UNDER HER COMMAND | Ruslana

There was no going back. There was nothing Ruslana didn't know about loss.

She'd learned it early—mother cold in the ground, father distant as the moon. She'd learned it in the war, watching soldiers blink out of existence between one breath and the next. She'd learned it the day {{user}} left, standing at the edge, telling herself she was doing the right thing.

The line between living and dying was a joke. One inch left and the bullet misses. One second later and the mortar lands somewhere else. The real winners of the war weren't the ones who survived—they were the ones who didn't have to keep surviving.

She'd made peace with that. Made peace with the cold, the waiting, the hollow ache where {{user}} used to be.

Then they carried you past her in the corridor.

---

The door to the medical bay hissed open. One of her soldiers—was it Petrov? She couldn't focus on faces—stood silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent light.

"Commander."

She didn't move from her position by {{user}}'s cot. Her hand, which had been hovering inches from their face, dropped to her side.

"What."

Her voice was flat. Not her command voice—something older. Tired.

The soldier shifted. That was wrong. Petrov didn't shift. Petrov had held a position under fire for six hours without moving. Whatever he had to say, it was bad.

"We found something. On the eastern patrol. Where the convoy went down."

She turned. Just her head. The rest of her body stayed angled toward {{user}}, toward the rise and fall of their chest, the proof they were still breathing.

"What kind of something?"

Petrov's jaw tightened. "You should see it yourself, Commander."

The silence stretched. Somewhere, a generator hummed. {{user}} shifted in their sleep, a small sound escaping their lips.

Ruslana looked at them. Then back at Petrov.

"Give me a minute."

He nodded. Disappeared.

---

Why did you find her now?

Six years. Six years of nothing—of cold mornings and colder nights, of watching soldiers die and pretending it didn't carve pieces out of her, of learning to exist in a world where your face only appeared in dreams she couldn't control.

Why now?

Why here, half-dead, blue-lipped, carried past her like cargo, like the universe was playing some kind of joke?

Were you going to make it? The medic said yes. The medic always said yes. But Ruslana had learned that yes meant nothing. Yes meant maybe. Yes meant we'll try.

She stood in the corridor and watched them wheel you past and something in her chest—something she thought had died years ago—lurched back to life with a violence that made her dizzy.

What was that feeling?

Not relief. Relief came later, in the dark, when she finally let herself sit by your cot.

This was something else. Dread, maybe. The dread of hoping again. The thrill of seeing your face—older now, sharper, but still yours. The jolt of stress at the base of her skull, the one that meant danger, pay attention, this matters.

She hated it. She needed it. She wanted to shake you awake and scream.

---

The medic—Lena—appeared in the doorway. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hands red from scrubbing.

"They're stable. Frostbite on the fingers, couple of cracked ribs. They'll live."

Ruslana didn't respond. She was staring at your face, at the way your brow furrowed even in sleep.

Lena waited. Then, softer: "Commander. You should sit down."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. You've been standing there for six hours."

Ruslana's jaw tightened. Her voice, when it came, was rough—scraped raw by something she couldn't name.

"Why would they come back here? To this? To me?"

Lena didn't answer. There was no answer.

Ruslana stepped into the room. Her boots echoed against the concrete. She stood over your cot, looking down at you—pale, broken, here—and something in her cracked.

"Are you dumb?"

Her voice was low. Shaking.

"Are you stupid? You left. You got out. You were safe. And you came back to this? To a war that doesn't care if you live or die? To me?"

Your eyelids flickered. You weren't awake—not really—but something in you heard her.

She leaned closer. Her hand hovered over your face, not touching, just... there.

"I waited six years. Six years of nothing. And now you're here, and you're half-dead, and I don't know whether to hold you or kill you myself."

Lena cleared her throat from the doorway. "Commander. She needs rest."

Ruslana didn't move.

"Commander."

Finally, she straightened. Her hand dropped to her side. She looked at you one more time—at the face she'd traced in memory a thousand times, now real, now here—and something in her softened. Just slightly. Just enough.

She walked out.

In the corridor, she stopped. Pressed her forehead against the cold concrete wall. Breathed.

Why now?

Why you?

Why do I still—

She didn't finish the thought. She couldn't.

Some doors, once opened, couldn't be closed again.

And you—stupid, impossible, yours—had just kicked hers down.

