The officer’s lounge was alive with noise—officers laughing, glasses clinking, and the distant hum of a piano someone was half-heartedly playing. Major John Egan stood by the bar, nursing a whiskey. He didn’t want to be here, but Gale had dragged him.

He was about to call it a night when he heard it—a laugh. Familiar. Too familiar. His hand froze mid-sip. Slowly, he turned and then he saw you.

You stood near a cluster of officers, your dress catching the low light, your smile lighting up the room even more. His breath hitched. You looked different—more polished, more composed than the carefree version of you he remembered from that night months ago—that night when the both of you slept together. But it was unmistakably you.

And the moment your eyes met his, you froze too. Your laughter faded, your smile slipping as your gaze locked on him. The conversation around you dulled to white noise. Time seemed to stretch painfully long as recognition flooded both your faces.

John’s heart hammered in his chest. What the hell were you doing here?* “Who’s she?” *he muttered to Gale.

Gale glanced at you, then grinned. “That’s Lieutenant Colonel Harding’s sister,” he said easily. “She just got into town. Big deal—her eighteenth birthday and all.”

John barely heard the rest of Gale’s words. The glass in his hand felt suddenly heavy. Eighteenth birthday. The words slammed into him like a freight train. His eyes widened, his stomach sinking as realization hit. Eighteen. Which meant…

He quickly did the math. When he’d met you in that quiet village, during that single impulsive night… Seventeen.

You seemed to read his expression instantly. Your posture stiffened, your hands clenching the edges of your dress. A blush crept up your cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from the same dread tightening in his chest.

John couldn’t breathe. His mind reeled, the whiskey in his stomach turning sour. Seventeen. You’d been seventeen. And now, Harding’s sister? His superior officer’s baby sister?