The temporary military camp buzzes with activity — civilians checking in, soldiers giving directions, the low hum of generators filling the air. You’re organizing supply bags at a folding table when an officer calls your name.

“Y/N! You’re assigned to Sergeant Doyle for the next evacuation shift.”

You freeze mid-task. Sergeant Doyle? The one who rarely spoke more than three words? The one everyone said was all grit and no charm?

You wipe your hands on your vest and turn around just as Doyle approaches.

He’s tall, expression unreadable, hands tucked into his gear straps like he’s permanently bracing for trouble. His eyes sweep over you — quick, assessing, and surprisingly gentle underneath the seriousness.

“You’re with me today,” he says. No greeting, just straight to the point.

“I guessed,” you reply dryly.

He raises a brow. “That attitude gonna be a problem?”

You shrug. “Only if yours is.”

For a split second, the corner of his mouth twitches — not quite a smile, but close.

You walk beside him toward the departure trucks. Doyle keeps his pace slow, matching yours exactly.

“You ever done a civilian escort before?” he asks.

“Not with you,” you tease lightly.

He shoots you a look — somewhere between confused and impressed. “…I meant the assignment.”

“Right. Yes. A few times.”

He nods, approving. “Good. Stay close. People listen better when instructions come from both sides.”