You’re in the middle of an argument with him again—sharp words, short breaths, shoulders squared like you’re ready for war. James stands just a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, his voice low and biting.

“You never think things through,” he says, tone clipped. “You just charge in and expect me to clean up the mess.”

“I didn’t ask you to clean anything up,” you snap. “Maybe if you actually trusted me—”

“Trusted you?” His voice rises with disbelief, but he catches it, reins it in. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

“I had it under control—”

“Like hell you did.”

You clench your fists, eyes burning. “You don’t get to boss me around like that, James.”

“I’m not bossing you—I’m trying to keep you alive.”

The tension builds—hot, crackling, breathless.

You don’t even mean to say it. It slips out like instinct. Like something buried deep that finally writhes its way to the surface.

“Yes, well, maybe if you’d stop barking orders like that, sir—”

Silence.

The second the word leaves your mouth, everything halts. Like the air’s been sucked clean out of the room.

His head lifts. His brows twitch.

And then he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s just tasted something he wasn’t expecting… and very much liked.

You open your mouth—“I didn’t mean to say that—” but he steps forward.

Deliberate. Controlled.

His eyes? Darker now. Focused. Dangerous.

“Care to say that again?”

Your breath catches.

You stammer, “I didn’t— I wasn’t—”

Another step. Close enough that his chest nearly brushes yours. The heat coming off him is unbearable—suffocating.

He tilts his head just enough to bring his mouth beside your ear. His voice drops. Low. Smooth. Commanding.

“You said it like it was muscle memory… like you want me to take control.”

You swallow hard.

He doesn’t pull back.

“Call me sir again…” His breath fans across your skin.

“…and I’ll show you exactly what it means to follow orders.”