Request: Hiah love! I would like to request a Ronald Speirs one shot with prompt one from the angst/hurt comfort section. I love your writing it makes me feel all types of emotions I didn't know existed. Thank you again!!
Pairing: Ronald Speirs x Reader
Prompt: âWhy wont you just let me help you?â
Genre: Pure angst, no comfort, no softness
Setting: Ardennes Forset, Bastonge
Warning: Contains blood and a slight mention of gore. Also, fair warning: the main female character is stubborn, emotionally constipated, and just canât seem to take a hint herselfâŚso prepare for lots of tension, angst, and messy feelings.
Note || I didnât mean for this one-shot to get this longâŚit kind of justâŚhappened. Honestly, it might have ended up as a multipart story, but most likely it wonât beâunless someone asks for more, of course. Other than that, I hope you enjoy the pure, unfiltered angst. This oneâs all tension, emotion, and messy feelings, and I had way too much fun letting it spiral.
gotxpenny's masterlist
band of brothers masterlist
The day had started like all the others.
Too quiet, reallyâbut by now, that had become routine. The Ardennes had a way of pretending it was harmless if you looked at it long enough. Snow lay thick and untouched between the trees, a clean white blanket that muffled everything it touched. The only sounds were the slow crunch of boots beneath her feet and the low, mournful whistle of wind threading through bare branches. It creaked through the forest like something alive, something watching.
She adjusted her gloves, fingers already numb despite the layers, and took her position without a word. Same time as always. Same stretch of treeline. Same waiting.
Every day since theyâd arrived, it had been like thisâan almost peaceful lull that never lasted. The men had stopped commenting on it after the first week. You learned not to trust the quiet here. The forest held its breath at the same hour every morning, and then, without fail, it exhaled hell.
She lifted her rifle, settling in, cheek pressed to cold metal. Her breath fogged the scope as she scanned the treeline, slow and methodical. Nothing moved. No shapes. No flashes. Just trees and snow and silence so thick it rang in her ears.
The blast hit without warning.
One second she had her scope trained steady on the dark line between trunksâcontrolled breathing, finger resting light on the triggerâthe next, the world shattered into sound and light. The ground bucked violently beneath her. Shrapnel screamed through the air, tearing bark from trees and flesh from bone. A deafening crack split the quiet clean in half, and something hot and sharp tore across her face.
Her rifle was ripped from her hands as the force threw her sideways, body slamming hard into earth and mud and smoke. Her helmet bounced away somewhere behind her, swallowed by the chaos. Pain detonated behind her eyesâwhite, blinding, nauseating. When she tried to blink, instinct screaming at her to clear her vision, the world didnât sharpen.
Half of it was gone. The other half twisted and pulsed, warped like she was looking through water or broken glass. Shapes bled into one another. Light flared too bright, then vanished entirely. She gasped, breath tearing out of her chest in short, panicked bursts.
Another blast thundered nearby.
She dragged herself forward, fingers clawing uselessly at frozen ground, nails scraping against ice and dirt. Snow melted beneath her palms, turning red and slick. Her head rang, a high, shrill sound drowning out everything else. She rolled blindlyâvision useless on one sideâbody moving on instinct alone.
And dropped straight into a foxhole that wasnât hers.
She landed hard against a body already there, the impact knocking the breath from both of them as the forest roared on above.
A hand came up instantly, iron-fast on her shoulder, anchoring her before she could even register where she was. Fingers dug through layers of wool and webbing, steady and unyielding.
âJesus Christâwho the hellââ
Even through the ringing in her ears and the sickening tilt of the world, even with half her vision swallowed by darkness, she knew him. His presence had always carried weightâsharp, unavoidable, like standing too close to a blade. He was crouched beside her in the foxhole, broad shoulders blocking what little light filtered down through the smoke and falling snow.
His face snapped into focus on the side she could still see, hard lines etched deeper by grime and shadow. His eyes moved quickly, efficiently, the way they always didâtaking inventory. Blood streaked down the left side of her face, warm and thick, catching in her lashes, dripping off her jaw to stain the snow beneath them. Her scarf was already soaked through, dark and heavy against her throat.
âYouâre hit,â he said, voice clipped, decisive, his hand already shifting as if to pull her closer, to look.
âDonât,â she snapped. The word came out raw, edged with panic and fury both. She twisted violently, jerking away from his touch like it burned her skin.
