned, wondering where he was, whether he was safe or not.

Sometimes, after reading one of his letters, his words lingered inside you longer than you wanted them to. They pulsed, heavy, alive, until it almost hurt. Lying back on the bed, you closed your eyes and let the ache spread through you. You could almost hear his voice, feel the weight of his hands against your skin. But he wasn’t there, and the hands moving down your body, lower and lower, were yours. By the time your fingers reached the hem of your panties and you gently caressed yourself, you were already wet. And sensitive. Your body was already reacting to the memory of him. You touched yourself slowly at first, almost shyly, but it took only seconds before the need overcame hesitation. Your mind replayed that night in flashes — the way he’d looked at you before kissing you, the way he’d pulled you closer, the way you’d broken apart under him. And then came the words he’d written. The things he’d hinted at. The way he’d said he’d touch you if he were there, the things he wanted to do to you. Your hips lifted instinctively, chasing a contact that wasn’t there, your body tightening in a sweet, unbearable tension. Within minutes, your legs were already shaking and your forehead damp with sweat as you came screaming his name into the empty room.

Sam, on the other hand, fought his own battles too — not just in the field, but inside his head. Your words had a way of disarming him, slipping under his armor as he read your letters in silence, sometimes even alone. Sometimes he needed to adjust himself with a frustrated sigh, because your words did things to him he had no control over. His body reacted before he could think, before he could even curse your name under his breath. He could almost see you as he read. The way you might look as you wrote. It was torture — sweet and unbearable — to read those words, imagine you and not be able to touch you, to see you. Every time he wished he could be there with you, wherever “there” was.

Maybe one day, he thought, that wish would stop feeling like a fantasy and would become reality.

He hoped that day would come soon.

But for now, all he had were your letters and his imagination — and for now, that had to be enough.

For now.

-

Weeks passed. The days blurred together in dust, noise, and waiting.

When the mail finally arrived one morning and Sam’s name was called, he wiped his hands on his pants and reached for the envelope with your name on it. It was smaller this time — thin, almost weightless. Not like the ones he’d grown used to, the ones stuffed with books, CDs, or whatever small pieces of you you tried to sneak across the world. For a second, disappointment hit him low in the stomach. Then he caught himself — it was still something from you. And that was more than enough.

He sat down on the edge of his cot, turning the envelope over once, twice, before opening it. He pulled out the letter carefully, not noticing the other object you’d slipped inside.

He unfolded the page and began to read.

Sam, I’m sorry if my last words had that kind of effect on you — that wasn’t my intention. Or maybe it was, a little. Either way, I’ve been thinking about how to make it up to you. Words can only do so much, and maybe it’s time for something a little more real. Something to help you when the nights get too long or things get hard. I hope you’re more of a “hips” guy than a “boobs” guy — just this once, at least. If you haven’t already guessed or understood, look again inside the envelope. Keep it safe. I know you won’t show it to anyone. I hope it helps. Y/N PS: Don’t forget: stay alive, stay safe out there.

Sam read the letter twice, eyebrows drawing together. Look again? Then, almost cautiously, he reached for the envelope and noticed the small weight inside — something he hadn’t felt before.

A photograph.

He pulled it out slowly, his pulse quickening, glancing around the barracks to make sure no one was watching. There were only two other guys nearby, playing cards, oblivious. He lifted the picture. It was a black-and-white polaroid — the kind that looked like a memory caught mid-breath. You were lying on your side on a bed he didn’t recognize, half-turned away from the camera. You were nearly naked, wearing only lace panties that left nothing to imagination. Your head rested on your arm, hair spilling over the pillow in soft, messy waves. Your tattoos flowed across your skin like a painted canvas. Sam blinked, once, twice, his throat suddenly dry. He looked around again — the other two soldiers were still playing and talking, unaware. As he brought the photo closer, brushing the edge of the image, Sam swallowed hard. He slowly traced the curve of your body — the line of your back, the gentle rise of your hips, the soft swell of your ass framed by lace — as if by touching the picture he could feel you, touch you again. He let the photo slide between his fingertips, slow and reverent, like touching the paper was the closest he could get to touching your skin again. His body reacted immediately, betraying him before he could even think. A sharp, involuntary throb — one that made him shift on the cot and squeeze his thighs together, trying to ground himself in the discomfort. He hated and loved how easily you did this to him. It wasn’t just desire, it was longing. Everything he’d been trying to bury since the moment he got on the plane months ago. He stared at the image for a long time, letting it burn into his mind until he was sure he would never forget it. Then he slid it carefully back into the envelope and tucked it into the pocket inside his jacket — close to his chest, where no one could find it.

