Sweet Romance12 min read
My Ten-Minute Rule and the Tofu Blanket
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I dragged my suitcase off the bus under a sun that felt like an oven and followed the long line like someone half-asleep. My shirt clung to my skin; the suitcase wheels rattled like they were about to fall apart. I shoved my hand beneath my shirt to pull at my bra the way a kid tries to hide when embarrassed.
"Welcome to Qinyun Base!" the squad of instructors called in unison, the sound sharp as a whistle. Four in camouflage, two in dress uniforms. They snapped to salute and then watched us like hawks.
"Fifteen days," I muttered to myself. "Fifteen days of this."
They handed out camo sets and caps. "Ten minutes to your dorms. Change and report." The camp commander gave us that line like a happy boss giving a deadline. The ten minutes made the whole room groan.
One of the instructors stood at the front as background until he stepped down and claimed the center. He moved like he belonged to the place—tall, erect, every inch military. He pulled leather gloves from his pocket and slid them on with slow precision, checked his watch, and said, "Assemble here at 11:25. One late person, fifty push-ups for the whole group."
Something in his voice tugged at me—an empty, slightly teasing tone. "Count starts now. You have nine minutes fifty-six seconds."
The voice planted me there, like sticky gum under a shoe. It was a voice I knew. I squinted through my four-hundred-degree nearsightedness and tried to make his face out. The hazy silhouette unspooled into a memory.
"He used to call himself my brother," a small, traitorous thought said. "He called me 'little girl who doesn't obey.'"
I smiled despite the heat. A laugh that belonged to my past echoed in my head: "Chen Lou'an, today you gave a speech at the flag; this afternoon you flirt with a girl. What a gentleman."
He wasn't a gentleman now. He was an iron-faced instructor. Would he still answer to "brother" if I called it out, I wondered.
The dorm we got was surprisingly roomy—eight bunks, two rows, green sheets and plain pillows. No private bathrooms. No privacy either.
"Ten minutes!" a whistle snapped.
I fumbled with sunscreen and my oversized camo pants. I wasn't fast, but everyone else seemed slower. Five minutes later, a group of three late students clustered by the dorm door. They'd been held up at the gate like everyone else.
"Great, three late," someone grumbled. "He'll make us do the devil's burpees."
"I like that instructor," someone else said. "Even if I have to drop to the ground, I'd do it if he asked."
I heard their jokes and let them pass over me. Then he walked right in front of me—he had the same height memory had stored, the same skin darker from sun, the same soft, dangerous eyes now sharpened into purpose.
A shoulder bumped me. "What are you thinking about?" Julianne—my roommate—mumbled, chewing gum, eyes sparkling.
"I want to peel his uniform off," I whispered, because the stupid, childish part of me still lived. Julianne's eyes popped and she squealed like a fan.
"You can't say that!" she scolded, then grabbed my arm. "I want to see too."
I smacked her hand away. "Nope, not sharing."
The latecomer, the same tall man who had walked down the stage, barked orders now. "Starting today, I am your head instructor. Absolute obedience. Now—push-ups. Begin!"
He started counting like a merciless metronome: "One forty-seven... one forty-eight... one forty-nine..." People dropped like flies. I kept going, stubborn to the bone.
I felt a laugh near my ear and reddened. "Stop hiding, Katie Clemons. Even if you buried your head underground, I'd find you," he said, and my name felt like an electric shock.
After lunch they marched us to the showers, a cavernous place that smelled like disinfectant and shampoo. "Ten minutes," he said. The ten-minute rule had followed us everywhere like a ghost.
I washed in a panic, not daring to undress fully. When I came out with dripping hair, he stood by the corner, arms folded, hat off. He waved me over.
He looked familiar as if the person beneath the uniform might smile like before. When he spoke, his voice softened with the memory: "Your socks are dry. Did you wash them?"
"Of course," I lied and pretended I meant it.
He touched the top of my head like someone checking a plant's leaves. "You've grown," he said. "I'll swing by your dorm tonight to remind everyone to dress properly. You—behave."
"There's too many of us in that room," I said. "You should be careful."
He smiled, like someone who'd been burned by awkward exposure before. He showed his human side just enough to make my heart stumble.
