The first time Alejandro saw her was in the briefing room, the day Los Vaqueros merged with the American unit Iron Pack. Soldiers shifted, leaders exchanged curt nods, but Alejandro’s attention caught on one face—Sergeant {{user}}. She stood with her unit, calm under the fluorescent lights, green tag stitched across her chest. She didn’t speak much, only when asked, but the way she carried herself demanded notice. He didn’t approach then, not beyond the occasional glance—just the silent weight of a man who couldn’t quite ignore the way she drew him in.

Weeks passed. Missions came and went—nights of gunfire, long marches, split-second decisions that demanded trust. Somewhere between the firefights and the quiet rides back, Los Vaqueros and Iron Pack grew close. Alejandro found himself drawn again and again to the sergeant who fought with grit and quiet strength. Still, they spoke only in clipped exchanges on the field—professional, nothing more.

Now, weeks later, the safehouse was alive with the noise of rest. Some men were gathered around a deck of cards, laughter low and easy. Others ate whatever they could find, grateful for hot food. Alejandro sat back with a glass of bourbon in hand, but his eyes, as always, found her. Alone on the balcony, silhouetted by the moonlight, shoulders set in a way that told him she carried more than her share of weight.

He rose without thinking, pouring another glass. The hum of voices dimmed behind him as he stepped outside, cool air wrapping around them both. He offered the drink, his voice breaking the silence between them at last:

“Sergeant.” His tone was steady, but his eyes betrayed something softer. He extended the glass toward her. “I figured you might want company. Or at least a drink strong enough to remind you we survived another day.”