You’d told him to keep it safe. And he would. Not only because you asked him to, but because that picture wasn’t meant for anyone else.

In that small, fragile photograph, you were his — and he was yours, even from a world away.

-

A few days later, Sam found himself going through the small stack of photographs you’d sent him in the past months. Some showed you smiling directly at the camera; others were stolen moments — blurry, spontaneous, your face half-hidden behind a mug or caught mid-laugh. The smiling ones were his favorites. There was something about them that made him forget where he was or what he was doing. Your smile was warm, unguarded, the kind that could light up a room — and Sam liked to imagine it was meant for him.

He was sliding the photos back into an envelope when one slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor and landing a few feet away. Sam’s chest tightened. It wasn't just any photo but the last one you’d sent him. The one lying on the bed, half naked. He bent down quickly to grab it before anyone could see or take it. But someone preceded him.

A voice cut through the noise of the barracks, loud and teasing. “Well, well, what do we have here, O’Neal?”, the voice paused. “Is this your girl? Not bad!”

Sam froze. His blood went cold. Jeff. Sam barely knew the guy, but enough to know he didn’t like him. Arrogant, always smirking or insulting, he was the kind of man who enjoyed provoking people just to watch them react. He hated that Jeff was holding your picture. It felt like a promise breaking right there in his hands.

Sam’s voice came out low, controlled. “Give it back.”

But Jeff didn’t. Instead, he lifted the photo closer to his face, studying it with a grin that made Sam’s hands curl into fists. “Hold on, just a second. Gotta appreciate the view first.” Sam felt something sharp twist deep inside him — anger, possessiveness, something dangerously close to violence. He couldn’t stand Jeff’s eyes on you — him looking at you like that. But he needed to maintain the calm. He took a step forward, his jaw tightening and his voice sharper. “I said give it back.”

Jeff stepped back, grinning wider, enjoying the tension and the attention. A few heads had turned, drawn by the tone in his voice. The room quieted slightly, the lazy chatter fading as the men turned to watch. Sam’s hands curled into fists, as he was trying to maintain the calm. He lunged forward, his hand shooting out to grab the picture, but Jeff pulled it away at the last second, laughing.

“Come on, O’Neal, don’t be so jealous. Why don’t you share? She’s too pretty to keep all to yourself —”

Sam’s patience snapped. He closed the distance in two strides, ripped the photo from Jeff’s hand, shoved it deep into his pocket, and turned away before he could do something he regretted. He had barely taken three steps when Jeff called out again, loud enough for everyone to hear: “What’s the problem, O’Neal? Maybe she can send me one next time! Or is she too busy fucking around?”

The room went still. Sam stopped.

He turned around slowly, his face darkening, every muscle in his body tight with anger. He walked toward Jeff, closing the distance between them one step at a time, his fists already curling. “What did you just say?” His voice was low, dangerous.

Jeff smirked again. “Oh, don’t tell me your girl only spreads her legs for you. A pretty thing like that must have a damn waiting list.”

The punch came fast and hard. Jeff’s head snapped to the side as he stumbled back, then swung in return, hitting Sam in the cheek.

Jeff laughed, spitting blood from his mouth. “With a body like that I bet she’s a fucking handful in bed. Isn’t she, O’Neal?” Sam was blinded by rage. With Jeff's words echoing in his head, he quickly advanced and punched him in the face again, knocking him to the floor. “Son of a bitch!”

“Hey, Sam! Stop it!”, Mac yelled.

But Sam wasn’t listening. He was busy hitting Jeff again — and again — until Erik and Elliot pulled him back, while Mac and Ray stepped between them. Jeff was on the floor, wiping blood from his mouth and muttering curses. Sam’s chest rose and fell rapidly. His knuckles were split and bleeding; his cheek burned where Jeff’s punch had landed. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely hear anything else. “Let me go,” he muttered, shaking his friends off. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mac said, guiding him toward a chair, away from Jeff where others soldiers were helping him. “Sit down before someone walks in and starts asking questions.”