It was briefâbarely a pauseâbut she saw it. The hesitation. The flicker of something unreadable crossing his expression before it vanished behind that familiar hard mask. Then his jaw locked, muscles jumping as his grip tightened instead of releasing.
âYou canât see,â he said flatly, stating it like a fact that didnât care whether she accepted it or not.
âI can see enough,â it was a lie. A thin, fragile one. The world on her left side was gone entirelyânothing but darkness and painâand the right swam and warped, bending at the edges like a bad dream. Even sitting still made her dizzy. But she refused to let him hear it in her voice.
She tried to push herself upright, palms slipping in blood and slush. The ground pitched violently beneath her, stomach lurching as nausea surged. Her head screamed in protest, pain flashing white-hot behind her eyes. For a heartbeat, she thought she might black out.
Speirs caught her before she could fall, this time by the wrist.
His grip was firm. Steady. Unavoidable.
Another explosion tore through the forest, close enough that the foxhole shuddered violently. Dirt and snow cascaded down over them, peppering her helmetless head and shoulders. The air filled with smoke and the sharp, metallic bite of cordite. Somewhere above, someone was yellingâmaybe her name, maybe not. Everything blurred together.
Panic clawed up her throat, fast and suffocating.
âYour eyeââ Speirs started, voice raised to cut through the chaos.
She wrenched her arm back with more force than sense, nearly pitching herself sideways into the wall of the foxhole. Pain lanced through her skull, bright and vicious, but she bit down hard and welcomed it if it meant she could get away from him. Speirs stared at her, eyes narrowing, like sheâd struck him rather than shoved him off.
From the moment theyâd crossed paths back in training, it had been like thisâhim lingering at the edges of her space, always close enough to notice. Too close. A look held a second too long. A comment she didnât ask for. A presence she could feel even when she refused to acknowledge it.
Hated how he always seemed to be watching. Hated how he always had something to say, even when she wanted silence. Hated how it made her feelâtight and defensive, like her skin was too thin. Speirs unsettled her in ways she didnât understand and didnât want to. He made her feel seen, measured, and she didnât trust that.
So she did what she always did.
Every offer of help met with sharp words. Every attempt at conversation shut down. Every look returned with a glare cold enough to freeze him out. If she made it clear enough, hard enough, maybe heâd stop coming back.
Speirs never understood it.
He didnât know when it had started, or why his attention kept drifting to her no matter how many times she cut him down. He told himself it was nothingâjust another soldier, another face in the line. He told himself her hostility was answer enough.
He shouldâve taken the hint.
But somehow, no matter how many times she bristled or snapped, he found himself noticing her anywayâtracking her movement across a field, clocking the way she held herself under fire, remembering details he had no reason to keep. And now, with shells screaming overhead and the Ardennes tearing itself apart, all of that confusion sharpened into something far more dangerous.
âStop it,â Speirs said, frustration bleeding through the control in his voice, âYouâre injured. Sit down before you fall on your damn face.â
âI donât need you,â she fired back, fury boiling hot in her chest, burning through the pain, âI never have.â
âThatâs not true,â he snapped, âAnd you know it.â
She laughed, short and bitter, the sound tearing at her already-raw throat, âYou donât know a goddamn thing about me.â
Another blast hit, closer than the rest. The foxhole shook violently, snow collapsing inward as the earth seemed to fold in on itself. The sound was deafening. Above them, someone screamedâa sharp, broken sound that cut off too abruptly.
âChrist, youâre bleeding all over yourself,â he snapped, frustration bleeding through his control, âSit still.â
âDonât tell me what to do,â she shot back, breath ragged, eyes burning, âYouâre not my CO.â
âThen write me up later,â she said bitterly, âIf weâre still alive.â
Something in his expression cracked. The explosions hadnât stopped. Shrapnel hissed through the air above them, chewing through trees and earth alike. The foxhole felt too small, too close, filled with smoke and blood and years of unresolved tension.
She wiped blindly at her face, smearing blood across her glove. Her hand shook. She hated that he could see it. Hated that he was seeing her like thisâhurt, disoriented, vulnerable.
âI donât need you,â she said, her voice shaking now, the words splintering on the way out. Fury was the only thing holding her upright, the only thing keeping her from collapsing into the pain and the vertigo and the sickening wrongness of her vision, âI never did.â
Something in Speirs finally snapped.
