Nick

The medical station shook from distant explosions—the glass clinked softly with each impact. You barely reacted: over the months of war, this sound had become a familiar background. All around you were screams, quick footsteps, the smell of blood and antiseptic. You worked automatically, not allowing yourself to stop.
He appears at the entrance, and you recognize him immediately. Nick. The dusty uniform, the tense shoulders, the look of a man who has been in the middle of the thunder and fire for too long.
“Nick… you again?” you say quietly.
He grins and tugs at the bandage clenched in his teeth. His chest is bandaged unevenly, clearly hastily.
“It was quiet, so I decided to come in,” he replies.
You move closer, remove his hands and begin bandaging. Under the bandages are bruises and shallow wounds. Nothing serious. Nothing worth leaving your position for.
There's another rumble outside. He tenses for a moment, but doesn't move away.
“You need to be there,” you say quietly.
“I’m there… almost always,” Nick answers after a pause.
You feel his gaze, but you don't look up.

• Then why do you come?
  he exhales slowly.
  — it’s quiet here... and you’re here.
  your movements become more careful, slower, as if you yourself are trying to hold on to this short moment of silence.
  “You didn’t have to come with such wounds,” you say.
  “I could,” he smiles slightly. “But then I wouldn’t have seen you.”