“Cate, we’re going to be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” she cried. “Jack, don’t try and placate me like I’m a child, of course I’m going to worry! There’s every chance that any of us could be shot dead a week from today.”

He pushed his shirt down and sat up, and she bristled as he reached for her, pulling her hands away and settling them on her lap. But she knew that her anger was less about Jack and more about her. Ever since they’d kissed, guilt washed over her every time she so much as looked at him.

Her fiancé had been presumed dead for less than a year, and instead of continuing to mourn him and give him the respect he deserved, she’d fallen straight into Jack’s arms. And she couldn’t even blame being stuck in the house together, because she’d fallen for him back when he was one of her patients in hospital. She might have held back her feelings then and tried to keep her distance, but the fire had already been lit, all the same.

“Cate, what’s wrong? You’re usually the calm, capable one,” Jack said, doing his best to catch her eye.

“I’ve told you, I’m worried,” she snapped.

But the way he looked at her, the way he always looked at her, meant she couldn’t lie to him. She was worried, but it was so much more than that. She stood and reached for his things, the clothes he’d been wearing the day before, and folded them, needing to do something, liking the feel of his jacket in her hands.

And then something fell to the floor. She bent to reach for it, her fingers closing over it as Jack leapt forward, grunting as he scooped it up and tucked it into his pocket.

But he wasn’t fast enough. She’d have recognized the photo anywhere.

“Where did you get that?” she gasped.

He shuffled back, his hand still covering his pocket.

“Jack, give me the photo,” she demanded.

“Cate, please, I can explain.” His voice was a whisper, cracked, dry.

“Give me the photo,” she said, trying not to cry, as Jack slowly reached into his pocket and pulled the crumpled, lined photo out and passed it to her. He held it between his fingers, and she could see that they were trembling, but she didn’t care. When he finally let it go and the photo dropped into her hand, she froze.

It was her.

It was the photograph of her, on a summer’s day, before the war. A photo that only one man was supposed to have in his possession.

“How did you get this?” she asked, backing away from him.

“Please, Cate, let me explain. I can—”

“Don’t come any closer to me!” she cried, looking around, feeling like a trapped animal. How does he have this?