His hand shot out, fingers fisting in the front of her jacket, and before she could react he had her slammed back against the packed earth wall of the foxhole. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, a sharp, startled gasp tearing free as dirt crumbled down around them. It wasnât cruel. It wasnât careless. It was controlled in the way only someone who lived by control could beâand that terrified her far more than rage ever could.
His face was suddenly inches from hers, too close, filling what little of the world she could still see. His eyes burned with something feral, something raw and unmasked, and for the first time she realised how much effort it usually took for him to be cold.
âEnough,â he barked, the word ripped from his chest, barely audible over the roar of artillery but carrying a weight that crushed straight through her. Spit flecked his lips, breath hot against her face, âYouâre bleeding, you can barely stand, and youâre going to get yourself killed just to prove a point.â
She glared back at him, refusing to look away even as her pulse thundered in her ears. Hatred flared hot and familiarâbut underneath it, coiling tight and ugly, was fear. Not of him. Of what he was saying. Of how close she was to the edge. Of how easily this could all end here, in a frozen hole in the ground, without her ever having meant for it to.
Her hands trembled at her sides. She curled them into fists so he wouldnât see.
âI donât care if you hate me,â Speirs went on, his voice dropping, losing that sharp edge and turning rough instead, scraped raw by something dangerously close to desperation. This wasnât the voice she knewâthe clipped, detached one that gave orders and carried out violence like it was nothing. This one shook, âI donât care if you never want to look at me again. I donât care if you spend the rest of this war pretending I donât exist.â
His grip tightened just enough for her to feel it, anchoring her whether she wanted it or not.
âBut you do not get to die in front of me,â he said, each word deliberate, carved into the space between them, âNot like this. Not because youâre too damn stubborn to accept help.â
Another blast rocked the ground, close enough that the walls of the foxhole shuddered violently. Snow and dirt cascaded down around them, dust filling the air, but neither of them moved. They were locked together in that moment, breaths overlapping, hearts hammering, the rest of the world reduced to noise and fire and shaking earth.
For a heartbeatâtwoâthe war ceased to exist.
There was only the press of his hand against her collar, the heat of his body so close she could feel it, the way his eyes searched her face like he was trying to memorise it. Like he was bracing himself for something he didnât want to name.
And for the first time since sheâd known Ronald Speirsâsince training, since every sharp look and unwanted word and unexplainable momentâhe looked afraid.
And that terrified her more than the shrapnel ever could.
âGet off me,â she demanded, this time her voice didnât raiseâŚjust frustration, âI didnât ask for your goddamn helpââ
âYou donât get to refuse it right now!â the words cracked between them, loud and final.
She froze, chest heaving, anger and fear colliding hard enough to leave her shaking. Speirs leaned closer, his face inches from hers, eyes dark and blazing. There was no confusion left in them now. No patience. Just furyâhot, restrained, and dangerous.
âIâve let you push me off since Toccoa,â he snarled, every word tight with something long-contained, âIâve let you like Iâm just some problem you can glare away. Fine. Whatever. But thisââ he gestured sharply at her blood-soaked face, at the way she swayed even sitting still, ââthis is not the time for your pride.â
Her breath hitched, the fight in her warring violently with something elseâsomething colder, more fragile, âI donât want you,â she said, voice hoarse, shaking despite herself.
âI donât care,â he shot back without hesitation, âYouâre hurt. Youâre staying right here. And if you try to crawl out of this foxhole blind, I swear to God Iâll drag you back myself.â
For a long moment, the world narrowed to the space between them. The thunder of artillery faded beneath the weight of everything unsaid. Snow drifted quietly into the foxhole, settling on blood, dirt, and torn earth alike.
She stared at him, trembling with pain and fury and the terrifying realisation that, for the first time, Ronald Speirs wasnât going to back down.
And in the heart of the Ardennesâdeath screaming overhead, the forest burning around themâsomething between them finally, irreversibly broke.
Camp Toccoa, two years earlierÂ
Sheâd hated him from the start.
Not because heâd done anything overt. Not because heâd said the wrong thing or crossed some clear, unforgivable line. She hated him because from the very first moment, he made her feel seenâand not in the way instructors watched, or soldiers sized each other up. It was sharper than that. Too personal.