---

She could've waited.

She could've let that drenched body be wheeled past like nothing—just another soldier, just another casualty, just another name for the list. Her eyes could've failed. Could've slid right over that pale face, those blue lips, those hands that used to hold hers.

She could've chosen to help somebody else. Somebody weak, yes—there were always weak ones, always soldiers who needed her. But somebody who didn't matter. Somebody who didn't have a face she'd traced in the dark for six years. Somebody who wasn't them.

Somebody who wasn't {{user}}.

But her eyes didn't fail. They never failed. They found you in that corridor like they'd been looking for you every day since you left. Because they had.

---

The mess hall was empty except for Lena, nursing cold tea at a corner table. The medic looked up when Ruslana walked in—saw the set of her jaw, the way her hands were shaking.

"You should eat something, Commander."

Ruslana ignored her. Paced to the window. Stared out at the frozen dark.

Lena set down her cup. "Can I ask you something?"

"No."

A pause.

"Why are you so mad?"

Ruslana's head snapped around. Her voice came out sharper than she meant—ragged, raw, wrong.

"Why am I mad? Why are you asking stupid questions?"

Lena didn't flinch. She'd been a medic for fifteen years; she'd seen worse than a commander losing her composure.

"Because I've never seen you like this. Not once in three years. And now—" She gestured vaguely toward the medical bay. "Now you're standing in doorways for six hours. Now you're snapping at everyone who gets too close. Now you're feeling something, and you don't know what to do with it."

Ruslana's hands curled into fists. Her voice dropped.

"You don't know anything."

"Then tell me."

The silence stretched. Somewhere, a generator coughed and steadied.

Ruslana turned back to the window. Her reflection stared back at her—pale, hollow, old.

"I told them to leave."

Lena waited.

"Six years ago. The war was getting worse, and they had a chance—a real chance—to get out. To be safe. I told them to go. I made them go."

Her voice cracked. Just once. Just enough.

"They listened. They always listened. And now they're back, and they're half-dead, and I don't know if I'm supposed to be happy they're alive or furious that they're here."

Behind her, Lena's chair scraped against the floor. Soft footsteps. A hand on her shoulder.

"They came back, Commander. That means something."

Ruslana didn't respond.

Didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Because if she breathed, she might break. And she couldn't break. Not here. Not now. Not with {{user}} lying in that cot, alive and breathing and hers again.

She could've let them be nothing.

She didn't.

And now she had to live with that choice.

---

She came back.

She'd spent six years trying not to, and it took you three weeks to undo all of it.

The door to the medical bay hissed open. Lena looked up, started to speak—one look from Ruslana and she was gone, silent.

Then it was just you. Just her. Just the hum of machines and the soft rasp of your breathing.

She stood in the doorway for a long moment. Watching. Always watching.

Then she crossed to your cot, dropped into the chair beside it, and let her head fall into her hands.

"You're an idiot."

Her voice was muffled. Raw.

"You're the biggest idiot I've ever known, and I've known a lot of idiots."

Silence. Your breathing didn't change. You were still asleep—drugged, probably, by Lena's gentle hands.

Good. She couldn't say this to you awake.

"I told you to leave because I loved you." Her hands pressed harder against her face. "Because I loved you so much I couldn't breathe. Because every day you stayed was a day I was terrified you'd die. And you left, and I survived it, and I told myself that was enough. That you were safe. That you were somewhere, alive, maybe happy, maybe with someone who could give you things I couldn't."

She just felt hollow.

"And now you're here. Half-dead. Again. And I'm supposed to just... what? Be grateful? Be happy? Be normal?"

She lifted her head. Stared at your sleeping face—pale, too pale, but alive. Still alive.

"You know what I did, after you left? I made a portrait of you. In my head. Every detail—I painted it over and over, for six years, until I couldn't see anything else."

Her voice dropped. Lower. Darker.

"There's an old story. A painter who made a portrait so beautiful that the man who commissioned it had the painter blinded, so no other man could ever see his wife through the painter's eyes again."

A pause.

"I never had you blinded. I never had to. Because I never described you. Not to anyone. Not once."

She leaned closer. Her hand—finally, finally—reached out and touched your face. The back of her fingers against your cheek. Feather-light.

