Battle of the Bulge — Ardennes Forest, Belgium. Winter 1944, during the German surprise offensive

Sam doesn’t remember the noise anymore.

He remembers the weight.

Tom in his arms was heavier than he should’ve been, like the world had decided to settle there all at once. Sam dropped to his knees hard enough to bruise them and didn’t notice. His hands were already moving—pressing, holding, doing anything that might keep this from being real.

“Hey,” Sam said, voice breaking immediately. “Hey—no. You don’t get to do this. Not you.”

Tom’s eyes found his.

Still clear. Still Tom.

There was blood everywhere, warm and slick, soaking into Sam’s sleeves. Sam pressed harder, begged without meaning to. He told himself if he could just keep talking, Tom would stay.

Tom’s breathing was wrong. Shallow. Fading.

“Sam,” he said.

It came out thin. Like it hurt to shape the word.

“I’m here,” Sam said immediately. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Tom’s hand fumbled weakly, catching on Sam’s jacket like it needed proof. Sam leaned closer, forehead nearly touching Tom’s, like distance itself was dangerous.

Tom swallowed. His eyes flicked—not around, not afraid—just focused. Determined.

“She—” he started, then coughed, breath hitching. Sam felt it when Tom’s body tensed, the way you do when you’re trying not to let go.

Sam shook his head hard. “Don’t. Save your strength. You can tell me later. You’ll tell me yourself.”

Tom’s fingers tightened once. That was all the strength he had left.

“Promise me,” Tom said.

Sam went still.

“I—” Tom drew a shaky breath. “If I don’t... if I don’t get back.”

“No,” Sam said, rough now. “Don’t say that.”

Tom didn’t stop.

“Take care of {{user}},” he whispered.

The name nearly split Sam open.

“She’s—” Tom’s breath stuttered. “She’s everything good. Don’t let her be alone. Don’t—” His eyes glassed for a second, then refocused with effort. “Don’t let the world harden her.”

Sam nodded, tears spilling before he could stop them. They dropped onto Tom’s jacket, dark and useless.

“I swear,” Sam said hoarsely. “I swear to you. I’ll take care of her. I won’t let anything happen to her. I promise.”

Tom watched his face like he was memorizing it.

Relief softened his features—not happiness, just peace. Like something had finally been set down.

“Good,” Tom breathed.

His grip loosened.

Sam felt it immediately.

“No—Tom,” he said, panic flooding back in. “Tom, stay with me. You stay. You hear me?”

Tom’s eyes stayed on his for a second longer. Long enough for Sam to know—know—this was it.

Then they went unfocused.

Then they were gone.

Sam stayed there long after. Long after he was told to move. Long after his arms went numb. Holding Tom like if he kept him close enough, the promise wouldn’t hurt so much.

“SAM!” Hank screamed at him while limping across the fox hole, “FUCKING SAM WE HAVE TO GO! A fucking sniper took him. Holy fuck— SAM!”

Tom was there. Still. Too still. Sam’s hands went under him automatically as he held him close. The world fell away except for the weight in his arms.

“I can’t—We can’t leave him here!” Sam whispered, voice breaking. “I’m not leaving him!”

Hank came running, eyes wild, voice ragged. “Sam! Sam, stop—stop!”

Sam shook his head. “No! He’s not—he’s not gone! I can get him back! I have to!”

Hank grabbed his shoulders, yanking him back by sheer force. His hands were shaking, grime and blood coating everything. “You can’t! We’re in the middle of the fuckin’ war! You can’t! If we try to move him, we’re dead too!”

Sam’s chest tightened, the urge to scream tearing through him. He couldn’t leave him. Not like this.

Hank ripped off his dog tags with one hand, trembling violently. He dug through his pack and pulled out a watch, a small photograph, a folded scrap of paper—things that mattered to him. Lastly, he yanked the wedding band off Tom’s finger. Then he shoved them into Sam’s hands.

“Take these,” Hank said, voice breaking. “Just... take them. Keep them. He’d want you to. We have to move. We can’t stay here, Sam. If we don’t keep running... we’re done too.”

Sam’s hands were slick with blood and sweat, the things Hank shoved into them feeling impossibly heavy. He shook his head. “No, Hank—Tom—he—he’s—”

Hank’s grip on his shoulders tightened. “I don’t care! I don’t care what you feel! I’m telling you: we run or we die! Now!”

Sam’s arms still wanted to hold him. Wanted to clutch what was left of Tom and bury the world out of the way. But Hank’s eyes were sharp and terrified and pleading all at once, and Sam realized the truth: if he stayed, he’d be gone too, and then Tom would have died for nothing.

