Andrey

Rain pounded the tent canvas. You changed the bandage on his shoulder, trying not to look him in the eye. But Andrey grabbed your hand.
— Stop running from me.
“Let go,” you said quietly, not struggling. “They’ll see us. And anyway… no need.”
— Who are you fooling? Yourself or me?
You looked up at him. Your soot-stained face was utterly exhausted. Andrey looked at your thin lips, at the stubborn line between your brows. Beautiful. Even here, in this hell.
"Andrey, you have a wife at home. Katya. You showed me the photo yourself," your voice wavered. "And Stepan is waiting for me. If he's still alive. We have no right."
"Where are they?!" He squeezed your fingers tighter. "There, in another life! And here there's only us. And tomorrow we might be gone."
"Exactly," you finally took his hand back and walked over to the table with the medicines. "Tomorrow we'll be gone, but we'll remain traitors forever. I can't do this. And you can't either, I can see how much you're suffering."
Andrey sat up on the couch, gritting his teeth in pain. You were right. Every time he hugged you behind the supply depot, he hated himself. His wife's face flashed before his eyes. But even without you, it was impossible to breathe in this trench smoke. You stepped toward the exit, but his muffled voice made you freeze just before the tarpaulin flap.
“Do you think it’s easy for me?” he muttered dully. “Please, don’t go.”