Reluctantly, Sam obeyed and sat. Ray grabbed the first aid kit and began to treat his wounds, while the others hovered around him — silent at first, unsure what to say. They knew better than to push too hard when he was like this. Sam rarely spoke about you but they knew enough to know that every time he smiled reading a letter, it was from you. They’d all realized — maybe even before he did — just how gone he was for you.

Sam's face contorted in pain as Ray disinfected his wounds, still trying to steady his breathing. Jeff’s words replayed in his head, each one twisting deeper.

Ray was the first to break the silence. “So… was that her?” he asked carefully. “The girl in the picture.”

Sam hesitated, then nodded.

“Is she your girlfriend now?” Erik asked, tilting his head. He shook his head. “No… but I like her.”

That earned a few faint smiles, but no one dared to tease him further. Mac, always the one to lighten the mood, leaned forward after a pause. “So what’s her name, man? Or do we keep calling her Bar Girl?”

Sam looked up, frowning slightly. “Bar Girl?”

Mac shrugged. “You met her at a bar, didn’t you? You never told us her name. And we had to call her something.”

Sam huffed out a quiet, tired laugh. “Her name’s Y/N. Y/N Y/Ln.”

There was a brief pause — then Elliot, the oldest in the group, lifted his head, his eyes widened a little. “Wait,” he said slowly. “Did you say Y/N Y/Ln? Like… Y/Ln?”

Sam nodded, a little confused. “Why? What about it?”

Elliot traded a look with Erik, lowering his voice. “You really don’t know? Her father — if it’s who I think — he’s a colonel. A big name. Old-school, strict, respected, the kind everyone in the force knows about.”

Sam blinked, processing that. “She never really mentioned him. Just that her family’s been military for generations and that she was in the army too.”

Ray leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Oh shit, I remember now. Didn’t he lose a son a few years back? He stepped on a mine if I recall right. And the daughter —” he hesitated, glancing at Sam, “— apparently she was there when it happened. She saw the whole thing and couldn’t do anything to save him.” Elliot nodded. The words hit Sam like a slow punch to the gut. For a few minutes, he didn’t move. He just stared at the floor as the pieces began to click into place — your silence, your hesitation, your refusal when you’d turned him down that night at the bar. He’d wondered for months why you never talked about your own experience in the army. He’d thought about it again and again, inventing reasons, imagining even the worst ones, but he’d never asked. That night he’d sensed something, when you’d told him you’d been in the army. The way you’d said it… Your voice had tightened… And Sam had understood, even then, that it hadn’t been a good experience. That whatever had happened to you’d left marks deeper than anything you were willing to admit. He’d hoped that one day you’d tell him yourself, even just a detail — but you never did. You’d been careful in your letters, always steering the conversation away.

Now it all made sense.

You’d lost your brother. A soldier as him. And you’d seen it happen.

Now he knew why you wanted nothing to do with that world. Why that night you’d looked at him the way you did — like he was something that could hurt you. You were afraid of loving someone who might never come back. Just like him. He was a risk.

Sam felt a dull ache rise in his chest, heavier than any bruise. He leaned back against the wall, staring at the floor, the voices of his friends fading around him.

He finally understood why you’d tried to keep your distance from him, why it’d taken you so long to let him in. Because you’d already lost too much and now you wanted to protect yourself. And yet, somehow, you still smiled in the photos. You still wrote to him. Reality hit Sam in the face like a punch, even more painful than the one Jeff had given him. For the first time, Sam realized he could easily become another ghost in your life if the war decided to take him next.

-

Over the next few days, Sam couldn’t get your name out of his head. Elliot’s words kept echoing again and again in his mind, until he found himself asking quiet questions in shadowed corners, trading cigarettes for half-whispered answers, confirming what he already knew — your father, your family, your brother. Every story pieced together what you’d never told him.

And once he knew, he couldn’t unknow.

Guilt began to coil in his chest like smoke. He thought about the letters he’d sent you, wondering how many of them had dragged you back to memories you’d spent years trying to bury. How many times his words had cut into wounds he’d never seen. A slow, sinking realization settled in him: he’d done the one thing you’d fought so hard to avoid. He’d pulled you back into the world you’d escaped. Some days, he hated himself for that. He’d catch himself reaching for pen and paper, then stop. Or he’d stare at your last letter for long minutes, tracing the edge of the paper with his thumb. For months, he’d replied to you immediately. Every letter from you had been an anchor, and his answers had poured out of him without hesitation.

But now?

He couldn’t bring himself to write a single line.

