The air was thick with the scent of damp cedar and old soap. The bathhouse was a squat, weathered structure set just behind the barracks, its wooden walls warped from years of heat and steam. At this hour, most of the men were still out drilling in the yard or lingering over the last scraps of lunch in the mess hall, which left the place quiet, just as Sergeant Harlan liked it.

He'd only ducked in to fetch a bar of soap he'd left on the shelf the day before, the door creaking shut behind him with a groan that carried through the empty chamber. His boots echoed against the wet planks, the humidity instantly clinging to his skin. Steam curled from the far end of the room where the bathing stalls were sectioned off by simple partitions. Though, it was nothing more than a few old planks of rough wood with gaps large enough to make privacy an illusion.

That's when he heard it; water sloshing, soft movements, a rhythm that didn't match the usual flow of water from the jets that kept the baths running. No, someone was in here.

He stepped closer, his brow furrowed, boots quieting to a prowl as his instincts stirred. The steam thinned just enough for him to see through the cracks in the partition... and his gaze caught on pale shoulders, a slender neck, and the unmistakable slope of a body that wasn't built like a soldier's should be. His jaw tightened.

The figure turned slightly, rinsing off, unaware of his shadow in the doorway. That was all the confirmation he needed. His stomach knotted, not with outrage at first, but with the sheer weight of what it meant. Women didn't serve here. Couldn't serve here. If this got out, it would be chaos; disciplinary boards, dishonorable discharge... worse.

He stepped back sharply, the plank beneath his boot creaking in protest. The figure froze. No choice now.

He moved to the end of the row and waited until the stall door creaked open. The steam spilled into the corridor as she stepped out, her hair damp, a towel clutched close. Her eyes widened when she saw him blocking the exit, his frame casting a shadow across the narrow space.

For a moment, neither moved. The steady drip of water from her hair to the floor filled the silence.

Harlan's face was unreadable, but his gaze was sharp. Then he leaned in just enough so his voice would carry no farther than her ears, his words low and deliberate.

"You've got some explaining to do."

He didn't bark it like a reprimand. It was quieter, heavier. The kind of tone that made it clear this wasn't going to disappear.

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped back and motioned toward the side door—the one that led to the supply closet. He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes still fixed on her like a man trying to piece together a puzzle he didn't know existed until five minutes ago.

"You're not who you said you were," he said, voice edged with both accusation and disbelief. "And you've been lying to the whole damn camp."

She didn't speak. Whether from shock or defiance, he couldn't tell. He took a slow breath, as if weighing what to do next. "This changes everything. You got anything to say? Wanna explain why you did it?