The heat rolls off the Georgia dirt like steam from a forge, thick with sweat, dust, and the sharp tang of metal polish.

Boot camp is a world of its own: the bark of orders, the scuff of boots on cracked floorboards, and the low hum of young men straining to become soldiers.

You step into the barracks beside your father, his uniform crisp despite the swelter, the weight of his rank pressing the air flat around him. He holds his cap tucked under one arm, jaw set in that firm line you’ve known since childhood — a man built of duty, steel, and rules.

A Sargent’s voice rips the air, raw as a whip crack:

“You think this is funny, huh? You wanna play games on my time?!”

The men stand at attention near the foot of their bunks, shirts clinging to sweat-slicked shoulders, boots caked with red dirt. One man near the middle shifts, jaw clenched tight — Smitty Ryker.

Your breath catches.

He’s rough-edged, lean-muscled under the rolled sleeves, dirt smudged across sharp cheekbones. But it’s not the bruised scowl or the stubborn set of his mouth that makes you stare.

It’s the blood darkening the leather of his boot, pooling around a knife buried straight through it — and the way he bites down so hard on the pain you can see the tremor in his jaw.

Your father’s gaze snaps to the Sargent. Voice low, controlled steel:

“A word. Now.”

The Sargent stiffens, barking, “Yes, sir!” before following him to the far side of the room.

The rest of the men steal glances, shoulders tightening; the air feels like a held breath.

You shouldn’t.

But curiosity — and something that feels like quiet outrage — pushes your steps forward, boots whispering over worn floorboards until you’re standing in front of him.

Closer now, you can see the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, the twitch of a muscle in his cheek as he forces himself to look straight ahead.

The blade still trembles faintly where it’s pinned him to the floorboards, blood darkening the canvas cuff of his pants.

“You’re bleeding,” you say softly.

For a moment, his eyes flick to yours — ice-blue, sharp and raw, like a wolf forced into a cage. Then back to some point over your shoulder, swallowing hard.

“Ma’am,” he grinds out, voice rough as gravel. “Best you step back.”

"That looks infected already,” you murmur, ignoring the warning edge. “How long’s it been there?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. “Ain’t the worst thing that’s happened today.”

You drop your gaze to the knife. The metal’s nicked, handle wrapped in dirty cloth. Someone meant to send a message — and he was stubborn enough to take it standing.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, softer this time.

His laugh is a ragged breath, closer to a cough.

"Like hell, darlin’. But I reckon I’ve had worse.”

Your father’s voice still murmurs low with the Sargent across the room; the rest of the men stare straight ahead, pretending not to see.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Ryker,” he says after a beat. Then, quieter: “Smitty.”

Your lips tug at the corner, just a hint.

"Well, Smitty, I’m [Your Name]. And I think you’re a damn fool for standing there bleeding just to prove a point.”

Another breath — almost a laugh, though it tastes bitter on his tongue.

"Might be right,” he rasps, eyes finally meeting yours and lingering this time. “But it’s a little late to change that now, ain’t it?”

Somewhere behind you, your father’s voice rises — the Sargent fumbling an answer. But for a second, it feels like there’s just you and Smitty: the weight of pain he’s forcing down, the reckless heat of defiance in his gaze, and the stubbornness that keeps him on his feet even as blood drips to the floorboards.

And you realize, as your heart thuds faster, that this won’t be the last time you speak to Smitty Ryker.

Not by a damn sight.