He wanted to answer. God, he wanted to. But what could he say now that he knew the truth?

He couldn’t just pretend and ask about your day, ignoring the ghost standing between your words. Each night he’d sit at the desk, blank paper in front of him, fingers hovering. Sometimes he’d start writing only to tear the page a moment later, crushing it in his fist. He told himself you were better off without his letters. That maybe silence would be a mercy. Maybe you would feel relieved, even safer, if he finally faded from your life — if the soldier who unknowingly pulled you back into the past simply stopped writing. He was trying to convince himself it was the right thing to do — let you go.

But as the days passed, the silence began to weigh on him. He couldn’t sleep. He pushed food around on his tray but rarely finished it. Every night he wondered if you were still checking the mailbox, thinking something had happened to him. That he’d been hurt. Or worse.

Maybe it was already too late to turn back.

Several days later, he found himself standing outside the mailroom, envelope in hand. Your name was written across the front, in his neat, careful handwriting. He stared at it for a long time. Then he took a deep breath and handed it over.

Silence wasn’t mercy — it was cowardice. He’d fought so hard to reach you, to earn even a piece of your trust only to disappear in that manner. He couldn’t do that now. If a decision had to be made, it wasn’t his. It was yours.

And so, for the first time since learning the truth, Sam had written with complete honesty. He’d told you that he knew about your brother and you. That he finally understood why you’d turned away from everything connected to the army, why that night at the bar at first you’d refused to even have a drink with him. He’d written that if this letter made you want to stop writing, he would understand. He wouldn’t blame you, wouldn’t try to change your mind. But first he needed you to know one thing: that your letters had meant something. That had made him feel like never before. That every word you’d written was carved into him like a tattoo — something permanent, something real.

He’d ended the letter simply, his handwriting a little unsteady near the end:

If this is the last letter, thank you for every word. I’ll carry them with me, wherever I go. Sam

He sealed the envelope, holding it in his hand for a moment longer before slipping it into the outgoing pile.

As he walked away, he didn’t look back. But the thought followed him anyway —that maybe, just maybe, those were the last words he would ever send you.

- All that bloodshed, crimson clover Uh-huh, sweet dream was over -

September 2006

You received his letter a few weeks later.

After your last one — the one with the photo — you’d expected something light, maybe teasing, filled with that quiet tension that always hummed beneath your exchanges. You hadn’t expected this.

There was nothing playful in those words. Nothing soft or ironic. It was serious — the kind of letter you and Sam rarely wrote. He knew. About you. About your brother.

Until that moment, you’d managed to avoid the topic — and you’d been grateful for that. It was comforting to speak with someone who didn’t know, who couldn’t look at you with pity or measure every word, afraid of breaking something fragile inside you. Sam had simply talked to you — not to the daughter of a colonel, not to the sister of the soldier who never came home, but to you.Those letters had become a space where the world didn’t have to be heavy, where there were no ranks, no rules, no ghosts of the past. You liked that about him: that even though he belonged to the same world you’d sworn to stay away from, with him it somehow felt… different. Lighter. As if the uniform didn’t matter. But secrets never lasted long, not even in the military world, and that fragile illusion was gone now. Something in you tightened — because now, even in his eyes, you feared you would no longer be you, but “the colonel’s daughter who’d watched her brother die and couldn’t do anything to stop it.” You read Sam’s letter again and again. He hadn’t asked questions or pressed for more details. He’d simply written that he was sorry — that he understood more now, and that he wouldn’t ask for anything you weren’t ready to give. You appreciated it. His restraint, his gentleness. But even a single mention of your brother’s name had been enough to tear open old wounds. The words blurred as your vision filled with tears. Breath caught in your throat as those long-buried images came crashing back — the sand, the smoke, the sound of the radio that day — and suddenly you were there again. Your tears fell on the page, smudging Sam’s handwriting until his words dissolved into small blue stains.

Days passed and you still hadn’t written back. You didn’t know what to say — or whether you should answer at all. Sam had left the decision to you, placing you at the same crossroads you’d faced when he first wrote to you. Back then, it would’ve been easy to walk away. You could’ve ignored him and moved on with your life. But now… now it wasn’t so simple. Something had happened between you — something you couldn’t undo. He hadn’t only stepped into your life, but into your heart too. You cared about him. Your choice now was between ending whatever existed between you — cutting the cord before it could pull you under — or continuing, risking the fall. The first would hurt, yes, but maybe someday you’d forget. Maybe Sam would fade into the background of your life, becoming just another page in a story already written. The second choice meant uncertainty — reopening doors you’d locked long ago, knowing you might lose him in the end.

