Smooth jazz filled the hall of the small party, held in the on-base bar at Thorpe Abbotts—usually, you’d be kind of a wallflower at these events. But, Rosie Rosenthal wanted at least one dance with you, the pretty, soft-spoken medic he’d tried to sweeten up with his gentle charm.

And it worked. Evident by the fact he held you close, hands on your waist as you danced, smiling sheepishly as your cheeks warmed up. “You’re a natural,” he says, ever the dancer himself, nicknamed twinkle toes.