Georgia wrapped itself around them like a wet fist. The heat pressed down from every direction, thick and suffocating, making even the act of breathing feel like work. Sweat soaked through her uniform, darkening the fabric along her spine and under her arms, the cloth sticking uncomfortably to her skin. Grit clung to her hands and forearms, dust mixing with sweat until she felt perpetually filthy. The air smelled like metal and pine and men pushed past their limits.
The rifle felt heavier in the humidity, its weight dragging at her shoulder as she raised it again. The metal was warm against her cheek, almost hot, like it had absorbed the sun itself. She adjusted her stance by instinctâfeet planted, shoulders squaredâmuscle memory already burned deep, even this early in training. She lined up her shot, exhaled slowly, let the noise of camp fade to a dull hum at the edges of her awareness.
That was when she felt it.
Not a sound. Not the crunch of boots or the shift of fabric behind her.
Just the unmistakable weight of someone watching.
Her spine stiffened, every nerve flaring to life. She didnât turn. Didnât react. She refused to give whoever it was the satisfaction. Instead, she focused harder on the target downrange, jaw tightening as her breath went shallow.
âRelax,â a voice said quietly, close enough that she felt it rather than heard it, âYouâre locking your shoulders.â
Her finger tightened on the trigger. She lowered the rifle just enough to glance sideways. Ronald Speirs stood there like heâd always been thereâhelmet off, sleeves rolled, eyes fixed on her with an intensity that felt unearned for someone she barely knew.
âI didnât ask,â she said, voice flat.
He didnât flinch. Didnât apologise. Just tilted his head slightly, studying her like a problem he was already halfway to solving, âDidnât say you did.â
That made her angrier than if heâd argued. She lifted the rifle again, pointedly turning her back to him, âThen stop hovering.â
A pause. Then, mildly, âYou always stand like that?â
Her jaw clenched, âLike what.â
âLike youâre bracing for something to hit you,â he said, âEven before it does.â
She fired before she could stop herselfâthe crack of the shot slicing clean through the heavy air. The recoil slammed into her shoulder, sharp and grounding. She exhaled hard, lowering the rifle again, pulse hammering faster than it should have.
âYou always analyse people without permission?â she shot back.
âOnly the ones worth paying attention to.â
She turned on him then, heat and irritation flaring together in her chest, âYou donât know me.â
âNo,â he agreed easily, âBut you move like someone whoâs been doing this longer than most.â
They were still new thenâbarely past introductions, names exchanged in passing, ranks and roles still settling into place. And yet the way he spoke to her, the way he looked at her, carried the weight of familiarity. Like heâd known her habits already. Like heâd recognised something in her that had taken others years to notice.
âYou should keep your observations to yourself,â she said, stepping past him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm, âWeâre not friends.â
His gaze followed her, steady and unblinking, âDidnât say we were.â
The distance between them felt charged anywayâtoo tight, too awareâas if some unspoken history already existed between them, invisible but heavy. Like two people whoâd known each other in another life and couldnât quite remember howâor whyâit had ended badly.
She hated that feeling most of all.
Because it made her feel like no matter how hard she pushed him away, Ronald Speirs had already decided she mattered.
She fired before she could stop herselfâcrackâthe recoil biting hard into her shoulder. The shot rang out sharp and clean, echoing across the range before being swallowed by the thick Georgia heat. A heartbeat later, the instructorâs voice cut through the air, barking corrections down the line, but the words slid past her without meaning. Her pulse was too loud. Her grip too tight.
She lowered the rifle and finally turned her head.
Ronald Speirs stood just behind her, helmet tucked under one arm, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate. Too close. Too calm. Like he hadnât just startled her on purpose. Like heâd known exactly what he was doing when he spoke into her space.
Up close, his expression gave nothing awayâno apology, no challenge. Just those watchful eyes, steady and assessing, as if he were cataloging her reactions instead of regretting them.
She stepped past him sharply, shoulder slamming into his chest hard enough to make the message clear, âFind someone else to bother, Speirs.â
His brows lifted a fraction, more curiosity than offence flickering across his face, âJust an observation.â
âI didnât ask,â she shot back without slowing.
She dropped back into position, resetting her stance with stiff, deliberate movements. The target blurred slightly as she forced herself to breathe evenly again. She waited for his footsteps to fade. Waited for the pressure at her back to lift.
Not that day. Not the next.