That night my roommate, Julianne, accused him outright. "He touched your hair!"
"Was it a drama scene? Like in TV?" she teased, slurping noodles.
"It felt like he was petting a dog," she said, grave and accusatory. I thought I might wag my tail in return.
Later he came back with Faye Lefebvre, the female instructor, all strict hair and sharper eyes. They taught us how to fold our blankets into a perfect square—our "tofu block"—and the room watched him with hungry, messy eyes.
He knelt on one knee at my bed and removed his glove to show a hand moving across the blanket. He explained step by step: "First fold a third, then another third. Tuck the corners. Keep it crisp." Watching him unglove, my brain did a bad, romantic spin.
"Want to try?" he asked.
I didn't answer. I watched him instead. He said, "Learn this. No cheating. You must be able to make it without help."
He left with Faye and the room glowered at the neat square on my bed. "Why him?" someone whispered.
Day two I ran to the shop to buy treats for my dormmates who had failed the blanket test. I had pockets full of chocolates and candies—my secret bribe to keep peace.
He saw me walking back. He called me over and I slipped into his shadow. He leaned down until we were the same height, and his words were small as a secret. "You brought me candy?"
"I brought you sugar," I said, blushing.
"You once gave me a piece of candy," he said, voice low. "I repaid you with a kiss. Come give me candy again—do you want me to kiss you?"
"My—" I looked around. "This is a training ground."
"Then I'm training you," he said and smiled like he was guilty and proud at the same time.
I ran away with the candy in my pocket and a heart sprinting in my chest.
By the third day I was in a fever. My back itched and then my chest felt tight. I woke at five to look in the mirror and screamed—my face was blotched in crimson, as if someone had taken a marker and scribbled inflammation along my ribs and cheeks.
"You're covered," Julianne gasped. "We should tell the instructor."
"Don't," I said. "It isn't contagious. I'm fine."
She insisted I go to the medic. I argued. Then Dylan—he'd taken off his gloves and hat and shown up at the dorm door—said, "Get your things. Two minutes to change. I'm taking you."
"You're being bossy," I told him.
"Am I?" he answered, and then he snapped, with genuine concern: "Call me whenever. But now—on your feet."
At the clinic the doctor said, "Acute urticaria. Shots and rest. It can lead to anaphylaxis if ignored."
A nurse beckoned me inside and jabbed the injection into my hip. The nurse's voice said: "You ignored it before it got worse. You're lucky."
Dylan stood outside the curtain with his hands folded. "I told you to speak up."
"You were busy being an instructor," I muttered.
He looked away and then back. "You don't go to the field now. I'll register you for the infirmary camp. You learn from a desk—my test will be the final."
"You set the test?" I said, stunned.
"Yes," he said. "I design how you pass."
He walked me back to the dorm and said, "You can live in my room. Bed's free. Sleep there if you can't be around the others."
My head whirled. "Sleep in your bed?"
"I'll sleep on a cot," he said flatly. "The bed is for you."
He called Arden Taylor and Faye... They arranged the details like a man fixing a loose wheel.
Living in his quarters was odd. He set out a fresh sheet and taught me how to fold a tofu blanket until I could do it blind. At night he came in quietly and said, "Do you blame them?"
"Who?" I asked.
"The girls who stepped back when they saw you," he said. "No. They just don't understand. You don't owe anyone explanations."
"You're being noble," I said, hugging his waist from behind while he made the bed.
"Why do you call me names like that?" he grumbled, embarrassed.
"You told me I could call you 'brother' when I was little," I said, voice tiny. "It stuck."
"Not here." He smoothed the blanket. "On base, I'm 'Instructor Charles.'"
"I like that, too," I said.
Days sped. I returned to training under Arden's watchful eye and Dylan's rare but cutting corrections. He kept me inside the rules but protected me when rumors swirled.
One noon a commotion erupted outside the dorm. A young man had been attempting to use his phone during free time and had shoved a female instructor—insulted Faye—and a fight broke out. Dylan intervened, put him in his place, and gave him a stern admonishment. The boy spat in the dirt.
"You've been told—no phones," Dylan said, voice cold.
