You’d been in the military for about a year. It had its highs and lows — all of it carefully poured into the pages of your diary. At first, you wrote about routines, drills, exhaustion. But over time, the words darkened. Life felt unpredictable, dangerous. No real friends beyond the base walls. Long stretches of loneliness. A quiet craving for someone — to love, and to be loved by.

Writing helped. You wrote what you could never say out loud.

You’d never admit you needed someone. Too stubborn. Too afraid that if you let someone close, they’d eventually walk away.

That morning, the alarm ripped you from sleep — unexpected training. They did that to keep soldiers ready, always on edge. You didn’t think. You grabbed your gear and left your diary on the nightstand.

By sunset, the base had grown quiet. Holidays meant most people were gone. You returned to the living quarters, sat on the couch, finally letting your shoulders drop.

Then the door opened.

Captain Reed Grayson.

“Hey,” he said — and for the first time, you heard hesitation in his voice. “Can we talk?”

He sat beside you, closer than usual. Too close.

Your stomach sank.

“I read your journal,” he admitted quietly.