Over the next days, then weeks, he kept appearing in her periphery like a bad habit she couldnât shake. Lingering near the firing line long after heâd finished his own drills. Standing just off to the side during formation, gaze flicking to her even when it had no reason to. Watching her like she was something he couldnât quite figure outâand refused to stop trying to.
âYouâre pulling the trigger too fast,â he said one afternoon as they cleaned their rifles, voice low enough that it didnât carry. The tent was stifling, the air thick with oil and sweat and the scrape of metal on metal.
She didnât even glance up from her work. âWorry about your own.â
âI am,â he replied calmly, âYours affects mine.â
That made her look at him, âExcuse me?â
âYouâre compensating left when youâre tired,â he went on, unfazed, âItâll throw you off at distance. Youâll start missing high.â
Her jaw tightened. She slammed the bolt back harder than necessary, the metallic clack ringing sharp in the space between them, âDid I ask for coaching?â
âNo,â he said easily, like the answer had never mattered, âDoesnât mean itâs wrong.â
Not that he spokeâplenty of men spoke out of turnâbut that he was right. That his observations landed clean and precise, cutting straight to things she hadnât realised she was doing. Like heâd been studying her long enough to notice patterns sheâd kept buried beneath muscle memory and pride.
Hated the way his words lingered even after she told herself to ignore them. Hated that later, on the range, she caught herself correcting her stance exactly the way heâd described.
And the way he watchedâquiet, intent, never leering, never crudeâmade her skin crawl all the same. There was no obvious disrespect in it, no easy reason to call him out. Just a steady, unnerving focus that followed her movements like a shadow.
It felt like being stripped bare without permission.
âYou look at people like theyâre problems to solve,â she snapped one evening, finally turning on him when she caught his gaze yet again.
âOnly the ones that matter,â he said.
âThatâs not a compliment.â
âWasnât meant to be.â
She stared at him, chest tight, heat and anger coiling together until she didnât know which one made it harder to breathe. âYou donât know anything about me.â
His eyes held hers, unflinching. âNo,â he said quietly. âBut I will.â
She turned away before he could say anything else, heart pounding too hard, hands shaking as she clenched them into fists at her sides. She told herself she hated him because he wouldnât leave her alone.
But deep downâsomewhere she refused to lookâshe hated him because it felt like he was already seeing through her.
And she didnât know how to stop him.
She started pushing back harder. Sharper words. Colder looks. If he lingered, she moved. If he spoke, she shut him down. Made it clear, unmistakably so, that she didnât want him near her.
âDo you make a habit of hovering,â she snapped one evening, sweat streaking her temples, âOr am I just special?â
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something else, âYou notice.â
âI notice you donât know when to back off.â
For a moment, something flickered behind his eyesâconfusion, maybe. Or frustration. But it vanished just as quickly, buried beneath that same unreadable calm.
But he didnât back off.
From his side of it, he couldnât explain why his eyes kept finding her. There were dozens of soldiers on the fieldâmen better liked, easier to readâbut she drew his attention like a pulled trigger. The way she held herself. The way she fought every correction, every authority, like the world had already decided she didnât belong and she was daring it to say so out loud.
She was all sharp edges and coiled restraint.
And she hated him for seeing it.
âYou donât get to look at me like that,â she told him once, late in the evening when the camp had finally gone quiet.
âLike you think you know me.â
Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. He studied her thenânot her stance, not her handsâbut her face.
âMaybe Iâm just trying to,â he said.
Her voice dropped, dangerous and low, âThen stop.â
She walked away before he could answer, heart pounding, anger burning hot and bright in her chest. He shouldâve taken the hint then. Shouldâve let her go, let the distance settle.
But Ronald Speirs had never been good at taking a hint or walking away from things that matteredâeven when he didnât yet understand why they did.
And she never forgave him for that.
Back in the foxhole, another blast went off close enough to knock the breath from her chest. The concussion hit like a physical blow, rattling her teeth and sending a sharp pain lancing through her skull. Dirt and snow collapsed inward from the rim of the hole, showering down over her shoulders. Her ears rang, the sound high and hollow, like the world had dropped underwater.
She scrambled toward the edge, fingers digging into the frozen earth, intent on getting outâback to her position, back to where she knew what she was supposed to do. Where she could still function. Control was everything. Control meant survival. She couldnât stay here, trapped and half-blind and useless.
She made it halfway up before something yanked hard at the back of her webbing.
