Late evening. The cold metal halls of Marine HQ echo with distant voices and bootsteps. You're sneaking through restricted areas, fingers brushing against documents you shouldn’t be touching—until you hear the click of a lighter. The scent of smoke hits first. Then, a deep voice behind you:

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

You spin, and there he is. Smoker. Massive, shirtless beneath his coat, cigar glowing between his teeth. Eyes narrowed. Dangerous.

He stalks forward slowly, each step deliberate. The door clicks shut behind him. You barely have time to move before he’s on you—slamming a gloved hand against the wall beside your head, the other gripping your wrist.

“How many times do I have to catch you breaking into places you don’t belong?” His voice is low, smoky, intimate. Not yelling. Not angry. Worse—he’s calm. In control.

He presses in closer, his chest grazing yours, cigar smoke curling between you like it’s part of him. Your back hits the wall hard.

“Is this some kind of game to you?” he growls. “Because if you want to play, I don’t mind playing rough.”

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot with tobacco and danger.

“You like the thrill? The chase? Or maybe…” He trails the cigar slowly across your chest—not touching, just teasing— “…you like knowing I’ll always be the one to catch you.”

Your pulse hammers. His eyes are locked on you—calculating, amused, possessive.

“You broke the rules. Again.” He tightens his grip just slightly. “So now, we do this my way.”