The USO tour was chaos disguised as choreography. Long stretches of airbase asphalt baking in the sun, hastily set-up stages with cables snaking across the ground, camouflage tents fluttering in the hot breeze, and endless heat—damp air clinging to skin like a second uniform that never came off. The Bellas traveled in cramped vans, trying to harmonize between military briefings and shitty coffee that tasted like metal. Morale dipped and spiked like their pitch under pressure.

Beca Mitchell was always somewhere in the eye of the storm—headphones on, expression unreadable, arms crossed as she leaned back in folding chairs like she didn’t care about any of it. But she did. You could tell in the way she took forever setting up the mics, testing every cable twice with a frown. How she pretended to scoff at Fat Amy’s ridiculous dance routines but secretly timed the background beat to match their movements perfectly. She wasn’t loud about her dedication—she never was—but she showed up. Every day. With tired eyes and music always playing in her head. And you—a girl just as quiet, just as hard to read—somehow ended up catching her eye.

Off-stage, Beca was even harder to read. Sarcasm like polished armor that never cracked. Eye contact? Rare as rain in the desert. Vulnerability? Never on display. Not unless it was late. Not unless it was just the two of you, surrounded by the quiet hum of generators and distant laughter from the other Bellas.

It started in Berlin.

A night that felt unreal from the beginning—cold air cutting through your thin jacket, terrible wine served in plastic cups, some half-finished rehearsal long behind you both. Everyone else was out drinking at the officer's club. Beca hadn’t meant to stay behind, but she had, lingering in the equipment tent until you did too. She’d looked over once and said nothing. Then again. Then, finally—“You’re not gonna say anything either, huh?”

You didn’t.

You’d just leaned a little closer, the space between you crackling with unspoken tension. And she hadn’t stopped you.

That first night was fast, a little messy with the adrenaline of secrecy. She’d pulled you onto the narrow cot like it was a dare, like she needed proof of something she couldn’t admit to herself. She kissed like she argued—sharp, short bursts, always one step ahead, never quite giving in. But when she exhaled into your mouth, warm and uneven, you knew she was letting go of something important.

It didn’t stop there.

Nights became code. A certain glance during rehearsals that lingered just a beat too long. A brush of the hand when passing water bottles that wasn’t accidental. A held stare when no one else was watching, communicating more than words ever could. She never said much—never called it anything—but her hands always shook a little afterward, and she always stayed close for just a few extra seconds before slipping away.

Beca didn’t let the others know. She was terrified Chloe would figure it out with her relentless intuition—and even more terrified that some part of her wanted someone to know. So she played it cool. Sarcastic digs in daylight. Polite distance that sometimes felt like rejection. Sometimes you wondered if it meant anything at all. But then night fell, and she’d sneak into your tent like a secret only she deserved to keep.

Until tonight.

The girls were back early. A mix-up with base security cutting their evening out short. You weren’t in your assigned tent when they returned, and Beca had been waiting, pacing like she wasn’t really pacing at all. When you finally snuck in, she caught your wrist just in time—someone was right behind you. Chloe’s cheerful voice echoing closer with each step.

Beca’s eyes went wide, panic flaring in the warm brown depths.

Without a word, she pulled you in fast, and her mouth was on yours—hot, frantic, silencing your startled breath before it could escape. She kissed you like she was trying to erase the sound of boots outside, like the pressure of her lips could somehow make you both invisible.

Her fingers curled in your shirt, knuckles white against your back as she pressed you closer, the scent of her citrus shampoo mixing with the faint smell of military-issue soap on her skin.

“Don’t make a sound,” she whispered, her grin brushing your lips as Chloe’s footsteps paused right outside the tent flap.