Back at the basement, Marek receives us like returning heroes.
"Success?"
"Twelve dead, two trucks destroyed, supplies acquired."
Kasia drops her pack.
"And we all made it back."
"Miracles happen." Marek starts distributing the supplies. "Good work."
People crowd around.
Examining ammunition. Rationing food. Treating the medical supplies like treasure.
For a few minutes, the basement feels almost hopeful.
Kasia finds me after, while I'm checking my rifle for the hundredth time.
"You were good," she says.
"Thanks."
"I mean it. You moved well. Shot straight. Didn't freeze. Didn't panic."
She sits next to me.
"Jakub was right. You've done this before."
"Not that I remember."
"Maybe that's better. Remembering makes it harder."
She's quiet for a moment.
"I had a brother. He fought in the first days of the invasion. Tank commander. Germans killed his entire crew in the first week."
She pauses.
"Sometimes I think not knowing exactly how he died is easier than knowing every detail would be."
"I'm sorry."
"Everyone's sorry. Doesn't bring him back."
She looks at me.
"But you know what? Tonight we killed twelve Germans. That's twelve fewer who can kill someone else's brother. So maybe it's not about bringing people back. Maybe it's about making sure their deaths cost the enemy something."
I don't have a response to that.
She doesn't seem to expect one.
We sit in comfortable silence.
Cleaning weapons. Listening to the basement slowly settle into night watch routines.
"You staying with this group?" she asks eventually.
"For now."
"Good. We need people who can shoot straight."
She stands.
"I'm heading out tomorrow. More messages to run, more intel to gather. But I'll be back in a few days."
"Stay alive."
"That's the plan."
She pauses.
"You too, American. Would be a shame if you got yourself killed before we can work together again."
She walks away.
I watch her go.
something in my chest tightens again—that same hook feeling from when I first saw her.
Dangerous.
Not the enemy kind of dangerous.
The kind of dangerous that makes you care about someone in a war where caring about people gets you hurt.
---
Jakub settles next to me, watching Kasia distribute supplies to other resistance fighters.
"She likes you," he says.
"What?"
"Kasia. She likes you. I can tell."
"You can tell from across the room?"
"I've known her three years. I can tell."
He grins.
"You like her too. Also obvious."
"I don't—"
"Rio. You stared at her like hungry man looking at bread. Very obvious."
I don't have a defense for that.
"She's good person," Jakub continues.
"Smart. Brave. Little bit crazy, but war makes everyone crazy. Could do worse."
"We're in the middle of a siege."
"Best time to live, młody. Tomorrow we might be dead. So today, we live as much as we can."
He claps my shoulder—the good one.
"You like her, you tell her. War doesn't wait for perfect timing."
"What if I don't like her?"
"Then you're liar."
He stands, still grinning.
"But okay. You don't like her. Sure. Whatever you say."
He walks away.
Leaving me with my rifle and my thoughts and the uncomfortable awareness that he's completely right.
I do like her.
Which is stupid.
Which is dangerous.
Which is probably inevitable.
---
Kasia leaves at dawn with two other couriers.
Disappearing into Warsaw's dying streets to run more messages, gather more intel, risk her life for information that might buy the city a few more days.
I watch her go from the basement entrance.
She doesn't look back.
Smart.
Looking back in a war just shows you what you're losing.
Jakub appears next to me.
"You'll see her again."
"Maybe."
"Definitely. She said she'd be back in a few days. Kasia doesn't break promises."
He lights a cigarette.
"And I think she wants to see you again."
"Why?"
"Because you're interesting. Old soul who moves like veteran but claims he's never fought. American who volunteered for a war that's not his. Good-looking too, which doesn't hurt."
He exhales smoke.
"She'll be back. And when she comes back, maybe you'll have figured out what you want to say to her."
"I don't want to say anything."
"Liar."
He's right again.
Damn him.
---
The day passes in the usual rhythm.
Watch rotations. Equipment maintenance. Rationing food that's never enough.
Waiting for the next German attack that might or might not come.
But something's shifted.
The supplies from last night have bought morale along with food and ammunition.
People move with slightly less despair. Laugh occasionally.
Act like humans instead of walking corpses.
And I can't stop thinking about green eyes and a smile that's equal parts dangerous and alive.
Stupid.
Definitely stupid.
But in a war where tomorrow is never guaranteed, maybe stupid is the only honest way to feel.