Ivan and I had countless wonderful memories together.
One started with the rain.
One night, caught out during an exercise, the sky cracked open and drowned us like it had something to prove. Our tent collapsed in a mess of soaked nylon, and Ivan laughed—actually laughed—as we scrambled under a tree, teeth chattering, clothes drenched through. I hated him for finding it funny. Hated how beautiful he looked, even shivering like that.
"Come here," I snapped, pulling him under my coat. He blinked at me, confused.
"What?"
"I said come here, dumbass."
His body pressed against mine, awkward at first. Our knees bumped, shoulders slid, breath misted between us. I could feel how cold he was. How his bones trembled against mine. We sat like that, hunched beneath my coat, wind screaming through the trees.
"This is… nice," he whispered.
And God help me, I wanted to kiss him. Right then. Right there. I didn't.
But the moment never left me.
