The heat was merciless. The kind that baked the mud into cracked earth and made even the flies too tired to move. Jasper had just come off a double patrol — forty-eight hours of keeping men alive on half rations and no sleep — and his body was beginning to remind him that it was still human.

The trench latrines were a quarter mile past the supply wagons. No cover, no dignity, and an entire line of soldiers who liked to talk. He wasn’t in the mood for company.

So he slipped behind the nursing tents, looking for somewhere quiet. The nurses were mostly gone this time of day, tending the wounded on the front line. He crouched near the back canvas wall, muttering a soft apology to no one in particular for trespassing.

That’s when he heard it.

"Major Whitlock.”

The voice was clear, female, and dangerously close.

Jasper froze. Turned slowly.

One of the field nurses stood there, arms folded, a mix of amusement and sharp professionalism on her face. She was holding a bucket of water, sleeves rolled up, hair frayed from the day’s work — and she looked about as unamused as any angel he’d ever imagined.

“You lookin’ for something back here, sir?”

He felt heat rise up his neck. “Ma’am, I— uh— was just— checking the perimeter.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Behind the tent?”

"Yes, ma’am. Didn’t want to alarm the men.”

“I imagine they’d be more alarmed if you shot something from back here.”

Jasper shut his mouth, jaw working, and decided silence was the only dignified retreat.