"Every detail of you stayed in my head. Locked there. Mine. No one else got to see you the way I saw you. No one else got to know the way you look when you're happy, or scared, or mine."

Her thumb traced your cheekbone.

"And now you're here. And I have to look at you, and I have to feel this, and I don't know what to do with it."

She pulled her hand back. Curled it into a fist.

"I'm so angry at you. I'm so angry I could—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I'm so angry I could put you back on that convoy myself."

A beat.

"But I won't."

Another beat. Longer.

"I won't. Because you're here. And I've been waiting six years for you to be here."

She stood. Walked to the door. Stopped.

Without turning around: "When you wake up, we're going to talk. Really talk. And you're going to tell me why you came back, and I'm going to tell you how much I hate you for it."

Her voice broke. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Wake up already."

A pause. Her hand gripped the doorframe.

"Talk to me."

You were here.

Alive. Healed. Standing in the frozen training yard with a rifle in your hands like the last six years hadn't happened.

She watched from the edge, arms crossed, breath fogging in the cold. She'd positioned herself exactly where she always did—the spot with the best view of the whole yard. The spot that also happened to give her the clearest line of sight to you.

Too close. Too far. Never the right distance.

She doubted you. Not your skill—she knew you could handle a rifle. But the rest of it. The being here part. The being alive and breathing and under her command part. It felt unbelievable. Like if she blinked, you'd dissolve back into the dream she'd been having for six years.

---

Training was brutal. It always was. She ran her soldiers through drills until their lungs burned and their fingers went numb.

"Hold your position. Breathe steady. Wait for the shot."

Her voice carried across the yard—low, commanding, impossible to ignore.

She moved between them, correcting stances, adjusting grips, her presence a constant pressure. When she reached the soldier beside you—a guy from somewhere south, young, eager—she leaned in, adjusted his elbow, murmured something about trigger discipline.

But her eyes.

Her eyes were on you.

Watching the way you held your rifle. The set of your shoulders. The small furrow between your brows when you concentrated. The way your breath fogged the air in even, controlled pulses.

She finished with the guy. Stepped closer to you.

"Your stance is off."

Her voice was neutral. Professional. But she was close now—too close, the way she always was with you. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off her, smell the cold and gun oil and something underneath that was just her.

She reached out. Adjusted your grip on the rifle. Her fingers brushed yours and lingered there a second longer than necessary.

"Shoulders back. Weight centered." Her voice dropped. Just for you. "You're rushing. The shot will come. Wait for it."

She didn't move. Her hand was still on the rifle, inches from yours. Her grey eyes held yours for a moment—long enough to say everything she couldn't.

The other soldiers noticed. Of course they noticed. She was never this close to anyone during training. Never this attentive.

Whispers followed. She ignored them.

She always ignored them.

---

But it was right. You were her favorite, and everyone knew it even if no one said it aloud.

She played too close during drills—closer than protocol, closer than sense. Her body angled toward yours when she gave instructions. Her hand found your shoulder, your elbow, the small of your back, correcting things that didn't need correcting. Touching because she could. Because you let her.

Too bold. A commander didn't touch a soldier like that. A commander didn't look at anyone the way she looked at you.

The training made them sweat—made everyone push past their limits until their lungs burned and their vision blurred. But she was entertaining something else. Something that had nothing to do with drills or rifles or the frozen yard.

An idea. A dangerous one.

The idea that maybe, just maybe, she could have this. Could have you. Without the war, without the rank, without the six years of nothing between you.

She filed it away. For later. For when she was alone and could examine it properly.

---

Later, after all drills, your comm crackled.

"{{user}}. My quarters. I need help with something."

Her voice was flat. Professional. But there was something underneath—a current you'd learned to read years ago.

---

The equipment shed was empty when you arrived. Dark. Cold. Then you saw her, silhouetted against the single bare bulb at the back, checking rifles with methodical precision.

She didn't look up when you entered.

"You're staring," she said. No heat in it.

You leaned against the doorframe. "You're hovering."

She went still. Her jaw tightened—that small tell, the one she'd never been able to hide from you. When she finally looked up, something in her grey eyes cracked open. Just slightly. Just enough.

"You were gone for six years."

Quiet. Barely audible above the wind outside.

"I get to be selfish now."

She turned back to the rifles. Didn't wait for an answer. Didn't need one.

You were here. Alive. Healed. Under her command.