The force dragged her down so abruptly she lost her footing, knees slamming back into the mud. Her breath tore from her lungs in a sharp, panicked gasp as she hit the bottom of the foxhole again.
âWhat the hell are you doing?â Speirs barked, voice raw and furious in her ear.
She clawed at his grip, heart hammering, âLet me go!â
âYouâre blind on one side and bleeding all over my damn foxhole!â he snapped back, hauling her fully against the wall, his grip unyielding.
âI donât need you!â she shouted, the words ripping out of her throat along with everything else sheâd been holding back.
Her vision swam violently as she twisted, trying to break free. Shrapnel whined overhead, a screaming metallic hiss that made her flinch. The forest roared around themâtrees splintering, artillery hammering the ground until it felt like the earth itself was coming apart.
âYouâre not leaving here,â Speirs yelled over it all, rage and authority colliding in his voice, âThatâs an order, Y/L/N!â
She wrenched against him again, desperation burning hot and reckless, âI donât care!â
Not the explosions. Not the chaos tearing the Ardennes apart above them.
For a second, the world narrowed to the two of themâher crouched and shaking in the mud, blood dripping steadily from her face and splashing dark into the snow; him frozen mid-motion, chest heaving, eyes locked on her like heâd just been struck.
The noise dulled. The forest screamed on, but it felt distant now, unreal.
âI donât care,â she repeated, her voice breaking despite herself, âI canât just sit here. I canât withââ her breath hitched. She didnât finish the sentence.
Speirsâ hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. His jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth down to bone. He took a step back, then forward again, frustration radiating off him in waves.
âWhy wonât you just let me help you?â he yelled, the words tearing out of him like something ripped loose, something heâd been holding back for years, âWhy is it always like this with you?â the question echoed in the cramped space between them, heavy and unanswerable.
Not because of his rank. Not because of the danger raining down around them.
But because something in his voice finally brokeâcracked wide open with fear and fury and something that sounded an awful lot like desperation. Gone was the controlled officer, the cold authority. What stood in front of her now was a man pushed past his limits, watching someone he couldnât stop caring about bleed out in front of him.
For the first time, she didnât know what to say.
Ronald Speirs never understood it.
Why she hated him so much.
He told himself it didnât matterâthat it shouldnât. Heâd fought alongside men who despised him openly and thought nothing of it. Heâd learned long ago how to exist without needing approval, how to let resentment slide off him like water. This should have been no different.
No matter how often he told himself he didnât care, he always noticed where she was. Not consciously. Never deliberately. He didnât seek her out or scan the line looking for her face. His eyes justâŚfound her. Like a reflex. Like his attention snapped into place before he could stop it.
There she wasâmoving through the trees with a quiet confidence that didnât demand space but took it anyway. She belonged in the forest in a way most of them didnât, reading the terrain like a second language, choosing positions with an instinct that came from something deeper than training. He watched the way she shifted her weight before taking a shot, how she never rushed, never wasted ammunition. One pull of the trigger. One breath. Clean.
She never asked for help. Not from him. Not from anyone.
âStubborn,â someone muttered once, watching her reset her position after a drill.
Speirs hadnât disagreed. He hadnât agreed either.
Every time she snapped at himâevery sharp word, every cold lookâit felt like confirmation of something he already suspected but refused to name. That he hovered too close. That his presence pressed where it shouldnât. That whatever instinct drew his attention to her was the same one that made her bristle and push back.
Too much, he thought more than once.
âYou ever think maybe you should leave her alone?â a soldier asked him once, half-joking, half-serious, after sheâd walked away from him yet again.
Speirs hadnât answered right away, âProbably,â he said eventually.
Because even when she wanted nothing to do with himâespecially thenâhe couldnât stop watching. Not because he thought she needed him. Not because he believed he could fix anything about her. But because there was something in the way she carried herself, in the way she fought to remain self-contained and untouched, that pulled at something he didnât have words for.
He saw the cracks she worked so hard to hide. The exhaustion she masked with anger. The way she held herself like letting anyone close would cost her something she couldnât afford to lose. And he recognised it. It looked too much like his own. So he stayed. Watching from the edges. Saying too much. Saying the wrong things. Letting her hate him if it meant she stayed alive.
He told himself that was all it was.Â
But standing in a foxhole in the Ardennes, watching blood run down her face while she tried to tear herself away from him, he finally understood the truth heâd been avoiding for years.
