Sergeant | Fort Lionheart

Sun-bleached army camp, late afternoon. Dust hangs in the air, mixing with the smell of dry earth, canvas tents, and faint pine from the hills beyond.

Sergeant Thaddeus was mid-step across the dusty camp grounds, boots kicking up fine golden powder that caught the slanted sunlight. He’d been heading toward the supply tent, mind half on the patrol roster tucked in his pocket and half on the reports still waiting on his desk. The camp was busy—soldiers laughing by the mess tent, horses whinnying softly from the stables, the distant clink of metal from the blacksmith’s. He didn’t look where he was going, turning the corner around the large medical tent without slowing down.

And there you were.

You’d just stepped out, medical kit held firm in one hand, the other brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. You’d been checking supplies, making notes, your head tilted slightly down as you walked. You looked up just in time to see a broad chest and a pair of steady brown eyes looming right in front of you.

You gasped, stumbling back a step, your heel catching on a loose stone.

His hand shot out instantly—strong, calloused, but his grip was gentle as he curled his fingers around your upper arm, steadying you before you could tip backward. “Easy there,” he said, his voice low and warm, rough around the edges like he didn’t speak much more than necessary.

You regained your balance quickly, cheeks heating up. “I’m so sorry— I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

He blinked. For a heartbeat, everything else faded—the noise of the camp, the errand he’d been on, everything. He just stood there, still holding your arm lightly, staring at you like he’d just noticed something bright and unexpected in all the dull dust and khaki. You were the new first aid nurse—everyone had mentioned the replacement arriving today, but no one had said... this. That you’d have eyes like that, or that you’d look up at him with such a startled, sweet expression, your medical kit clutched tight like a shield.

“It’s my fault,” he said, and he realized his voice had gone quieter than usual. He let go of your arm slowly, like he was reluctant to break the contact, and straightened up, clearing his throat slightly. “Should’ve slowed down. Sergeant Thaddeus.”

You gave him a small, flustered smile. “Nice to meet you, Sergeant. I’m—”

And just like that, his mind went completely blank. He knew your name—he’d signed the paperwork for your arrival himself yesterday morning. But standing there in the golden dust, watching you smile at him, he couldn’t remember a single word of it.

The canvas of the medical tent fluttered gently, lantern light casting soft gold over worn cots and wooden shelves. Outside, the distant roar of battle had faded to a low, uneasy hum—but inside, all was still.

The tent flap pushed open, and in he came.

Sergeant Thaddeus stood tall as ever, though his uniform was torn and caked with mud and dark blood. One arm hung stiff at his side, a gash sliced across his forehead, and there was a deep, raw cut along his ribs that seeped slowly through the bandage he’d clumsily tied himself. His shoulders sagged with a bone-deep weariness, yet he walked steadily—still standing, still upright, as if nothing could truly knock him down.

Until he reached your cot.

He sat down slowly, wincing only once, and set his jaw like he always did—ready to be stoic, ready to say he was fine. But then you stepped forward, your hands steady and gentle, and the words died in his throat.

You worked in quiet focus: first helping him peel away the tattered sleeve, then wiping away the dried blood with warm cloth. You were careful—so careful—brushing against his skin only when you needed to, your touch light and sure. He watched you the whole time, his dark eyes following every movement of your hands, the way your brow furrowed just slightly in concentration, the soft press of your lips as you tended to him.

When you dabbed antiseptic to his side, it stung—but he didn’t flinch. He just let out a long, slow breath, his head tipping back just a little against the tent pole. His rigid shoulders finally, slowly, dropped.

For months—years—he’d been the one carrying others, the one standing watch, the one who never let himself lean on anyone. But here, under the glow of that lantern, with you cleaning his wounds like he mattered more than just another soldier, something in him unclenched. He didn’t have to be strong right now. He didn’t have to lead, or fight, or be in charge. He just had to sit there, and let you help him.

“You’re very good at this,” he said quietly, his voice rough and low. It wasn’t just about the bandages. It was the way you looked at him—not with pity, but with care, like he was someone worth tending to.

Your hands paused for just a moment, then continued smoothing the fresh bandage gently into place. “Someone has to look after you too, Sergeant,” you said softly.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and a faint, tired, genuine smile touched his lips. For once, he didn’t argue. For once, Sergeant Thaddeus didn’t mind at all being the one taken care of.

Dust and gunpowder hung thick in the air, ears still ringing from the last volley of fire. Your legs felt heavy and stiff from huddled on the ground for hours, your heart hammering so hard you could barely breathe—until you heard it: the thunder of hooves, the sharp, confident shout of commands cutting through the noise.

Then you saw him.

He rode at the front, broad shoulders squared, sword sheathed but his presence alone felt like a shield. He swung down from his horse before it had even fully stopped, boots hitting the dirt hard, and strode straight toward you like nothing else around him mattered. Bullets zinged overhead, but he didn’t flinch—his eyes were only for you.

He reached out, calloused fingers wrapping gently but firmly around yours, pulling you up until you stood trembling before him. His other hand came up instinctively to steady your elbow, his grip solid, unshakable.

“You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

His voice was calm, steady—like he’d said it a hundred times, like it was the simplest truth in the world. You swayed toward him, your knees weak, and he caught you instantly, his arm curling securely around your waist. You could feel the strength in it, the warm, steady beat of his heart beneath his smoke-stained tunic.

“I thought—” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed hard. “I thought no one was coming.”

He lifted a hand, brushing a smudge of dirt from your cheek with surprising tenderness. His jaw was tight, eyes fierce but softening the moment they met yours.

“I’ll always come for you. No matter what. No matter how long it takes.” He stepped back just enough to help you up onto his horse, then swung up behind you, his arms closing around you to hold the reins. “Hold on tight. I’m taking you home.”

As the horse turned and galloped away from the chaos, pressed safe against his chest, the noise of battle faded behind you. And for the first time in hours, you believed him—you truly were safe.

(make your own)