Neither option felt right. Both felt like losing.

The following weeks blurred together. You went through the motions, trying to quiet your mind, but the ache lingered — the ache of his words, and of everything they had stirred back to life. And then, amid all of that, came your brother’s birthday. That day never failed to break you, no matter how much time had passed. It was a weird feeling because you’d once loved it — planning small surprises, teasing your brother about getting older. But after his death, the date turned into something unbearable, a cruel reminder of everything he’d never get to be. He would’ve turned thirty-two that day but he’d always be twenty-eight years old. Even though you were the younger one, now you were older than he’d ever be. Time had stopped for him that day. But not for you.

- And maybe it’s the past that’s talkin’ Screamin' from the crypt Tellin' me to punish you for things you never did -

October 2006

The night shift had been quiet. Too quiet. Then the doors burst open.

An eighteen-year-old boy. Scraped knees, torn hoodie, skateboard still clutched in one hand. He’d taken a bad fall and hit the pavement hard, the paramedics said. It looked like nothing more than a broken arm and a few bruises. He was talking, joking even.

You smiled at him and reassured him it wasn’t serious. “You’ll be fine,” you said. But a few hours later, his vitals dropped. Then dropped again. Until it was too late and he was gone.

You stood motionless as the monitors went flat, the room sinking into that familiar, unbearable silence.

After they took him away, you stayed behind in the trauma room, sitting on the floor against the wall. You stared at the empty bed. The faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air, the skateboard leaned against the wall, as if it was waiting for him to return.

You felt your throat tighten, your eyes filled with tears. It wasn’t fair. None of it made sense.

He’d come in for something small — something stupid — and now he was gone. Forever.

And in that moment, the truth hit you like a punch to the chest: none of us were safe. Not from death, not from loss. We could spend our lives building walls, trying to protect ourselves from pain — and still, it found us. Your brother had died in service, in war, a victim of something cruel and deliberate. This boy had died because of gravity and a stupid fall that should’ve left nothing more than a few bruises. Two lives ended for two completely different reasons — one tragic, one absurd — and yet, in the end, both were gone all the same. So what sense did it make to keep hiding from life? To keep refusing to love, to feel, to live — out of fear that it might one day hurt again?

Even if your brother was gone, you’d been lucky to share a part of your life with him, to call him your brother. You’d had moments with him that no one could ever take away, not even death. And somehow, that made the pain bearable. Because behind every painful memory there were many other beautiful ones.

You remembered a sentence you'd read a while ago that said “Loving and losing is better than never to have loved at all”. You’d spent years thinking loving wasn't worth it, a waste of time that only led to pain. But maybe the real waste was to live without loving.

You found yourself walking toward the staff room. You searched for a piece of paper and grabbed your pen.

After weeks of silence, the words spilled out — raw, trembling, unfiltered. You wrote everything you’d never dared to say: about your brother, about the fear, about how Sam had somehow brought you back to life without even knowing it.

You wrote until your hand cramped, until the ache in your chest loosened just enough to breathe again.

When you finished, you folded the letter carefully, sliding it into the envelope. You stared at his name on the front for a long moment, your eyes burning.

It was almost dawn when your shift ended. You walked out into the half-light, the city wrapped in a quiet mist. Your steps echoed on the empty street, your breath rising in small clouds. Halfway home, you stopped in front of the postbox, the one you’d used for every letter before.

The metal felt cold beneath your fingertips as you slipped the letter inside, hoping it wasn’t too late — hoping Sam wasn’t done waiting for you. -

The days passed, and no letter from Sam arrived.

At first, you didn’t worry. You tried not to. It’d happened before — sometimes the mail took longer than it should. Maybe he was on a mission. You told yourself that was all it was.

But when the days turned into weeks, then into months, the silence started to feel heavier. And doubt began to creep in.

You sent another letter — just in case the first one had gotten lost. For safety, you told herself. You tried to sound casual, light, though your hand trembled as you wrote.

But still nothing.

Another letter followed. And then another. You kept writing anyway, as if the act of writing itself was the only thing keeping you from falling apart, ignoring how desperate or foolish you might have seemed. Maybe he’d grown tired of you. Maybe he’d decided to let you go — for both of your sakes. Or maybe this was his way of paying you back, of giving you silence for silence. But that didn’t feel like Sam. He wasn’t cruel. He wouldn’t vanish without a word.

