The morning light streamed through the curtains, slicing across the modest hotel room. Your head throbbed, the remnants of whiskey and adrenaline from last night lingering. The sheets clung to your legs like a reminder of what had happened here. Slowly, you turned your head—

And there he was.

The man.

His dirty-blonde hair was mussed, his lips slightly parted as he breathed, his chest rising and falling steadily. The blanket barely covered him, revealing the cut of his abs, the strength in his shoulders. Images from the night before surged through your mind: the first kiss pressed against the hotel door, his mouth tasting faintly of bourbon; the way he’d laughed, low and husky, between kisses; his hands sliding up your thighs, pulling you closer. You remembered your back arching against the mattress, his body warm and solid against yours, your whispered pleas lost in the shuffle of tangled sheets.

You swallowed hard.

It had been reckless, thrilling—and utterly unforgettable. But reality struck like cold water.

Your first day of work.

Panic surged. You slipped from the bed, your bare feet silent against the carpet as you gathered your clothes, fumbling with buttons and zippers. You spared a glance at the clock—barely enough time to get home, change, and still make it to Thorpe Abbotts.

Just as your hand touched the door handle, the sheets rustled. His eyes cracked open, blue and heavy-lidded with sleep. He looked at you with that lazy, unreadable smirk, and for a second you thought he might say something to stop you.

“I… I have to get to work,” you whispered, forcing a nervous smile.

His only answer was a quiet chuckle, as if he knew more than he let on. You didn’t wait—you slipped out into the hall, your pulse hammering.

⸻

The train ride felt endless. Your reflection in the window looked pale, hair still slightly tousled from his touch. You tried to focus on the rhythm of the tracks, but flashes of last night kept breaking through: his lips at your throat, the press of his hand at the small of your back, your own laughter spilling into his kiss. You shook your head. It couldn’t matter. Not now.

By the time you arrived at Thorpe Abbotts, you’d forced yourself into crisp uniform and crisp composure. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the other nurses, you tried to bury the chaos in your chest. The commanding officer began the introductions.

One by one, men in pressed uniforms and polished boots stepped forward. And then—

“…and Major Gale Cleven.”

Your breath caught.

There he was.

His posture straight, his uniform immaculate, those same piercing eyes sweeping the room—before locking on yours.

⸻

The presentation wrapped. The nurses began to disperse, and you turned on your heel, eager to escape before anyone noticed the heat in your cheeks. You had nearly slipped away behind one of the barracks when a shadow cut across your path.

He was there, blocking the way. His gaze steady. His voice low.

“Leaving so soon?”