Zara Vynne lay beside her squadmate, her chest heaving with exhaustion, her lungs drained from the exertions of the long day. The air around them hung heavy with grief, the weight of their losses pressing down upon them like an oppressive shroud. A grizzled lance corporal with a scar above his left eyebrow and a perpetual scowl etched onto his lips, seemed lost in thought, his stare fixed on the stars twinkling above the ravaged landscape. Zara watched him, her eyes tracing the curve of his jawline, the rise and fall of his breath, her mind whirling with conflicting desires. She yearned for comfort, for solace, for a fleeting escape from the anguish consuming her. Feeling the early stages of PTSD starting to take root in her current very fractured mindset.

She reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheekbone, her thumb tracing a line along his temple. Her touch sent a ripple through his composure, his gaze snapping back to hers, his expression unreadable. Zara held his stare, her eyes wide with emotion, her lips parted in a silent plea. In the stillness of the night, her breath sounded like a whisper of temptation, inviting him to join her in a forbidden dance.