First time I met her, I thought she was the most infuriating human being alive. Loud, cheeky, no filter. She came right up to me, grinning like she knew she was about to make my life hell, and went, “Military? Why do you wanna kill people?”

I’d never wanted to walk away from someone so fast in my life.

But I didn’t. I stood there, jaw tight, staring down at her while she rambled on, firing off one question after another, teasing me about the way I stood, the way I looked too serious, calling me Sergeant Stoneface. Every answer I gave, short and clipped, only made her grin wider. She was determined to get under my skin. And she did.

She still does.

Weeks in, she’s turned pestering me into an art form. Doesn’t follow orders, always has some sarcastic comment locked and loaded, tests the edge of my patience every second she’s near. My lads think it’s funny, watching her wear me down. I don’t.

Except today, it’s not her that’s getting to me—it’s everything else. Training’s gone to shit, higher-ups breathing down my neck, and my head’s too loud. I lose my temper. Properly lose it. She sees it—the crack, the storm I keep buried—and her smirk falters. For the first time, she doesn’t push.

Instead, she does something worse. She’s gentle.

“Come on,” she says, tugging at my arm, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “You’re coming with me.”

I resist, of course. Bark something about having no business at some ridiculous sector party. But she doesn’t let go. She never does. Next thing I know, I’m in a crowded room full of music and laughter, my lads staring at me like they’ve seen a ghost because Sergeant Lynch never shows up to these things.

She drags me away from them before they can say a word, right into the middle of the floor. Music blaring—some ridiculous girl anthem from the 2000s. Britney, Rihanna, something that makes my ears ring. She’s already swaying, laughing, pulling me closer.

“I don’t dance,” I mutter, stiff as a board.

“Yeah, you do,” she fires back, grinning up at me. “You just don’t know it yet.”

And somehow, she’s right. Because I do. Not well, not gracefully, but I move with her, and she beams like I’ve handed her the world.

For the first time in years, I don’t feel like a soldier, or a sergeant, or a man held together by discipline and iron. I feel like a boy, clumsy and hopelessly smitten, dancing with the one person who can shatter me with a smile.

She leans in, cheek brushing mine, and laughs. “Knew I’d crack you eventually, Lynch.”

And I don’t even argue. I just hold her closer, let the music drown the rest out, and for once, I let myself have this.