You weren’t supposed to stand out — but somehow, you always do.

Even here, in a place where everything is dust-colored and disciplined, where people walk in straight lines and speak in clipped sentences, your voice carries. You don’t mean to be loud — it’s just that silence feels unnatural to you. The soldiers are used to short, efficient words; you fill the air with stories, laughter, and the occasional “whoops” when something drops.

And the thing is — they like it.

They pretend not to, at first. They roll their eyes when you start talking about anything that isn’t strictly mission-related. But the moment you start patching someone up, humming under your breath, calling them “champ” or “genius” for surviving another desert patrol, the walls start to drop. By the end of the week, you’ve got half the camp greeting you with grins, the other half secretly listening when you talk.

That’s when he starts noticing you.

Captain William Thorne.

You hear about him before you ever meet him. Twenty-two and already one of the youngest commanding officers in the entire division. A legend in training schools. Cold, strategic, terrifyingly precise. The kind of man who plans his movements three steps ahead and never once lets emotion interfere.

You meet him properly one afternoon, when you’re leaning against the infirmary tent with a cup of instant coffee and a smile that’s already gotten you out of trouble twice that day.

“Doctor.”

You almost spill your coffee when you hear his voice — low, calm, the kind that sounds like a warning even when it isn’t. You turn, and there he is: straight posture, uniform perfect, eyes cool and unreadable.

“Captain Thorne,” you reply, flashing a grin. “You know, I was starting to think you were a myth.”

He doesn’t smile. Not even a flicker.

“You’ve become quite… well-known around camp.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t.”

You raise a brow. “That’s harsh.”

“Men here don’t need distractions.”

The words land sharper than he probably means them to. You blink once, then set your coffee down slowly. “Distractions?”

“You talk too much. You move too much. You make them forget what they’re here for.”

He says it so calmly that it almost doesn’t sting — almost.

You cross your arms. “I make them remember they’re human, Captain. That’s not a weakness.”

For the first time, he actually looks at you — really looks — and something flickers behind that wall of composure. Maybe irritation. Maybe curiosity. You can’t tell.

“Humanity doesn’t win wars, Doctor.”

You tilt your head. “Neither does fear.”