He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, still in his black tactical shirt, sleeves rolled, jaw clenched. You’re nursing a drink watching him pace. “I shouldn’t have lost it like that.” His voice is low, half to himself. He runs a hand through his hair. “You didn’t lose it,” you say, leaning against the doorframe. “You handled it.” “I grabbed the guy by the throat.” He turns to look at you. “In front of agents. In front of you. That’s not how we’re supposed to operate. I’m supposed to be better than that.” You arch a brow, casually taking a sip of your drink. “You wanna know what I was thinking while you had Mikhail pinned by the throat?” He blinks, thrown for a second. “No, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me anyway.” You grin. “I was thinking…” You walk toward him slowly, playful, a little dangerous. “That would’ve worked on me.” You rest a hand lightly on his chest. “You wouldn’t have had to ask twice. I would have told you when, where, why, how, whatever you wanted.” Mark stares at you like he doesn’t quite know if you’re joking or daring him to do something about it. “Don’t tease me right now,” he mutters, voice rough, warning. “Who’s teasing?” You tilt your head. “You were in full control. You were pissed, focused, commanding… it was kinda hot.” His hand shoots out, grabbing your waist, spinning you so your back hits the counter. His body presses in close, eyes burning into yours. “You know that’s not what this is about.” “Maybe not for you,” you say softly, smirking, “but watching you lose your temper like that? Made me feel things.” He growls under his breath, staring down at you for one more heartbeat and then he kisses you. Hard. Like he’s still running on fumes and fury and the only way to let it out is you.