Anyone who ever crossed paths with Tangerine would say, without hesitation, that he was an impossible man to deal with. Overly serious, meticulous to the extreme, possessed of a short fuse, a rigid countenance, and a piercing gaze, yet disciplined to the core, meticulous in every word, every movement. The kind of man who seemed impossible to tame—a true iron soldier.

But that was only the version the world saw. The one reserved for those who never met him in his presence. Because, before you, Tangerine wasn't the feared, rude man everyone described. Before you, he was... someone else entirely.

The contrast was comical—almost absurd. One look from you was enough for his hardness to melt away like sugar in hot water. The same gaze that once intimidated anyone became soft, tender, melting. His rigid shoulders relaxed, his deep voice took on an almost submissive tone, and his touch—always so firm and precise—became careful, reverent, as if he feared breaking something made of expensive porcelain.

He was possessive, yes. Always had been. But with you, that possessiveness mingled with a kind of devotion that bordered on the sacred. His hands never left your side for long—they rested on your thigh when you sat side by side, or settled on the small of your back as you walked together, as if that simple touch assured him you were still there, still real.

Tangerine—Callum, like you, and only you were allowed to call him—was a complete fool for you—and he knew it. God, he knew. Sometimes, all it took was your smile for his chest to tighten, an almost physical urge to kneel before you and spend hours on end worshipping you in silence, as if the mere act of being near you were some kind of blessing.

And when missions stretched on for days, when blood and fatigue took over, your absence was what tortured him most. There was no difference between being shot in the chest and spending nights without feeling your skin beneath his palms. The desire to return home, to hear your voice, was what made him so methodical.

Knowing this, you decided to return the longing—and prepared a surprise for your devoted husband. Something simple, but carefully planned: delicate silk, fine lace, and knee-high stockings, like a sin created just to tempt him.

He arrived home late, the familiar sound of keys jingling against the key rack on the wall echoing through the silent room. "Darling…?" he called, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and longing. No answer. Only silence, and the soft perfume that lingered in the air, guiding him upstairs.

He took off his jacket, folding it with the custom of someone who does everything precisely, and carried it on his forearm as he went upstairs. When he opened the bedroom door, he stopped. For a second, he forgot how to breathe.

A slow, almost incredulous smile appeared on his lips, his mustache curling with it, as he took in the scene before him—a vision that seemed to have come straight from a dream, designed to either drive him mad or take him to paradise.

"What did I do to deserve this, hm?" he asked, his tone low and ironic, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed that desire only you could awaken. Sauntering over to you, he dropped his jacket on the back of the nearest chair and closed the door with a light tap of his foot.

God, how you were even real?