Page 144 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Good.” His grip tightened on my hand. “Because I'm rubbish at pretending.”

“I know. You're transparent as glass.”

“Oi. I'm a trained soldier. I'm excellent at hiding things.”

“You're excellent at shooting things. Hiding things, not so much.” I smiled despite everything, despite the pain and exhaustion and the weight of everything we'd survived. “Your face does this thing when you're worried about me. Goes all soft and concerned. Very obvious.”

“It does not.”

“It absolutely does. Ruth noticed weeks ago. She just hasn't said anything because she's kind.”

Tom groaned, dropping his head to rest on the edge of my bed. “Wonderful. The whole estate probably knows.”

“The whole estate definitely knows. They're just choosing to be decent about it.” I freed my hand from his grip and let it rest on his hair, stroking gently. “That's something, isn't it? Being surrounded by people who know and don't care?”

“It's more than I ever expected.” His voice was muffled against the blanket. “More than I thought we'd get.”

“Me too.”

We stayed like that, my hand in his hair, his forehead pressed to my bed, breathing together in the quiet of the infirmary while the world kept turning outside.

The Black Book sat on my chest, returned and unread. My secrets still my own. My heart still beating, despite everything that had tried to stop it.

Tom surged forward, pressing his forehead to mine, careful of my injuries but desperate for the contact. We stayed likethat, breathing each other in, until footsteps in the corridor announced that our time was nearly up.

Tom pulled back reluctantly, settling back in his chair just as Dr Hart swept the curtain aside.

“Time's up, Sergeant Hale.” Her tone brooked no argument, but her eyes were softer than her voice. “Mr Pembroke needs rest.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Tom stood, but his hand lingered on mine for one more moment. “I'll come back later. Check on you.”

“I'll be here. Not going anywhere.”

Tom's smile was small and tired and so beautiful it hurt to look at. He squeezed my hand once more, then turned and left, pausing at the door to look back like he needed visual confirmation that I was still breathing.

Dr Hart watched him go, then turned that assessing gaze on me. “You two are good for each other. In a completely inadvisable, regulations-breaking sort of way.”

I felt my face heat. “I don't know what you?—”

“Save it, Mr Pembroke. I've been a doctor long enough to recognise love when I see it.” She adjusted my blankets with brisk efficiency. “Now rest. That's an order.”

I rested. Or tried to. But my brain wouldn't settle, kept circling back to the fight, to Tom's terror, to the question of what came next. The war couldn't last forever. At some point the codes would stop coming, the bombs would stop falling, and Tom and I would be released back into a world that had no place for men like us.

What then?

The answer camethe next morning, delivered by a stiff-backed officer I didn't recognise. He carried a folder stamped with official seals and spoke in the clipped tones of someone reading from a prepared statement.

“Mr Arthur Pembroke and Sergeant Thomas Hale are hereby commended for actions during the raid of December twenty-sixth, 1944. Mr Pembroke's intelligence work directly contributed to the diversion of enemy ordinance, resulting in significantly reduced casualties. Sergeant Hale's defensive actions and rescue efforts are noted with distinction.”

I stared at him, trying to process the words through the fog of concussion and medication.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means, Mr Pembroke, that your contributions have been formally recognised. You'll receive written commendations, though the specifics of your work will remain classified.” He consulted his folder. “Additionally, with the tide of the war turning and operations at this facility scaling down, both you and Sergeant Hale are on the preliminary demobilisation list. You can expect reassignment or discharge within the next three to six months.”

The world tilted. Demobilisation. Discharge. Going home.

“Thank you,” I managed, though I wasn't sure what I was thanking him for.