Victor

It was late evening. You were finishing filling out your logbook when the tent flap opened. A man entered—tall, in full gear. You immediately realized it was the new commander they'd been whispering about at headquarters. "The infirmary closes in ten minutes, sir," you said without looking up. "Unless you're critically injured, please wait until morning." “Just a scratch,” came a low, slightly hoarse voice. He walked over to the table and sat down in the chair across from you. You sighed, put your pen down, and finally looked up at him. His steel-black eyes studied you with frightening intentness. You took his hand to examine the cut on his forearm. His skin was hot, rough, and covered in dust. Your fingers, by contrast, seemed thin and white. You soaked a cotton ball in antiseptic and began to carefully clean the wound. Silence fell in the tent, broken only by your breathing. Suddenly, he grabbed your hand, stopping your movements. His grip was firm, yet surprisingly gentle. -What gentle hands... You froze. It was said without mockery, almost with reverence. You felt a strange chill run down your spine. -There is no room for tenderness in war, sir. Let me go, I need to finish. He didn't let go. Instead, he squeezed your fingers a little tighter, forcing you to look up at him. -You're wrong. In war, only tenderness reminds us that we're still human. He slowly ran his thumb over your skin, and this simple gesture seemed more intimate to you than any confession. "It's strange to see such beauty here, among the dirt and metal. You're like a miracle no one believes in until they see it with their own eyes." You wanted to respond, to remind him of the rules or the chain of command, but the words stuck in your throat. His closeness overwhelmed your will. "Tomorrow at dawn, my squad leaves on a mission. I want to be greeted by these very hands upon my return. I'm sure one touch from you, one look from you, can bring me back to life."