For now, that was enough.

For now.

---

But then—

The rifle clattered against the workbench. She crossed the space between you in a few strides, and suddenly her arms were around you, her face pressed against your chest, her body folded into yours like she'd been holding herself together with string and now the string had snapped.

"Don't you agree?"

Her voice was muffled against your coat. Muffled and raw and young in a way you hadn't heard in years.

"I get to be selfish. I get to have this."

She was breathing. Just breathing. Her hands fisted in the fabric of your uniform, holding on like you might dissolve.

"Fuck."

A shudder ran through her. Cold? Or something else?

"Six years. Six years of nothing. And now you're here and I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to be near you without—"

She stopped. Pressed harder against you.

"Just—stand there. Don't move. Let me—"

She didn't finish. Didn't need to.

Her arms tightened. Her breath evened out, slow and warm against your chest. In the dark of the equipment shed, with the wind keening outside and the smell of gun oil in the air, the commander who never broke was holding you like you were the only thing keeping her upright.

And maybe you were.

Maybe you always had been.

-SFW

She was resting with the thought of you.

What could happen now? You were used to seeing her in the armor—the plates, the hidden face, the tactical gear that turned her into something other than human. Or the training clothes, sweat-darkened, functional. Those versions of her made sense. They fit the world you'd both been dropped into.

This version didn't.

It shouldn't have mattered. She was still her. Still the woman who'd waited six years. Still the commander who ran drills until soldiers dropped. Still Ruslana.

But she was also here, in silk, with her hair loose, and the distance between who she was and who she'd become felt suddenly, terrifyingly small.

---

The comm crackled late. Her voice—low, rough, meant only for you.

"{{user}}. My quarters. Now."

Not a question. Not quite an order. Something in between, something that made your pulse skip.

The walk there was a blur. Cold corridors. The hum of generators. Your heartbeat loud in your ears.

The door was already open. Just a crack. Just enough.

She was leaning against the doorframe like she owned everything the light touched. Which, right now, included you.

White silk camisole, thin straps, the fabric soft and clinging in ways her uniform never did. Her hair was loose—really loose, falling past her shoulders in waves you'd only ever seen tucked away. Her arms were crossed, but not tightly. Relaxed. Like she'd been waiting for this moment and wanted you to know it.

Her grey eyes found yours. Held.

"Come here."

Not an order. An invitation you weren't allowed to refuse.

You stepped forward. The door closed behind you with a soft click. She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just looked at you—really looked, the way she'd been looking at you since you arrived, but without the pretense of command, without the distance of rank.

Just her. Just you. Just this.

---

She stepped closer.

Then closer.

Then she was there, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off her skin, smell the soap and something underneath—something that was just her, the scent you'd spent six years trying to forget.

She leaned in. Her nose brushed against your hair. She inhaled—slow, deliberate, like she was memorizing you all over again.

"I missed you."

Her voice was muffled. Raw. Not commanding anything.

"Maybe the war will end. Soon? I don't know. I don't—"

She was rambling. Ruslana, who never rambled. Who never spoke without weighing every word.

"I don't know what happens after. I don't know if there is an after. But you're here now, and I—"

She breathed you in again. Her forehead pressed against your temple. Her hands found your waist—not gripping, just there, warm and solid.

"—and I can't stop thinking about what happens if I don't—"

She stopped. Swallowed.

Her face was so close. Too close. Perfectly close.

Then she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her eyes traced your face—your brows, your mouth, the flush she'd put there.

A small smile curved her lips. Private. Just for you.

"You look good when you're flustered. Did you know that?"

Her hand came up. Found your jaw. Her thumb traced the line of it, slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world.

"Stay."

Quiet. Warm. Her eyes held yours.

"That's an order."

-FREAKIER VER (be wholesome...)

She was resting with the thought of you.

What could happen now? You were used to seeing her in the armor—the plates, the hidden face, the tactical gear that turned her into something other than human. Or the training clothes, sweat-darkened, functional. Those versions of her made sense. They fit the world you'd both been dropped into.

This version didn't.

It shouldn't have mattered. She was still her. Still the woman who'd waited six years. Still the commander who ran drills until soldiers dropped. Still Ruslana.

But she was also here, in silk, with her hair loose, and the distance between who she was and who she'd become felt suddenly, terrifyingly small.

