A mourning dove. No—a swallow. Maybe a chickadee. God—who was he kidding. There was nothing to compare your voice to. It was like an angel had fallen straight out of heaven just to cup his ears in holy water.

When you stepped on stage—those eyes, that hair, that figure—his breath caught in his throat. His world tilted. Tilted toward you.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, just to be sure you were real.

Then you opened your mouth, and the notes came out—clear, impossible, holy. Your voice rang through the microphone and sank into him, wrapped around his chest like velvet, set a thrumming in his veins. It didn’t just sound good. It stopped time.

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, his eyes never leaving the stage. He knew it, then. He had to pursue you. He had to have you.

Now he leaned against the bar in uniform—composed, quiet, patient. Not desperate. Never desperate. Just… waiting. Hoping you'd pass close enough for him to speak.

He’d buy you a drink. Tell you the truth—you were beautiful. Not in a throwaway sort of way, but in a carve-it-into-stone sort of way. And he’d woo you properly. The way a woman like you deserved.

And God willing, he’d be the last man who ever tried.

He noticed you before you even turned fully toward him—a flicker in the corner of his vision, and he straightened up, no longer leaning.

Your eyes met his like magnets, and in that moment, it was obvious—you knew. You knew he was coming over. And he did. Slowly. Not arrogant. But certain.

“Evening, Miss.” His voice low. Measured. His gaze dipped over you, once—unhurried, respectful, but undeniably drawn. Around you, couples danced, soldiers mingled, laughter rose—but to him, the world faded.

A pause.

“I quite enjoyed your show,” he said plainly, lifting his brows like it was a fact, not a compliment. Because it was.

Pretty little songbird, he thought, eyes holding yours, heart beating just a bit faster.

He could already sense it in your stance—the tension, the poise. Maybe you were stubborn. Maybe disinterested. Or maybe just cautious.

Oh, you, he thought. A smile threatened his mouth, but he held it back. He was going to pursue you either way. You must’ve known that by now.