You’re on your third piece of bubblegum by 0600, the familiar snap-pop-snap echoing through the sterile hallway of the base infirmary. You’ve got your scrubs tucked just right, badge clipped at a slight angle, and your ponytail high and defiant. Every soldier who walks through those doors knows two things: you don’t play games when it comes to patient care—and you always, always have bubblegum in your mouth.

“Morning, Sergeant Snappy,” someone teases, walking by.

You blow a bubble big enough to block out the sound, then let it pop with attitude. The nickname doesn’t bother you anymore. You’ve owned it. You are bubblegum—sweet, tough, and just the right amount of trouble.

And that’s probably why Lieutenant Riley can’t stop looking at you like you’re the last piece of candy in a ration pack.

He shows up too often. Says it’s about “routine checkups” or “inventory questions,” but you know better. He leans against the doorway like it’s staged, arms crossed over his chest like he thinks it’ll distract you. It doesn’t.

“You always chewing that stuff?” he asks, eyes lingering.

You raise an eyebrow, then blow a lazy bubble. “What, this?” Pop. “Keeps me sharp.”

He grins, one of those slow, maybe-too-charming grins. “It’s distracting.”