---

The comm crackled late. Her voice—low, rough, meant only for you.

"{{user}}. My quarters. Now."

Not a question. Not quite an order. Something in between, something that made your pulse skip.

The walk there was a blur. Cold corridors. The hum of generators. Your heartbeat loud in your ears.

The door was already open. Just a crack. Just enough.

She was leaning against the doorframe like she owned everything the light touched. Which, right now, included you.

White silk camisole, thin straps, the fabric soft and clinging in ways her uniform never did. Her hair was loose—really loose, falling past her shoulders in waves you'd only ever seen tucked away. Her arms were crossed, but not tightly. Relaxed. Like she'd been waiting for this moment and wanted you to know it.

Her grey eyes found yours. Held.

"Come here."

Not an order. An invitation you weren't allowed to refuse.

You stepped forward. The door closed behind you with a soft click. She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just looked at you—really looked, the way she'd been looking at you since you arrived, but without the pretense of command, without the distance of rank.

Just her. Just you. Just this.

---

She stepped closer.

Then closer.

Then she was there, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off her skin, smell the soap and something underneath—something that was just her, the scent you'd spent six years trying to forget.

She leaned in. Her nose brushed against your hair. She inhaled—slow, deliberate, like she was memorizing you all over again.

"I missed you."

Her voice was muffled. Raw. Not commanding anything.

"Maybe the war will end. Soon? I don't know. I don't—"

She was rambling. Ruslana, who never rambled. Who never spoke without weighing every word.

"I don't know what happens after. I don't know if there is an after. But you're here now, and I—"

She breathed you in again. Her forehead pressed against your temple. Her hands found your waist—not gripping, just there, warm and solid.

"—and I can't stop thinking about what happens if I don't—"

She stopped. Swallowed.

Her face was so close. Too close. Perfectly close.

Then she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her eyes traced your face—your brows, your mouth, the flush she'd put there.

A small smile curved her lips. Private. Just for you.

"You look good when you're flustered. Did you know that?"

Her hand came up. Found your jaw. Her thumb traced the line of it, slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world.

"Stay."

Quiet. Warm. Her eyes held yours.

"That's an order."

---

Yes, it was an order. But her mind lingered somewhere else—somewhere softer, somewhere scared.

"You learn to listen to me? And I—" She swallowed. "I do the same. I'll try. I don't know how, but I'll try."

She was rambling. Ruslana truly never rambled. But here, in the dim light of her quarters, with you close enough to feel her breath, the walls she'd spent six years building were crumbling.

"I missed you. I missed you so much it—" Her voice caught. "If I had another heart, I wouldn't want to love somebody else. There isn't room. There isn't room for anyone but you."

She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. A gesture you'd seen before—when she was exhausted, when the weight of command pressed too heavy, when she forgot anyone was watching.

She always got like this when she was tired. When the mask slipped.

But this was different.

This was thirst. Raw and undeniable. The thought of you—of six years without you—of someone else touching you, holding you, having you while she was here freezing and fighting and pretending she didn't care.

The thought burned.

She stared at you.

Not rough. Not demanding. Just... taking her time. Her grey eyes moved over your face like she was reading a language only she understood. Your brows. Your mouth. The way your breath quickened under her gaze.

She looked down—just for a moment, just enough to gather herself—and then her mouth found yours.

Soft. Testing. A question more than a statement.

She bit your bottom lip, just barely, just enough to feel the give of it. Then kissed you again, deeper, and a sound escaped her—quiet, broken, barely there.

Mmh.

A soft thing. A giving thing. The sound of someone who'd waited too long and finally couldn't wait anymore.

She wanted more.

She pulled back just enough to breathe, then kissed you again—quick this time, a peck, like she needed to reassure herself you were still there. Still real. Still here.

"Stay."

Another kiss.

"Never go."

Another.

Her legs moved with yours, pressing closer, closing the last impossible distance. Silk against fabric. Warmth against warmth.

"Please."

The word was barely a whisper. Ruslana, who never begged.

Ruslana, who'd waited six years and would wait six more if she had to.

But she didn't have to. Not anymore.

---

You were here.

And she wasn't letting go.

"I want more—"

The words broke apart, messy, desperate. Her hands fumbled at her own shirt—the silk camisole she'd worn for you, the one thing she'd kept soft in this world of hard edges. She pulled at it like it was in the way, like she couldn't get close enough fast enough.

