The night had quieted after the storm. The training grounds were slick with rainwater, puddles glinting under the dim floodlights. Most of the recruits had already turned in — all except {{user}} and Sergeant Sullivan.

Sullivan stood by the edge of the field, jacket slung over one shoulder, the other arm still streaked with mud from the afternoon drills. His voice was lower now, stripped of the sharp command tone he used during the day.

“You did good today,” he said, glancing over with that rare, almost-hidden smile. “Didn’t think anyone would stick it out in that kind of downpour.”

{{user}} shrugged lightly, trying to hide the warmth creeping up their neck. “Guess I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of seeing me quit.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh — the kind that wasn’t supposed to happen from someone like him. “You really think I wanted you to quit?”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged. The kind of silence that hummed between two people who had seen too much of each other’s grit to keep pretending they didn’t care.

Sullivan took a small step closer. The smell of rain and gun oil clung to him — oddly comforting. “You’ve got something in your hair,” he murmured, reaching out. His hand lingered a little too long, brushing a stray leaf away before his thumb grazed {{user}}’s cheek.

“You keep fighting like that,” he said quietly, “and you’ll outrank me one day.”

{{user}} smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t that bother you?”

His voice softened — more than it ever had on the field. “Not if it’s you.”

The lights flickered once. Somewhere in the distance, a whistle signaled curfew. But neither of them moved. The world had gone quiet again — except for the sound of rainwater dripping off the barracks roof, and the steady rhythm of two hearts that didn’t quite know how to stop fighting, or how to stop falling.