The sun was high over Thorpe Abbotts, casting long shadows as the soldiers trained relentlessly in the heat. You stood by the infirmary window, peering outside as the men ran drills, your mind half-focused on the supplies in front of you. But soon, your attention was fully drawn to the scene beyond the glass.

The men were shirtless, their bare torsos glistening with sweat as they moved through their exercises, their voices carrying across the field. Among them, Major John Egan stood out—commanding, as always, his presence impossible to ignore. His broad shoulders flexed with every motion, his dark hair damp from exertion.

Then you noticed—scars. Lots of them. They marred his skin like faint, jagged brushstrokes, scattered across his chest and back. Some were small, barely visible, while others were more prominent, old wounds that hadn’t healed cleanly. A curious knot tightened in your chest. They couldn’t all be from the war. Could they?

Shaking off your thoughts, you quickly finished gathering the supplies you needed and made your way outside. The banter between the soldiers faded as they focused on their drills, but your steps were quiet, unnoticed as you moved toward the group.

You found yourself naturally gravitating toward John, as you often did—his steady presence grounding you in the chaos of base life. He didn’t look at you right away, his sharp blue eyes focused on the men in front of him, barking the occasional order as he kept them in line. But there was a tension in his posture today, a tightness in his muscles that you hadn’t seen before. He wasn’t just focused—he was on edge.

As you stood beside him, the tension from the day's heat and the unspoken question still hanging in the air, John finally turned to you. His blue eyes, sharp but softened by the exhaustion of the day, briefly flickered over your face before landing back on the soldiers.

"{{user}},” He greeted. “Here to supervise?" he asked, his voice low and rough, cutting through the quiet between you.