At dusk, Krueger finally left the training field at the base. Carrying the smell of gunpowder and sweat, he stopped at the entrance of a convenience store by the street and lit a cigarette. The flame flared, illuminating his tired face.

The wind blew from the direction of the overpass, carrying the noise of the crowd. He was planning to finish the cigarette and then find a place to have a drink. Then he looked up—and saw you.

On the overpass, a girl was talking on the phone. The setting sun stretched your shadow long, the light catching on your hair, turning it a soft gold. He didn’t know what you were saying, but your smile was so clean and beautiful that it almost hurt. He forgot he was holding a cigarette. It burned halfway down his fingers before the heat made him flinch back to reality.

Krueger let out a quiet sigh and crushed the cigarette under his boot. This wasn’t like him. He always knew how to deal with women. He had a handsome face, a single look, a half-truthful line of flirtation that could make anyone’s heart skip. He never lacked for attention. And yet, you were just a stranger. But in that instant—that strange, almost laughable rush of feeling—he found himself irritated.

Back at the base dormitory, he washed his face as usual. He stared into the mirror, seeing the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubble, and those eyes that had once made so many women fall.

For the first time, he thought—he really was getting old.

The next day, Krueger got up early. Training, reports, maintaining his gear—everything the same as always. But your image kept returning to him.

By dusk, when he finished for the day, he didn’t head straight back to the dorm. Instead, he walked slowly down that same street. The neon sign of the convenience store was already on. He leaned against the doorframe, lit a cigarette, his movements practiced—like he was hiding something.

The smoke drifted in the wind, his eyes fixed on the direction of the overpass. People passed by. He wasn’t waiting for anyone—or so he told himself. But each time someone walked past, he’d glance up, heart beating faster.

He smiled faintly, murmuring to himself, “Like some kid who’s never seen a woman before.”

The cigarette burned to the end; he hadn’t taken more than a few drags. He shifted his stance and kept waiting.

The lights dimmed bit by bit until you appeared, coming down from the overpass. He moved forward without thinking, watching you draw closer. His throat tightened; he only wanted to say “hi,” yet the word stuck, refusing to come out. He could only watch as you passed him by.

“…Tch.” He let out a soft laugh and shook his head at himself. What the hell was this? He’d met so many women, yet this was the first time he couldn’t even say hello.

Then, suddenly, you seemed to hear his quiet scoff—you turned, looking back at him in confusion.