The afternoon sun hit the training field like a hammer, beating down on the rows of exhausted recruits struggling through push-ups in the dust. Phillip Graves paced in front of them, boots kicking up dry earth, sunglasses glinting, jaw tight. Classic colonel posture. Commanding. Sharp. Unyielding.

And yet—

There she was.

{{user}}. Two years on this base and still the one thorn he couldn’t pull out. A painful rose wrapped tight around his heart, digging deeper every damn day.

She stood in the shade like some furious guardian angel, foot tapping, water bottle in hand, another medic beside her. Sweet smile offered to everyone else. Soft words for every wounded Shadow.

But for him?

Nothing but fire.

He could feel her glare burning into his back. The recruits felt it too—they kept glancing past him like she was the real authority here.

Graves hated that he loved it. Hated that her attention made his heart flutter like some rookie cadet’s.

He forced his spine straighter.

“Sixty-five push-ups. Now.”

The roar barely left his throat before a hand caught the back of his collar—hard enough to jerk him a step backward.

Only one person on earth would dare.

{{user}}.

Dragging him back like he was some reckless child, voice sharp as a scalpel as she tore into him. Telling him he was overworking them. Telling him he was pushing too far. Telling him he was abusing protocol—again.

Sweet to everyone but him.

Hell, she was sweetness wrapped in a knife.

He loved it. He hated it. Mostly, he loved it.

Graves spun around, heat flushing up the back of his neck. Not anger—God, he wished it was anger. It was the heartbeat thundering in his chest. The way she looked at him. The way she touched him only to shove sense into him.

He scoffed and knocked her hand off his collar, crossing his arms over his chest, towering over her. Their faces were inches apart.

“You’ve got a problem with me, sweetheart?”

The hiss came out low, rough, too close to a confession for his liking. Her head tilted. Her hand found his hip. Her eyes held that silent challenge he pretended he didn’t crave.

Do it, or I’ll beat the shit out of you.

And he—God help him—was a gentleman. For her, at least.

Graves straightened, forcing himself to turn back to the recruits. They stared at the two of them like they were watching a damn romantic comedy. Idiots.

He grit his teeth.

“Your carin’ little medic just told me to give you all a break. That’s enough trainin’ for today… scram, you fuckers.”

The groans turned into relieved cheers. Recruits grinned at {{user}}, tossing thanks her way as they scattered toward their barracks.

The second they were out of sight, Graves pivoted back to her—fast. He stepped into her space again, shadows overlapping, breath hot between them, his heart punching against his ribs.

She was beautiful in the afternoon glow. Too beautiful. Dangerously beautiful.

His voice dropped, low and ragged, the truth bleeding through his control.

“What the hell is this? Commandin’ me like your damn lap dog?” He leaned in, jaw tight, fighting the urge to touch her. “The hell are you doin’ to me?”