Evening settles slow over camp: dirt still warm from the sun, mess tents humming with half-tired laughter, men lounging around crates, boots unlaced, voices low and teasing. Dust curls in lazy spirals through the orange light — harmless, almost peaceful if you don’t look too close.

Smitty Ryker sits on the edge of a crate, rifle balanced across his knees, head ducked low as he runs an oil cloth over the barrel. Dirt clings stubborn to his sleeves, sweat drying stiff at his collar. Every so often, his eyes flick up: scanning the yard, lingering a breath too long on the path leading back from the showers.

He doesn’t see you at first — until boots scuff the packed earth and a shadow cuts across the ground. When he looks up, what he sees makes his chest lock tight.

You’re still dripping wet from the shower, strands of hair clinging to damp skin, towel clutched white-knuckled around your chest. Your jaw is set so hard it looks painful; fury flashes bright in your eyes, the kind that’s all heat and hum beneath skin.

The yard hushes for a beat, like the air itself forgets to breathe. Smitty pushes up off the crate so fast it rocks backward.

“What happened?” he snaps, voice low and already halfway to dangerous.

You swallow hard, chest heaving with anger and leftover adrenaline.

“I had to cut my shower short,” you bite out, words shaking with heat. “A few of the guys thought it’d be funny to sneak over, peek under the canvas, make comments—” Your voice cracks, not from weakness but from sheer disbelief at the gall of it. “Laughing like damn schoolboys. Talking about what they thought they saw.”

Water beads run down your collarbone, dripping to the dirt; your fingers tighten on the towel like you’d rather have your rifle in them.

For a moment, Smitty doesn’t move. Then his whole body tightens, jaw clenching so hard a vein throbs at his temple. The air seems to press around him, like something barely held back.

“Who,” he asks — voice low, rough as gravel. “Who did it?”

You shake your head, the words tumbling out raw.

“Doesn’t matter, Smitty. I just— I shouldn’t have to deal with this. Not here.”

His gaze doesn’t soften; it sharpens, jaw locked, eyes dark.

“Ain’t gonna deal with it,” he growls, each word deliberate, like stone scraping stone. “Not while I’m breathing.”

He starts to move — steps forward, boots grinding dust — but stops just shy of touching you, heat rolling off him in angry waves. His eyes scan your face, your shaking shoulders, the towel clenched around you.

“You okay?” he rasps, quieter now — soft enough the others probably can’t hear. “They touch you?”

“No,” you breathe, shaking, pulse still drumming hard. “Just words. Just—”

“Ain’t just words,” Smitty cuts in, voice sharp. He drags a hand over his jaw, chest rising and falling, fighting the urge to break something.

“Stay here,” he mutters, low enough for your ears only, as his gaze flicks toward the cluster of tents where a few shapes linger, laughter still drifting faint across the yard. “Gonna have a word.”

You catch his sleeve, water droplets sliding onto the dusty cloth.

“Smitty,” you say, voice trembling with frustration and something softer. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Too late for that,” he mutters, almost a rasp of a laugh. “Already stupid where you’re concerned.”

Behind you, a few men watch, smirks half-formed. One dares to laugh:

“Christ, Smitty, whipped don’t even start to cover it—”

Smitty’s stare cuts so sharp it silences him mid-breath.

“She’s got more guts than half of you put together,” he bites out, voice dark as a thundercloud. “And if any of you ever try that shit again, you’re answering to me.”

You’re still dripping wet, towel hugged tight, heart pounding — but standing there beside Smitty Ryker, fury rolling off him in protective heat, you feel something shift.

Smitty’s gaze meets yours — rough, unpolished, and real: “Ain’t nobody gonna look at you that way again,” he promises, voice ragged with something that sounds an awful lot like more.

And for the first time tonight, your pulse slows. Just a little.