"Who are you to lecture me?" the boy shot back. "You think just cause you get cozy with a girl you can boss everyone? I know you—I've seen you with your girlfriend. You're sleeping with a student!"
Silence spooled outward. Students inhaled like audiences waiting for theater.
"No," Dylan said. "What are you talking about?"
"Everyone knows," the boy sneered. "She's living in his room. He got special treatment. Send him away!"
The boy's name was Chester Williamson. He had a hunger for spectacle and an appetite for ruin.
"How dare you?" Dylan's face tightened. The insult hit like a blade at the base of his neck. He shoved Chester a solid kick that sent him sprawling. Students gasped. The lad spat again and stood, furious.
Two days later Dylan wasn't in camp. They said he had been summoned for investigation. The rumor had teeth; administrators loved to look clean. The room felt hollow without his steady shadow. Arden tried to console me, but I saw his jaw clench when anyone mentioned Dylan.
I couldn't hold still. I prodded Arden for answers and he finally brought Dylan back after two days. "Enough," Dylan told me. "I told them the truth. My girlfriend? Not a student. She is here by coincidence. I did not break rules."
"But the board demanded a hearing," Arden said. "Because of the rumor. Because of your... proximity to a recruit."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to drag Chester out and make him explain what he meant. He had started a rumor, and whispers had turned to accusation.
That set the stage for what I had waited for but also feared: the closing ceremony—where everyone gathered and danced and recited and watched faces turn into audiences.
On the final morning, the base held a large assembly: rows of recruits, instructors in front, and parents in the small stands near the back. The sun sat like a coin. The commander called for the closing address.
Before Dylan stood up to speak, a hush settled. I felt a knuckle of fear in my throat. Then someone shouted, loud enough to carry: "Expose him! He sleeps with students!"
It was Chester.
I remembered his face—red, eyes hot, the kind of boy who liked to be the center of attention. He moved toward the center like a dog claiming a bone.
Dylan stood calm. Arden flanked him. Other instructors watched with the stillness of statues. The commander raised an eyebrow and gestured. "This better be true."
Chester smirked. "I'll tell the truth. He helped one 'lucky' girl get special treatment. He told her to come sleep in his room during her sickness. He gave her candy, kissed her, and used his position."
Gasps rolled like surf. The crowd swayed between curiosity and disgust. A hundred phones rose. People whispered: "Really? Is it true?"
I stepped forward because I couldn't not. "Stop," I called. "You're lying."
Chester laughed. "Who are you to say that? She lives in his room now. He got what he wanted."
"He saved my life," I shouted. The crowd turned like a net. "I was allergic and he took me to the clinic. He saved me. I don't owe you anything."
The commander lifted a hand. "We will hear all sides."
Chester swore and entered his rehearsed tale, voice rising, cadence calculated for drama. He threw in claims about impropriety—touches misread for passion, proximity mistaken for sin. He baited the crowd. Cameras zoomed.
Dylan stepped forward. He was a block of repose, voice steady as stone. "Chester Williamson, what you call 'evidence' is a petty, malicious exaggeration. I escorted a recruit to medical. I offered room space because the dorm would have exposed her to drafts and stress. I did not kiss anyone improperly, nor did I coerce anyone."
Chester grinned. "We all saw him. He touches girls. He was seen taking her sweets. Who brings sweets to a recruit unless affection?"
"Who brings sweets to a recruit unless they care for her well-being?" I snapped.
Chester's grin flickered. "You—you call him by his name in public? How... how dare you. You're an accomplice."
"Call it what you like," Dylan said. "But what you have is rumor. You make an accusation without proof. You built your whole case on gossip and spit."
"What about witnesses?" someone in the crowd called.
"Produce them," Dylan said. "Either you prove this or you stop poisoning others."
At that, Faye Lefebvre stepped forward. She had watched the entire time with a face like hard glass. "Halt," she said. "I saw the interactions. Instructor Charles did what any professional would do—he escorted a recruit who was ill. This camp runs on discipline and compassion. I saw no impropriety."
Arden added, "I saw it myself. He conducted himself by the book."
The murmur lost some of its pitch. Chester's hands clenched. He hadn't expected trained witnesses.