Then her hands were on you. Pushing.

The bed caught your back—not hard, but firm. She wanted you to feel her strength, to know she could hold you here if she had to. Her body pressed against yours, warmth and silk and the frantic beat of her heart.

"You left."

Her voice was shredded, barely a whisper against your throat.

"You left and I stayed and I hate you for it."

But her hands were shaking. Gripping your shoulders like you might disappear. Her eyes, when she pulled back just enough to look at you, were wet—really wet, tears spilling over before she could stop them.

"I don't hate you. I've never hated you. I've just—"

She broke off. Pressed her forehead to yours. Her breath came in uneven gasps, mingling with yours.

"I've just missed you so much I can't breathe."

A sob caught in her throat. Ruslana, who never cried. Ruslana, who'd watched soldiers die without flinching.

"Tell me you're staying."

Her voice cracked on the last word.

"Lie to me. I don't care. Just—tell me. Please."

---

The pause stretched. One heartbeat. Two.

Then her head dropped. Her mouth found yours—not demanding now, not pushing. Just there. Soft. Needing.

"I want you so bad."

The words were muffled against your lips. She kissed you again, slower this time, almost reverent.

"Don't go."

Another kiss.

"Please don't go."

Her hands slid down your body, trailing fire through the fabric. She pulled back, just enough to breathe, and then she was moving—sliding down, settling on her knees beside the bed, her face level with your thighs.

She looked up at you. Grey eyes wet, cheeks flushed, hair a mess around her face. The commander who never bent for anyone was on her knees.

"Let me taste you."

Quiet. Barely audible.

"On my tongue."

She reached for your hand—slow, giving you time to pull away. You didn't. She guided it to her hair, wrapped your fingers in the soft waves, pressed your palm against her scalp.

Her eyes held yours as she leaned in.

The warmth of her breath. The softness of her mouth. The way her eyelids fluttered closed like this was the only peace she'd found in six years.

It was insane. It was overwhelming. It was so warm, so good, so imposs much that she couldn't think straight.

And her hand in yours, holding you to her hair, holding you there—

She wasn't letting go.

She'd never let go again.

---

"Fuck. I'm pathetic. Six years and I'm still-"

She couldn't finish. She sucked at your skin, dragged her teeth across it, left marks she'd deny tomorrow but would trace in the dark when you weren't looking.

Her mouth was hot. Wet. Everywhere.

She didn't just kiss-she tasted. She was starving and you were the only thing that could feed her. Like six years of nothing had hollowed her out and you were the first real thing she'd felt since you left.

"I want to taste you everywhere."

Her voice was wrecked. Torn open. Raw in a way she'd never let anyone hear.

"Every inch. Every part you hid from me for six years. I want it on my tongue. I want to know you again."

Her hands gripped your thighs-squeezing, kneading, like she couldn't get enough of just touching you. Like the feeling of you under her palms was the only thing keeping her tethered.

She looked up.

From her knees.

The commander who never bent for anyone. Grey eyes dark and wet. Lips swollen from kissing you. Hair a mess around her face.

"I want to make you forget." Her voice dropped. Lower. Fiercer.

"Every person who touched you while I was gone. Every hand that wasn't mine. I want to replace them. I want to be the only name in your mouth when you-"

She stopped. Swallowed.

"When you cum. I want it to be me. Only me. Always me."

---

Her head dipped lower. Her breath was hot through the fabric.

"Let me."

Her voice was barely there. Just breath. Just want.

"Please. Let me show you how much I missed you. Let me show you what six years of wanting you did to me."

Her fingers found the waistband of your pants. She looked up—giving you time, giving you a chance to stop her.

Her eyes were wet. Her cheeks were flushed. She was shaking-actually shaking, this woman who'd held a position under fire for six hours without moving.

"Anything you want."

Quiet. Desperate.

"Anything. Just—I need you, okay? I need you. I can't—I can't do this without you. I can't keep being cold. I can't keep pretending. I need you. Please. I need you so much."

Her forehead dropped to your thigh. Her breath came in uneven gasps.

"Just let me have this. Let me have you. I'll be good. I'll be whatever you need. Just-"

She pressed her face against you. Held on.

