You were a seasoned pilot in the Bloody Hundreth, one of the only women to fly in the military in combat—you were a Colonel, and pretty much a hard-ass, through and through.

But Rosie Rosenthal had an eye for you. He were 24, and you were pushing 40. He didn’t care that you were so much older, or his superior. So, he crossed the small bar toward you, as you leaned against the bartop, whiskey in hand.

“Colonel,” he greeted smoothly.