The workload hit Xavier like a tide that did not recede.
Briefings before dawn.
Operations that bled into one another.
Sleep reduced to fragments stolen between alarms.
He welcomed it.
Work kept his hands busy—and his thoughts barely contained.
But even exhaustion could not silence the image of headlights rushing toward Isabella, nor the sound of her voice trying to sound brave while shaking beneath it.
---
"Focus, Hernandez."
The commander's voice snapped him back.
Xavier straightened immediately. "Yes, sir."
Maps covered the table. Red marks. Blue routes. Timelines that did not care about fear or love.
"You're leading this unit," the commander continued. "We need precision. No mistakes."
Xavier nodded.
Mistakes were a luxury he could no longer afford.
---
Days blurred into each other.
Training drills grew harsher.
Patrols longer.
Responsibility heavier.
Men relied on him—trusted him with their lives.
And he delivered.
Always calm.
Always controlled.
But inside, something was burning.
---
At night, when the camp finally quieted, Xavier sat alone on his bunk, phone clenched in his hand.
Messages unsent.
Calls unanswered because of time zones, duties, rules.
Did you eat?
Did you sleep?
Are you afraid?
He typed them all.
Deleted them all.
He couldn't distract her. Couldn't worry her.
So instead, he worked harder.
Took extra shifts.
Volunteered for dangerous assignments.
Stayed where orders placed him—never asking for relief.
Pain was easier than helplessness.
---
Isabella's voice replayed in his head.
I'm okay.
He knew better.
Strong didn't mean unharmed.
---
One night, after a particularly brutal operation, Xavier stood under the cold water of the showers, hands braced against the wall, breathing hard.
"This ends," he muttered. "One way or another."
Not the war.
Her danger.
Otilla's reach.
---
Back home, Isabella felt it too—the distance widening again.
Messages came less often now. Shorter. Careful.
She told herself it was duty.
But the fear lingered.
Because when Xavier carried the world on his shoulders—
He had a habit of carrying it alone.
And far above both of them, unseen and patient, Otilla D'Este adjusted her plans once more—
Knowing pressure did not need to kill a man.
Sometimes, it only needed to bend him.
Until he broke.