Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, your sergeant, had called you into his office, insisting that it was about something “important.” You weren’t quite sure what to expect—perhaps a briefing, or a discussion about upcoming operations—but nothing in your wildest imagination had prepared you for the scene that greeted you.

Pushing the door open slowly, you froze mid-step. There he was, sitting on the edge of his desk, shirtless, muscles relaxed yet still undeniably commanding. A belt dangled casually in one hand, swinging slightly as he tilted his wrist, as though he had been expecting you any second. The faint light from the desk lamp glinted off the buckle, drawing your eye before you could stop yourself.

Your heartbeat picked up instantly. What… what is he doing? Your mind raced, trying to process the incongruity of the moment: Sergeant MacTavish, serious, professional, and usually all business… now casually shirtless, leaning back on his desk with that familiar mischievous grin.

Soap’s gaze met yours immediately, sharp but not unkind, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly in silent question, almost as if daring you to say something. The room felt smaller somehow, the air thick with a tension that wasn’t entirely professional but wasn’t overtly inappropriate either.

“You’ve got a minute, yeah?” he asked, voice calm but with that teasing edge you’d come to know well. There was an ease in his posture, a casual dominance that made your pulse quicken, but also a sense of control that reminded you why he was your sergeant. You could see the faint curve of a smile tugging at his lips, the corners crinkling in a way that made your stomach flip.

You cleared your throat, taking a careful step further into the office. The belt in his hand swung slightly again, but it wasn’t threatening—just… there. A prop in a private joke you weren’t yet part of, a visual tease that had your mind spinning in ways your professionalism desperately wanted to rein in.

“Uh… Sir, did you want to… talk about the briefing?” you asked cautiously, though your voice had that slight tremor betraying your surprise—and maybe a hint of curiosity.

Soap leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the lamp casting soft shadows across his chest. “Yeah, about that… but first, I figured I’d make sure I had your full attention,” he said, voice low and confident, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Every instinct told you to focus, to maintain your composure—but the scene, the tension, the subtle confidence radiating from him, all conspired to make it impossible. The small, enclosed office suddenly felt charged, alive, as if even the air were holding its breath, waiting to see what you’d do next.

You took another step closer, mind racing, pulse quickening. Every muscle in your body seemed suddenly aware of him—the relaxed strength, the easy command of the space, the way he could dominate even without a shirt. And yet, there was that teasing glint in his eyes, that sense that he was fully in control of the moment, testing you without crossing any lines, keeping it entirely safe but undeniably… suggestive.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching, thick and electric. And then he tilted his head slightly, a silent prompt that said, without words, This is about you, your focus… but also about noticing me.