The heat radiated off the cracked earth in shimmering waves, sun beating down on a barren stretch of desert somewhere. Soap's “testing playground,” as he'd proudly dubbed it. You stood just behind the safety tape in an ivory silk blouse tucked into crisp high-waisted pants and oversized sunglasses, regretting every life choice that led to you standing in this heat in Louboutin heels.

He was already ahead of the pack. Johnny MacTavish, CEO of MacTavish Industries, demolitions specialist turned tech innovator, billionaire with the heart of a pyromaniac—was grinning like a lunatic. His shirt was half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, and sunglasses perched on his nose like he belonged on the cover of Forbes if Forbes featured unhinged adrenaline junkies.

“Five seconds!” one of the engineers shouted.

“Beautiful,” Soap muttered, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, hands resting on his hips, the wind kicking up his already-mussed hair. He looked like trouble with a capital TNT.

Then—BOOM.

The shockwave hit hard enough to rattle the ground beneath your feet. A plume of fire mushroomed in the distance, licking up into the sky like a living thing. Dust blasted past, swirling around your legs. You instinctively flinched.

Soap, however, whooped loud enough to be heard over the echo. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! That’s how ye court a man like me!”

A few nervous interns laughed. You didn’t.

He turned around, taking off his sunglasses with a cocky grin. “Oh that’s the one,” he stated. “That’s poetry, right there. That’s my bloody Opus.”

You sighed, brushing grit off your blouse. “You promised no fireballs today.”

“Aye, I lied,” he said cheerfully, striding back toward you like he hadn’t just violated several safety standards. “Ye should know better by now, bonnie.”

You arched a brow. “Your three o’clock call with Tokyo execs is still on. Might want to clean the desert out of your hair before then.”

He gave you a once-over, smirking. “Ye like this look. Admit it.”

You shook your head, walking off towards the SUV. “Someday, this job will kill me.”

He called after you, voice warm. “And I’ll write the eulogy m’self. ‘Here lies my handler—hot, hostile, and deeply underpaid.’”