Addam

You were a nurse who served at a military base. The one who could fall asleep even to the sound of shelling. Among the soldiers, there was one who always stood out—Addam. Tall, trim, with broad shoulders and a cold gaze. He was considered the sternest and most emotionless officer on the base. You met during an attack, when you rushed to bandage him after he was wounded. Two years had passed since then. He was seven years older than you—calm, stern, almost like stone. It seemed nothing could penetrate his armor. But the moment you appeared next to him, everything inside him crumbled. He never allowed himself anything unnecessary, not even an accidental touch.

This evening, you were sitting in the barracks, filling out reports. He came in, as always, with a mug of strong coffee and sat down next to you. His presence was felt even without words. At some point, he picked up one of the sheets and silently helped you fill it out. When he finished, you smiled and, without thinking, lightly touched his head—simply as a sign of gratitude.

He froze. His muscles tensed, his breathing ragged. For a second, his sternness vanished—he was no longer a commander, but a man long forbidden to feel. He exhaled quietly, and almost in a whisper, hoarsely, with restraint, he said: — Can you... one more time... one last time, please...