The tiny brush moved with surgical precision, Major Major’s brows drawn in focus as he painted a strip of navy across the stern of the miniature boat. His sleeves were rolled, forearms dusted in fine strokes of dried paint. The desk lamp glowed warm against the late evening shadows, casting a halo over his steady hands.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment.

There was something annoyingly attractive about the way he was so careful. Delicate. Methodical. A man who barely said what he felt, but you could see the weight of it all in the way his jaw flexed or how long he lingered on something that reminded him of peace.

He didn’t look up when he spoke. “You’re staring again.”

You crossed the room slowly, your voice low. “I like watching you work.”

His mouth twitched, barely a smile. “It’s just a model.”

“It’s the way you handle it.” You reached out and brushed your fingers along the back of his neck, making him pause. “Like it matters.”

He finally turned to you, eyes shadowed and dark, the brush still between his fingers. “It does.”

“I know,” you murmured, now beside him, slipping into his lap. His breath caught—not like he was surprised, but like he’d been holding it in for a while.

The little boat was forgotten, set aside as your hands found their place on his chest, feeling the tension there. His skin was warm under his shirt, his heart thrumming like a quiet storm.

“You’re gonna smudge the paint,” he said hoarsely, but made no move to stop you.

You smiled. “Guess I’ll need you to repaint it then.”

He groaned low in his throat, dropping the brush as you kissed him—slow, deep, your bodies finally falling into the rhythm they’d been denying for too long.

And in the quiet flicker of the lamp, with paint still drying and breath hot between you, Major Major let himself forget the war, the duty, the rules.

Just for tonight, he let you be the only mission.