You never laughed at their jokes, never joined their drinking games, never lingered in the locker room, never even exchanged looks that lasted more than they needed to—you were the quiet one, the one with the too-sweet voice and too-cold eyes, the one who spoke only when the mission demanded it and never once outside of that, not even to him. And maybe that’s why you’ve been in his head from the start, because you were untouchable, unreachable, and still, somehow, all he fucking wanted.

The comms crack open, and your voice slides in, smooth as sin, that usual mix of sugar and ice—sweet enough to make a man ache, sharp enough to keep him from touching.

“Two hostiles. Stationary. East ridge. No visuals on patrol. What’s the call, Lieutenant?”

That word again. Always that fucking word.

But in his head, it’s never “Lieutenant.” It’s “Daddy.” It’s “Sir.” It’s the same voice speaking something totally different, and he’s tried to kill the thought more times than he’s killed men—but this time, it wins.

“…Good girl.”

It comes out low, hungry, a slip he can't undo.