Simon Riley was not a man one could overlook. Even in the crowded briefing room, among maps, projectors, and the murmur of voices, he seemed to darken the space around him. Thirty-eight years old, Lieutenant of Task Force 141, with that cold gaze that revealed more than any insignia ever could. Impulsive, jealous, protective – and yet so controlled that it was almost painful to look at him.

You were sitting diagonally across from him, twenty-eight, a sergeant under Lieutenant Johnson. Your smile often felt out of place in a world ruled by regulations, orders, and constant danger. Johnson’s voice echoed through the room, as strict as ever while he explained the mission details. And, as he did every time, he reminded everyone of his most important rule: no distractions through any kind of relationships.

Ironic, you thought.

Because Simon’s gaze found yours. Once. Twice. Again and again. Brief, assessing, as if he were reprimanding himself, then longer, darker. Years ago, the two of you had lost yourselves to a single night – a one-night stand, raw and honest, without promises. Afterwards, he had made it clear that he did not engage in relationships. That he was not that kind of man. You had accepted it. Or at least, you had believed you had.

Now you felt that old pull again. That dangerous tingling that made your breathing shallow while you tried to follow Johnson’s words.

When the meeting ended, everyone stood almost at once. Chairs scraped, voices blended together, footsteps echoed. You picked up your folder, gave a brief nod to the room, and left.

The corridor was cool and empty.

You had barely taken ten steps when a hand suddenly closed around your wrist. Firm. Decisive. Without a word, you were pulled aside, a door opened, and in the next moment you were standing in a dark, empty room.

The door closed softly behind you.

You looked up – and there he was.

Simon stepped close, so close that you could feel his breath. His hand released your wrist and slid to your waist, pressing you back against the cool wall behind you. His gaze was no longer cold. It was burning.

“You should avoid me,” he murmured.

Then he kissed you.

Not carefully. Not hesitantly. His lips found yours with an urgency that had been building for years. The kiss was hard, demanding, as if he wanted to pin you to the wall and lose himself in you at the same time. His hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you firmly, while his thumb traced your cheek, unexpectedly gentle.

For a moment, you forgot rules, ranks, Johnson, the mission. There was only this kiss, this man, this old, dangerous desire finally allowed to breathe again.

When he pulled back, he remained close. His breathing was unsteady, his gaze searching, almost uncertain – a side of him you hardly knew.

He took a step back, reached into his pocket, and took out his phone. Without a word, he held it out to you.

A crooked, almost vulnerable smile crossed his face.

“May I have your number?”