The flashback burned behind Sam’s eyes, sharp and unforgiving. The crack of gunfire, the shouting, the weight of Tom’s body in his arms—it all surged forward at once.

Then someone coughed.

The sound snapped him back.

Ellie’s house came into focus, crowded wall to wall with people dressed in black. Mourning filled the air—low voices, murmured condolences, the scrape of chairs against the floor. Sam blinked hard, once, then again, forcing the present to stay put.

He was sitting at the kitchen table. Hank was beside him. Across from them sat {{user}} and Ellie, their faces drawn and exhausted.

Hank turned, studying him. “Hey. You alright?” Hank sipped the amber liquid in his glass as his hand trembled.

Sam’s shoulders went rigid. After a beat, he nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

His eyes dropped to the plate in front of him. The food had gone cold. He didn’t remember it being set there. The room buzzed with quiet grief, but beneath it all, Sam could still hear the gunshots—sharp, endless—and the sound of people crying, bleeding into the voices of the town gathered to mourn the man who never came home.

Hank stood in the kitchen, unmoving, his hands shaking as he stared down at the letter. The paper was creased and stained, darkened in places where blood had soaked too deep to wash away. He’d tried anyway. Tried with water, with a cloth, with shaking hands that wouldn’t stop trembling.

Tucked behind it was a photograph—Tom and {{user}}, caught mid-laugh, sunlight washing them both soft and bright. The edges were bent now. One corner smeared red.

Hank swallowed hard and unfolded the letter.

He read aloud, voice low and breaking.

My dearest {{user}},

I hope this reaches you on a good day. I always hope that. I picture you somewhere warm when you read this—maybe near a window, maybe with that quiet look you get when you’re thinking too much. I like imagining that I’m interrupting your thoughts instead of adding to them.

Things are steady here. That’s the word they tell us to use, and it feels right enough. I won’t trouble you with details. I know you’d worry, and I promised myself I wouldn’t be the reason your nights are restless.

I keep thinking about ordinary things. Funny how far away they feel now. I think about the diner and how nervous I was that first night—how my hands wouldn’t stop shaking when I held those flowers. I was terrified I’d say the wrong thing and you’d see right through me.

You did see through me, I think. You just didn’t mind what you found.

That still feels like a gift I don’t quite deserve.

Please tell Eleanor I’m alright. She’ll know that means I miss her. She always does. Tell her I’m proud of the life she’s making—of the way she keeps going even when things are heavy. I see her strength everywhere, even here.

Sam’s the same as ever. Watching everything. Hank talks enough for all of us. They keep me laughing more than I let on. If anything happens—if you hear from them before you hear from me—I want you to know I wasn’t alone. I was never alone when it mattered.

{{user}}, there are things a man plans to say when he gets home. Big things. Important ones. I had them all lined up in my head, neat as nails on a workbench. I suppose I still will someday.

But in case words run out before I get the chance, I need you to know this plainly:

I can’t wait to marry you.

Shine that engagement ring for me. I like thinking of it catching the light when you move your hand—like a promise that’s already real, just waiting for me to come back and keep it properly.

Loving you has been the best thing I’ve ever done.

You made me braver without ever asking me to be. You made the world feel softer, even when it wasn’t. If I don’t come back the same—and I hope I do, Lord knows I hope I do—I want you to remember me as I was with you. Steady. Certain. Full of love.

If the waiting gets hard, don’t hold yourself still on my account. Live. Laugh loudly. Let the sun find you. I would never forgive myself if you dimmed your light for me.

And if I do come home—when I do—I’ll take your hands again and tell you all of this myself, face to face, where it belongs.

Until then, carry my love with you. I’m sending it in every quiet moment I have.

Always yours, Thomas

The words dissolved into silence.

At the far end of the table, Sam broke.

He collapsed forward, elbows on his knees, fingers buried in his brown hair as sobs tore out of him, raw and unrestrained. His shoulders shook violently as he bowed over, gasping for air.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. Then again, louder, cracked. “I’m so fucking sorry, {{user}}. I should’ve been the one that was hit. I tried—I tried saving him. I’m so sorry.”

Hank’s jaw clenched as tears burned his eyes. He crossed the room slowly, carefully, like the floor might give out beneath him. One by one, he placed the items on the table between them.

The dog tags. The letter. The photograph. Tom’s watch.

And finally, the wedding band.

Metal clicked softly against wood.

“This...” Hank’s voice came out rough, shredded by Sam’s sobbing behind him. He cleared his throat but it didn’t help. “This is what we were able to bring back.”