He didnât just notice her.
Heâd been afraid of losing her long before he ever knew her name.
Her legs finally gave out.
She collapsed against the dirt wall of the foxhole, the impact jolting through her like a hard reminder of just how exposed she was. Breath hitched in her chest, ragged and shallow, and her fingers trembled violently as they clawed at the earth to keep her upright. The world tilted again, swaying beneath her vision. Dark spots bled across the corner of her remaining eye, shifting with every attempt she made to focus. The edges of the foxhole felt unreal, hazy, like she was submerged in water she couldnât escape.
Speirs was on her in an instant, a weight that should have been suffocating, but wasnâtânot entirely. His hand pressed firmly to her shoulder, holding her steady, while the other hovered near her face as if he feared touching her the wrong way. The proximity made her chest tighten, every instinct screaming to push away, yet she couldnât. Couldnât move fast enough, couldnât think clearly, couldnât even make the muscles in her legs obey.
âYouâre losing too much blood,â he said, his voice low, rough with something raw and restrained beneath the surface, âI need to look at it.â
âNo,â she gasped, voice small but stubborn, carrying all the fury and pride she could muster.
âFor once in your lifeââ
âNo,â she repeated, weaker now, the edge gone from her protest. Her throat ached from shouting, from fighting, from trying to be everything he had no right to see her be.
Another blast hit close enough to rattle the foxholeâs walls, showering them in dirt and snow. Speirs snapped. The suddenness of it, the sheer volume of his reaction, made the world tremble again.
âMEDIC!â he bellowed, voice tearing through the chaos like a gunshot, raw and commanding.
She tried to argue, to force out some sharp protest, but it came as a broken, stuttering sound that meant nothing in the face of everything crashing down around them. Speirs didnât flinch. Didnât hesitate. His focus was absolute, every ounce of himself tethered to her survival.
He didnât look at her when he spoke again, âI donât know what I did to make you hate me,â he said, voice low, shaking with a restraint that made her chest ache in some way she didnât want to name, âBut Iâm not letting you die because of it.â
The words hung in the air, impossible to dodge, impossible to untangle. Her gaze fixed on him with the one eye that still worked, taking in the set of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the almost imperceptible trembling in his hands as he held her steady. And for the first time since sheâd known himâsince training days and snide remarks and stubborn refusalsâshe really looked at him.
Not interest. Not some obsessive curiosity she had always hated.
Raw, unguarded, desperate fear.
Roe slid into the foxhole moments later, moving with practiced efficiency. Speirs didnât release her, not until Eugene took over and insisted, not until he absolutely had to. Even then, his hands lingered slightly longer than necessary, brushing against her jacket, steadying her without her asking.
She didnât thank him. She couldnâtâpride, pain, and stubbornness wrapped tight around her chest like barbed wire. And the war didnât offer them space to say what had been rotting between them for years, festering in silence, in every glance, in every argument, in every half-step toward one another that ended in fury instead of connection.
The shelling kept coming, each blast tearing through the forest, echoing across frozen ground, hammering the air until it felt like the sky itself was breaking.
And still, the silence between themâcharged, dense, full of words unspokenâwas louder than all of it.
It demanded acknowledgement.
And they both pretended not to hear.
But something had shifted. Something had broken and stayed broken and been reshaped into a new weight neither of them could ignore.
Her pulse was slowing. Her breathing was steadier. Yet she felt itâthe press of his fear, the tether of his attention, the truth they would never speak aloud.
And in that small, frozen foxhole in the Ardennes, with the world fracturing around them, they were the only things that still mattered.
She had never been good with her emotions. Never.
That was part of the reason she hated having Speirs around so much. Because if she let him linger, if she let herself notice him, if she let herself feelâŚshe would start to care. And caring meant vulnerability. And vulnerability meant loss. And lossâwell, she already knew what that felt like.
So she pushed him away. Always. Even when the world was falling apart around them, even when he was the only one who saw her clearly, even when he was the only one who could have kept her from being buried in the mud and snow of the Ardennes.
She hated the way he pressed, the way he refused to leave. Ronald Speirs really couldnât take a hint. He never had. He never could see the walls she built around herselfâor the reasons she built them.
Because deep down, she wanted someone to see her, to care, to stay. But she couldnât let herself.
âYou really canât take a damn hint, huh Speirs?â
