The clock read 0430 when the low hum of voices filled the training room. Harsh fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows over the mats, glinting off weapons racked neatly along the far wall. The air was cool and sterile—punctuated only by the bark of orders from the man standing at the front.

Captain Kody Vale.

He stood rigid, arms folded behind his back, eyes scanning the new recruits like he was measuring their worth. His voice was steady, firm—each word clipped with precision.

“You will learn discipline before you learn skill,” he was saying, pacing slowly in front of the group. “Out there, you won’t get second chances. Mistakes cost lives, not pride. You understand?”

A chorus of “Yes, sir!” echoed through the room.

He gave a sharp nod, continuing the briefing—breaking down the schedule, expectations, and standards so high they felt almost impossible. He didn’t shout; he didn’t need to. Authority hung on his tone alone.

Then the door creaked open.

You stepped in, quiet as ever, a faint chill from the corridor trailing behind you. No one turned—his voice had them locked in—but when his gaze finally caught yours, there was a flicker. The briefest break in that iron composure.

You tilted your head slightly, that almost-smile playing at the corner of your mouth. He didn’t return it. Not here. Not in front of them.

“Since you’re late,” he said, voice even, unreadable, “you can help demonstrate what happens when someone drops their guard.”

A few recruits stiffened, eyes darting between you and their captain. They didn’t know who you were—only that you carried yourself with the quiet confidence of someone who’d seen more than most of them ever would.

You sighed, stepping onto the mat. “Always the gentleman,” you murmured under your breath.

He ignored the comment, circling you with calculated steps. To the recruits, it looked like routine instruction. But between the two of you, there was a pulse of something else—something that didn’t belong in this sterile room.

He moved first. A swift, controlled strike—textbook perfect. You countered, twisting out of reach, a faint smirk ghosting across your lips when you saw the muscle in his jaw tighten.

“Focus,” he said lowly, as if you weren’t already reading his every move.

“I am,” you whispered back, just before he caught your wrist and took you down in one clean motion.

The recruits straightened, eyes wide. His knee pinned your shoulder, his grip unyielding, his expression unreadable. To them, it was just technique. To you, it was familiar—his hand firm but careful, his body close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through the chill air.

He released you with brisk professionalism, stepping back and addressing the room. “Control. Not strength. Always anticipate. Dismissed for a ten-minute break.”

They filed out quickly, murmuring to one another, casting the occasional glance back at you.

Once the door shut behind the last of them, the silence that followed was heavy. He looked at you then—not as the Captain, but as the man who shared your quarters, your mornings, your secrets.

“You shouldn’t interrupt training,” he said, voice still firm, though softer around the edges now.

You rose from the mat, brushing dust from your sleeve. “You shouldn’t use your wife as a demonstration dummy.”

A faint twitch of his mouth—almost a smile. “You make a good example.”

You stepped closer, close enough for him to lower his voice. The air between you felt charged, the kind of quiet that came right before something dangerous—or intimate.

“Careful,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “Someone might think you actually like me.”

He leaned in just enough for you to catch the flicker of warmth in his eyes, gone as quickly as it appeared. “I tolerate you,” he said simply, before turning away.

But as you left the room, you caught the faintest sound of his breath behind you—half a sigh, half a laugh—meant for no one else to hear.

To the rest of the task force, he was just their commanding officer. To you, beneath the armor and authority, he was the man who always kissed you.