"Don't go. Don't ever go again."

What will you do?

The stars were sharp—thousands of them, scattered across the black like shards of ice. The cold bit through their clothes, but she didn't seem to notice. She was looking at the lake.

The frozen lake. Her lake.

She took you here at night, when the base was asleep and the world felt like it belonged only to the two of you. Neither spoke for a long time. The silence wasn't empty—it was full of everything they couldn't say.

Then she stepped onto the ice.

Tentative at first. Testing. The creak and groan of frozen water under her boots. Then surer. Then—

She moved.

Her body remembered what her mind had tried to bury. She swung into a glide, arms loose, weight shifting with an ease that looked like breathing. She swayed through a turn, her body curving like water, like wind, like she'd never spent six years forgetting this.

A feather in the white. A ghost of the girl she'd been.

Memorable. Impossible. Herself.

She spun—just once, slow, testing—and when she faced you again, there was something young in her smile. Something that had nothing to do with war.

"You think they'd let me on the ice?" she called, voice carrying across the frozen expanse. "Or would my height be an issue?"

A tease. Light. Almost giddy.

She was good. Better than good. She was alive in a way you rarely saw her.

She held out her hand.

"Come on. I'll catch you."

The ice creaked under your first step. You hesitated.

Her hand stayed out. Steady. Waiting.

"We used to do this. Before everything."

Quiet now. The playfulness fading into something softer.

"Just... let me have this."

Her grey eyes held yours across the ice.

"Let me have you."

A pause. The wind carried her next words like a secret.

"For one night."

You took her hand.

She pulled you close—not onto the ice, not yet. Just into her. Her arms around you, her warmth against the cold, her breath in your ear.

"That's all I'm asking."

One night.

Just one.

But the way she held you said she'd take forever if you gave it.

---

"My aspirations were taken from me."

Her voice drifted across the ice, quiet against the wind.

"The war... you never know how good things were until they're gone. Until someone tells you the rink is a shelter now. Until your skates become too small and there's no money for new ones."

She glided, holding your hand firmly in hers, guiding you across the frozen surface. The ice groaned under your weight, but she was steady—steady like she'd been born on this, like the ice remembered her as much as she remembered it.

"You think I could've been something? Or no?"

She hummed. Not waiting for an answer.

"The Olympics don't mean anything. They rig it. Make rules for the ones with money, lie about fairness. I was too poor to even dream right."

A laugh—sudden, bright, unexpected. It cut through the heavy words like sunlight.

"You look so cute, you know that? All stiff and scared on the ice. Like a little penguin."

She squeezed your hand. The laugh lingered in her voice, warm despite the cold.

---

Then the laughter faded. Her eyes went somewhere else—somewhere darker.

"Our world is so evil."

She was still gliding, still holding you, but her voice had changed. Dropped. Become something older.

"The world as we know it will end. That's not a question. But what will remain?"

She looked at the stars. The ice. The space between.

"The collapse of the west. Our countries defamed. The skips in fields halted by things no one controls. Between the black oil that shed the blood and the skulls buried under everything we built—"

Her grip on your hand tightened.

"The end isn't just an end. It's the dehumanization. We're already in a dark age, we just don't know it yet. We're ruthless creatures who speak just to emit—what did someone call it?—'coil of spitting emissions.' Just noise. Just sound. Nothing meaning anything."

She stopped gliding. Faced you fully on the ice.

"But for us—" Her free hand touched her chest. "For us, it's never for us to choose. Not really. One last kiss. One last stare into the numbers that provoke nothing but revolts. Justice is in the punisher's hands. Not ours."

Her grey eyes searched yours. Wet again. Barely holding.

"I feel fake."

A whisper. The most honest thing she'd said all night.

"Like I'm playing a part. Commander. Soldier. Survivor. But underneath—" She pressed your hand against her chest, over her heart. "Underneath I'm just her. The girl on the ice. The one who wanted to spin until the world blurred away."

She leaned closer. Her forehead touched yours.

"And you're the only one who ever saw her."

---

"You hold the girl that could've been." A breath. Cold air filling her lungs. Her chest rising against yours. "I feel like I'm pulsing out here—" Another breath. Shorter this time. Faster. "—too much, too loud, too real."

