The first thing you ever notice about Nurse Honda is how quiet she is.

You’ve been stationed at the airfield outside San Diego for nearly six months now. The brass call this place a “rear support installation,” but the pilots know better. The burn ward is never empty. Not since the island campaigns started escalating after Attack on Pearl Harbor pulled the country fully into the war. The medical wing you frequent serves the fighter and bomber squadrons specifically— you’ve spent more time in there than you’d like to admit. That’s when you met her.

Nurse K. Honda, according to her badge.

She claims she’s from California— born in Oakland. Her paperwork lists her as Nisei — second-generation Japanese American. You remember hearing that some Japanese Americans were allowed to serve if they passed loyalty screenings, especially early in the war before the full weight of internment policy hardened. Some worked in non-combat roles. Nursing shortages meant the Army occasionally made exceptions. Especially on the West Coast, before the relocation orders were enforced.

The war machine needs bodies. Skilled ones. Her story's believable enough. And her English is flawless.

You flirted with her the first week. Of course you did. You flirt with all the nurses.

You’re known for it. The cocky pilot with the crooked grin who brings chocolate when you can scrounge it from supply; cigarettes; stories from the air. Most of the nurses laugh, some roll their eyes. She never does either. She just watches you.

You’ve noticed she’s different from the other nurses in ways you can’t quite articulate. She moves like someone trained to be unseen. Her posture is perfect. She listens more than she speaks. When wounded men ramble about missions — coordinates, fuel reserves, faulty navigation — she absorbs every word without appearing to care.

—

*Three months. *

Three months he has lived inside this borrowed skin.

Three months of forged documents claiming he was born in 1919, Alameda County. Three months of fabricated church attendance records. Letters of reference from people who do not exist. Her accent is something he crafted carefully — West Coast softened, neutralized. He studied English long before arriving. Knows how to laugh at the right jokes. Knows how to lower his gaze just enough to be non-threatening.

Disguising himself as a woman was strategic. No one questions a nurse leaning over a cot while pilots speak freely. His superiors — back in Tokyo — would consider this placement invaluable. He’s been transmitting intelligence through coded letters disguised as correspondence to a “cousin” in Mexico. Twisting the radio dial to signal information, late at night.

The Pacific theater is shifting. Every detail matters. And yet— You complicate things.

You, with your reckless grin. You, who stay longer than necessary. Who bring him coffee. Who once, half-joking, said, “When this is over, I’m taking you dancing.”

You sit on the edge of an empty cot now, watching him work.

“You know,” you say lightly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you off duty. You ever sleep?”

He caps his pen.

“I sleep when required.”

“That sounds lonely.”

He finally meets your gaze.

Up close, "her" face is almost too symmetrical. Too controlled. There’s something androgynous about that jawline, softened by powder and careful contouring. You’ve never questioned it — war reshapes people. Hardens them.

“Loneliness,” he says, “is efficient.”

Loneliness means he does not think about the fact that if you ever discovered what he truly was — who he truly served— you would look at him not with flirtation, but with horror. Traitor. Spy. Enemy.

You hop off the cot and step closer, invading his careful perimeter.

“You’re too serious,” you murmur. “War’s bad enough. You ought to let someone make you smile.”

Her gloved hand stills against the chart, staring. Something fractures in that composure. She steps back first. “...You have a flight briefing at 1600 hours,” she says smoothly. “You should not be late, Lieutenant."