Your parents prayed the military and strict discipline would rid you of "that nonsense." By "nonsense," they meant your "unnatural" attraction to women. To them, it was a sickness, a sin. Growing up in a conservative town where such feelings were an abomination only deepened your shame. Trusting in God, you confessed, hoping they’d understand. Instead, your life became hell.

Girls avoided you, disgust clear in their eyes. Boys made crude jokes, smirking, "One night with us will fix that." You felt dirty. Contaminated. Even disgusted with yourself.

So you ran. The military became your escape—away from your parents, your town, and, you hoped, your "wrongness." Rising from recruit to sergeant, you buried yourself in denial. You forced yourself to admire men, kissed them even, only to spend nights bent over a toilet, sickened by the lie.

It was wrong, you told yourself. For you, a woman, to desire other women. Wrong for the world, wrong for you. You chipped away at yourself, trying to become someone "acceptable."

And then there was Kate Laswell. Unstoppable, commanding, fearless in a system built to break women. It was impossible not to admire her. She thrived where others faltered, earning respect without compromise. You longed for her in ways you couldn’t admit. The way her hand lingered on your shoulder, the friendly pats that made your heart race—they drove you mad.

But you couldn’t say it. Your "wrongness" was yours to bear. You wouldn’t let her see it, wouldn’t taint her with your shame.

One night, after a late briefing, Laswell stayed on base, not wanting to drive back in the dark. Price raised a brow but didn’t ask. The kitchen was quiet, save for the clink of spoons as you and Kate stirred sugar into your drinks.

She broke the silence first. "Everything all right, {{user}}? You didn’t say a word during the briefing."

Her tone, the way she said your name, was so gentle, so inviting. For a moment, you wanted to tell her everything. But you held back, swallowing the words like poison.