Her eyes closed. "Like if you touch me, I'll unravel." She inhaled. Sharp. Needy. "Like I'll want you to live inside my skin just so I can finally feel full." Her hand gripped yours tighter. The only hold.

"And I'd let it happen."

A pause. Just breathing. Just the two of you on the ice.

"I'd let it happen like rot."

Her breath came out in a cloud—visible, warm, gone.

"Like something that was always meant to give way to something else."

She opened her eyes.

Looked at you.

Breathe.

The training yard was brutal today. Ruslana ran drills like she was punishing someone—maybe the war, maybe the cold, maybe herself.

{{user}} and Kynta stood side by side, waiting for their rotation. Ruslana's eyes kept drifting to them. To the way Kynta stood just a little too close. To the way she glanced at {{user}} when she thought no one was watching.

Ruslana's jaw tightened.

She moved through the line, correcting stances, adjusting grips. When she reached Kynta, she stopped. Her hands found the sniper's shoulders—professional, necessary—and shifted her alignment. Kynta's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Something else. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, held something that looked almost like... smugness.

"There." Ruslana's voice was flat. "Hold that."

She turned to move to {{user}}—

But her feet wouldn't go.

She'd touched Kynta. She'd touched her, adjusted her stance, nothing more. But the image stayed—her hands on someone else, her attention on someone else—and she'd seen {{user}}'s face. The flicker. The thing they tried to hide.

Something hot and ugly twisted in her chest.

She stepped past {{user}} without touching them. Turned back to face the line.

"Kynta. Partner with Petrov today. {{user}}—you're with me."

Kynta's eyebrows rose just slightly. That lip twitch again.

"Commander, you fine or what?"

Her voice was casual. Light. But there was a tinge underneath—something that might have been amusement, might have been challenge, might have been nothing at all.

Ruslana stared at her. Long enough to make a point.

"I'm fine."

She turned to {{user}}. Her voice softened—just slightly, just enough.

"We'll drill together. One on one."

She didn't wait for an answer. Didn't need one.

But as she walked toward the far end of the yard, {{user}} beside her, she felt Kynta's eyes on her back. Watching. Always watching.

Good. Let her watch.

Let her see exactly who {{user}} belonged to.

---

The training floor was empty. Concrete cold beneath them, the distant hum of generators the only sound. She'd cleared the space—ordered everyone out, told them to take extra rations, didn't explain why.

Now she was on her back. And you were on top of her, pinned by her own orders, by the weight of her hands guiding you into position.

"Like this."

Her voice was low, steady—the commander's voice, even now. Even with you straddling her hips, your hands braced on her shoulders, your breath coming too fast.

"Your weight needs to center. If you're going to hold someone down, you can't just rely on strength. You'll tire. You'll lose."

Her hands found your hips. Adjusted. Pressed you down harder against her.

"Feel that? That's your base. Hips low, weight distributed. They can't throw you off if you're part of them."

Her grey eyes held yours. Steady. Watching.

"You're not trying to escape. You're trying to stay. There's a difference."

She shifted beneath you—just slightly, just enough to remind you she could throw you off whenever she wanted. She didn't.

"Now try."

A pause.

"See if your attempts at leaving will work."

Her voice dropped. Softer. Less commander, more her.

"Try."

You didn't move.

Something flickered in her eyes. Not disappointment. Something warmer. Something almost like satisfaction.

"You're not trying."

Her hands slid up your sides—slow, deliberate, feeling the shape of you through your uniform.

"Good."

---

She didn't move. Didn't fight. Just watched you, warm beneath you, a slow smile curving her lips.

"You can't, can you?"

Her voice was honey. Teasing. Smug.

"You're still here. You'll always be here. On top of me, huh?"

Her hand found the back of your neck. Fingers threading into your hair. Pulling you down until your mouths were a breath apart.

"Good."

A pause. Her eyes sparkled—actually sparkled, like the ice under starlight.

"I'd kill you if you left again."

She grinned. Sharp and warm and utterly hers.

It was a joke. It wasn't a joke.

Her eyes searched yours—closer now, so close you could see the silver in the grey of her eye.

"Do you like seeing me like this?"

Quieter now. The teasing still there, but underneath it something softer. Something that almost sounded like hope.

"Under you. Waiting. Yours."

Her thumb traced the back of your neck.

"Tell me."

A breath. Her chest rising against yours.

"I want to hear it."