“Maybe I am afraid,” she whispered. “How do I live with myself if there ever comes a day you get hurt because of me?” Oliver smoothed his hand over her cheek. Brushed right at the soft space beneath her eye, like he was dusting off the stars that had fallen between them. “You accept it,” he replied simply. “Because that’s what it means to be alive. That’s what it means to fight for something—to love something. The country is good enough for us to die for. Why wouldn’t you be?”