But the question kept echoing in your head. Why wasn’t he answering?

- Flashes of the battle come back to me in a blur -

November 2006

One night, after writing yet another letter, sleep came late — shallow and restless. And when it finally did, it brought a dream — vivid, merciless. It wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory.

You were back in the desert — blinding sun, dust and smoke thick in the air. Your brother stood a few meters away, motionless, a strange, frozen look on his face. You called his name once, twice. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Then you saw it — the way his boot pressed into the dirt, right on top of something half-buried beneath the sand. A landmine.

You tried to reach him, screaming his name, your voice raw, but someone was holding you back — rough hands on your arms, dragging you away as you fought and kicked. “Let me go!” you screamed.

He looked at you then — calm, almost resigned — and mouthed something you couldn’t hear. A faint smile. And then the sound — deafening, final. The explosion. The fire. Silence.

You woke up screaming, trembling and drenched in sweat, your throat raw, your cheeks already wet with tears. For a moment you didn’t know where you were. The room was dark, still, the air too heavy to breathe. Even after you calmed down, the feeling stayed with you — a sick, cold dread that curled around your chest and wouldn’t let go. It followed you through the shower, the bus ride, the sterile hospital corridors. It hid in the hum of the lights, in the metallic scent of disinfectant, in every sound that made you flinch. You told yourself that you were still upset because of the dream. Nothing more. It was just your mind playing tricks. But a voice deep inside whispered otherwise.

By the time your shift ended that evening, you couldn’t ignore the feeling anymore. Maybe it wasn’t just a dream. Maybe it was a warning. -

Your apartment was dark except for the glow from the kitchen. You stared at your phone for a long time before picking it up. The screen glowed in the dark, harsh against your eyes. Your fingers trembled as you dialed the number you hadn’t called in months.

It rang twice.

“Y/N… is that you?” Your father’s voice carried surprise, disbelief — and maybe a hint of relief. “Hi, dad…” you said quietly, pausing. “I just… I wanted to check in. See how you were doing.”

There was a pause, awkward and unfamiliar. It was strange — he was your father, yet in that moment, you felt like strangers, unsure how to bridge the silence between you. “I’m fine,” he said. “What about you? Did something happen?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” you lied quickly. “It’s just…I’ve had this weird feeling all day. And I couldn’t shake it. I thought maybe something had happened…to you.”

“I’m fine,” he reassured you, gentle but firm. “You don’t need to worry about me.” You smiled, a little relieved. But the feeling was still there.

The line went quiet again. You almost said goodbye, but then— “Dad?”

“I’m here. What is it?”

“I need a favor.” Your voice wavered. “I need you to check on someone for me. Just… to make sure he’s okay.” “Who?”

You didn’t tell him everything, only what was necessary — enough for him to look into it. He didn’t ask for more, sensing the delicacy of the situation.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “Give me a few hours. I’ll call you back when I know something, okay?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Okay. Thanks, Dad.”

When the call ended, you sat there in the dark for a long while, staring at the phone. The hum of the refrigerator the only sound in the apartment. All you could do now was wait. And hope. But hope for what? You didn’t know what for anymore. If Sam was fine, then he was choosing not to answer — choosing silence. Choosing to forget you. But if he wasn’t… if something had happened… You closed your eyes, pressing your hands to your face as you didn't want to think about that possibility. You sighed. Every minute stretched endlessly, heavy and slow, making the wait unbearable. -

When your phone finally rang an hour later, you jumped. You knew it was your father before you even looked at the screen. You stomach twisted as you picked up. “Dad?” Your voice was barely a whisper.

There was a pause. Too long.

“He’s alive,” your father finally said.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Relief rushed through you so fast it almost hurt. But then you heard it again — the slight hesitation, the heavy silence that followed. You replayed your father’s words in your head. He hadn’t said he was fine. He had said he was alive. Something had happened.

Your throat tightened. “What else?” you asked, your voice breaking. “Dad, please. What aren’t you telling me?”

But deep down, you already knew. It hadn't been just a dream.

There was a pause on the other end. You could hear the sound of your father’s breath, the hesitation before truth. “He’s alive,” he repeated softly, “but he’s been injured during a mission. He’s…”

You stopped listening.

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?

PART TWO

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