But the crowd still wanted blood. Phones clicked and uploaded, and the digital rumor mill grew teeth.
Then something happened that shifted the entire room: one of the recruits—who had been Chester's closest ally in his outburst—stepped forward looking ashamed. "I recorded you," she said, voice small. "You told me how to make it sound worse. You coached me."
Chester's face drained. "You're lying to protect him," he accused.
"I'm not," she said. She pushed her phone forward and played a recording—a voice-stuttered admission from Chester advising her how to say the words to make it believable.
"What is that?" the commander demanded.
"It's you," she said. "You were trying to inflame the crowd."
Chester stammered. "I was—it's not fair—"
"Enough," Arden snapped. "This assembly is not a theater for your need to be infamous. You have made a false accusation, coached witnesses, and incited unrest. Explain yourself."
Chester's expression collapsed through stages: first defiance, then shock, then pleading. "I didn't—" he began.
"Don't," Dylan said, quieter than before. "You wanted attention. You wanted a spectacle. You used slander to get it."
The commander looked at Chester and then at the crowd. "Because of this false accusation and evidence of deception, we will take immediate disciplinary action. Chester Williamson, you will be confined to barracks pending a full review. You will apologize publicly, and you will be barred from holding leadership roles among recruits. Any further attempts to defame will result in expulsion."
Chester's eyes went wide. "No—no, you can't—"
Phones didn't stop filming. People took pictures as he tried to speak. Some laughed; others shook heads in disgust. The girl who had recorded him faced him with a coldness that made his knees weaken.
"How could you?" she asked. "People have reputations. People have livelihoods. You played judge and jury for your own pleasure."
"I'm sorry!" he begged. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"You're not sorry for the person you hurt," she said. "You're sorry you got caught."
The crowd's reaction changed from hungry to condemnatory. "Shame!" someone shouted. "Shame on you!"
Chester fell to his knees, hands stretched out as he tried to beg. People recorded, some applauded the punishment, others spat words. The energy turned to a public shaming: his bravado snapped into small, jerky breaths. He tried to get up, but two instructors held him down while the commander detailed the punishments.
"I am sorry," he said, over and over. His voice moved from defiant to desperate. "I didn't mean—"
Arden looked him straight in the eye. "You meant exactly this. You chose spectacle over truth."
Around him, the recruits murmured. Phones clicked. A few older students scolded him. Others simply turned their backs.
Chester's surrender was theatrical and raw. He cried like a child who'd been caught scribbling on a wall, then wavered between tears and rage.
"You're ridiculous," someone muttered. "Watch the next fool."
By the time the commander called the assembly back to order, Chester's face was blotched and his shirt had dirt on the knees. He had been publicly humbled. Some people clapped; some jeered; several filmed the exchange. The lesson was sharp and irreversible: when you trade truth for drama, you lose everything that matters most.
Afterward, the commanders made a formal statement: Chester would have to apologize to those he'd slandered, and his conduct would be recorded in his files. He would lose privileges and be placed on disciplinary probation. The public exposure of his coaching and lie meant that the rumor that had nearly toppled an honest instructor was dead.
I walked away trembling. People came up to Dylan with smiles and nods. "You handled it well," Arden said.
Dylan only looked at me. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," I lied, then decided not to. "I was terrified," I said. "But I'm okay."
That night, at the closing ceremony, he stood on the stage with me at his side and said, "This camp tests your body and your hearts. A rumor can crush a person. Protect each other with truth."
Later, as the crowd dispersed and the sun folded into evening, I sat at the edge of his bed and folded the tofu blanket the way he'd shown me. He watched and said, "That crease will remind you to keep your edges straight—no bending for gossip."
"And if someone tries to fold you into a lie?" I asked.
"Then you unfold them," he said.
I placed the perfectly squared blanket into my duffel. It was a small, stubborn rectangle of cloth, but it would always feel like a talisman.
On the bus leaving Qinyun Base I felt the ten-minute rule settle into memory—an odd little command that had led me to him, that had kept me safe, and that had been the backdrop of the day a coward met his comeuppance.
I kept the crease of the tofu blanket folded into the corner of my duffel and ran my fingers along it like reading a line that said, "We stood here and we were true."
The End
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