June went out early as usual, took a quick, scalding shower that did nothing to loosen the knot in her shoulders, and headed straight for the mess hall.
Dark circles shadowed her eyes; she’d smeared concealer over them with the practiced flick of someone who’d done it too many mornings in her life.
The exhaustion lived deeper than skin, though—every muscle felt heavy, like her body was still carrying the weight of a night spent having sexy lewd nightmares instead of sleeping.
"Ma’am!"
Boots scraped, chairs shifted.
Half the room came to their feet in a ragged salute; the rest gave lazy nods or half-hearted two-finger gestures.
June acknowledged them with a small tilt of her chin and kept walking, already catching the morning’s gossip on the air like diesel fumes.
"Did you hear what went down last night?"
"Fuck yeah. I cranked my headset to max—thought the bass would drown it out. Nope. Still heard every damn moan."
"I still can’t believe Sebastian just... lets it happen. Guy’s either a saint or he’s got no spine at all."
Laughter rolled across the tables, sharp and disbelieving.
Someone made a crude, exaggerated sound—high-pitched, theatrical—and the whole section cracked up again.
The story was already legend: Ross and Bella, going at it like the world was ending, bedframe slamming the shared wall for hours, her voice climbing higher with every round, his low growls cutting through like distant artillery.
It had lasted until the small hours. Everyone within three rooms had a front-row seat whether they wanted one or not.
June reached the coffee urn, filled a chipped mug with the scorched black stuff, dropped in two sugars she wouldn’t taste, and took the farthest empty seat—back to the wall, eyes on the door.
She stared into the steam and tried to let it blur the edges of the night she hadn’t slept through.
She’d heard it all also amidst her bothered night.
Every rhythmic thud.
Every gasped "fuck, yes."
Every time Bella’s voice broke into something raw and pleading.
Every time Ross answered with that rough, satisfied rumble that made June’s stomach twist in ways she refused to name.
She took a sip. It tasted like regret and burnt grounds.
Behind her, the conversation kept rolling.
"Man’s got stamina, I’ll give him that."
"Sebastian probably slept through it with earplugs and denial."
More laughter.
June closed her eyes for half a second.
She had known this was ing.
Bella had told everything in her debrief.
"I couldn’t stop, mander. Even if I wanted to. His cock—fuck, it’s so big and hard, and he just... kept going. I rode him until my thighs gave out and then he flipped me and kept fucking me anyway. I couldn’t stop screaming."
Bella had laughed then, breathless, sad, and almost proud.
June had only nodded, jaw tight, filing the information away the way she filed after-action reports: clinically, without letting it show on her face.
She’d hoped—foolishly—that the barracks would let it die down by the next few minutes.
They hadn’t.
The mess hall was still humming with it. The same stories, retold with escalating detail.
Bella’s screams described in loving, filthy technicolor. Ross’s cock upgraded in rumor from "big" to "gigantic" to "fucking monstrous."
His stamina mythologized: the man who fucked like a machine, all night, no breaks, no mercy, turning their quiet hero’s wife into a howling, insatiable slut.
June chewed dry toast she didn’t want, washed it down with coffee gone cold, and kept her eyes on her tray. Every laugh felt like a jab to the ribs.
Then the door opened.
Sebastian walked in alone.
The shift was instant.
"Shhh..."
"He’s here."
"Quiet down, man."
The room hushed like someone had flipped a kill switch. Forks froze halfway to mouths.
Conversations died mid-sentence.
The silence was worse than the noise—thick, suffocating, everyone pretending they weren’t watching him cross the floor to the coffee urn.
Sebastian moved like a man who knew exactly what had been said about him.
Shoulders squared, chin up, but the set of his jaw was too rigid, the way he avoided eye contact too deliberate.
For maybe thirty seconds, the room held its breath.
Then someone—a dumbass private, a loudmouth who never learned when to shut up—couldn’t resist lighting the fuse.
"Hey, Sebastian!" he called, grinning wide enough to show every tooth. "Didn’t know your wife was such a slut! Can you pencil me in for tonight? I’d love a turn on Bella too."
The words landed like a grenade.
Sebastian stopped. Turned slowly.
The mess hall went dead quiet again, but this time it was the quiet before violence.
Sebastian’s tray hit the floor first—clatter of metal and spilled coffee.
Then he was moving, fast, crossing the room in three strides.
The taunter barely had time to stand before Sebastian’s fist cracked across his jaw.
Chairs scraped. People shouted. Someone yelled "Fight!" like it was a fucking sporting event.
The private swung back, wild, caught Sebastian in the shoulder.
Sebastian didn’t flinch—just tackled him over the table, sending trays and mugs crashing. Fists flew.
Blood spattered the linoleum.
June was already on her feet.
She didn’t shout. Didn’t hesitate.
She waded straight into it, shoving bodies aside with the flat of her hand and the edge of her voice.
"Enough!"
The word cut like a blade.
She grabbed Sebastian by the back of his collar, hauled him off the private with more strength than she looked capable of, then planted herself between them.
"Stand down. Both of you. Now."
Breathing hard, knuckles split, Sebastian glared past her at the private, who was spitting blood and grinning like he’d won something.
June turned her head just enough to lock eyes with the instigator.
"One more word and I’ll personally ensure you spend the next six months cleaning latrines with your toothbrush. Try me."
He shut up.
She looked back at Sebastian.
His chest was still heaving, eyes glassy with rage and something worse—humiliation.
There was no defense also since he knew they were right. Bella. His dear Bella has fallen.
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