My throat constricts. I can’t tell if it’s from this strange ardor of his or that, in this moment, I realize I will never experience love. Not given my circumstances.

Will’s expression softens. It’s such a foreign emotion on him that I almost laugh.

And then he leans down and presses his lips to mine.

For a moment, I’m so shocked I do nothing but sit there. And then I recover and kiss him back. I would’ve thought my lips would be clumsy, but they’re not, and the kiss … the kiss is nice.

When it ends, I blink at him. Will has a whimsical look on his face. It relaxes his hard features, and it speeds up my heart to think that I’m responsible for it.

I take in his dark eyes. “I didn’t know.”

“Now you do.” He’s looking at me like he’s waiting for something else. Something more.

I touch my fingers to my lips. “I wish things were different,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can.

The sharp lines return to his face. “So do I.” He eyes the door across from us and clears his throat. “We should probably get going. I’m supposed to be escorting you out.”

I nod and grab my bag. As I sling it over my shoulder, both Will and I hear the clank of metal inside it.

Will raises his eyebrows. “They’re not going to let you take your gun.”

“Then they’re going to have to pry it away from my cold, dead hands.” And I mean it. If I’m going to die on enemy soil—and I have no doubt that I am—I want the few beloved possessions close by. One of those is the gun my father gave me. Morbid, I know, but during the last ten years it’s become a dear and trusted companion.

A smile spreads along Will’s face. “I’m not sure even death could take that gun away from you.” His smile slips as soon as he says the words, and I get the impression that he’s vividly imagining it. My death.

“C’mon, let’s go.” Will takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. This is the first time he’s held my hand that I can remember. I can’t help but think that it’s too little too late.

I take one last look at the barracks as we slip out the door. The room is the closest thing I’ve had to a home for a long time now. But as I take in the narrow beds, the cement walls and floor, the basin all eight of us use to wash out hands and faces, I can’t say I’m all that sorry to leave.