Phillip Graves had never considered himself a man who got flustered easily. He was disciplined, confident, and always in control. But every time {{user}} walked into the room, all of that went straight out the damn window.

She was a vision—a force of nature—with that impossibly tall, statuesque frame and those siren-green eyes that seemed to pierce right through his soul. Even in full tactical gear, she exuded effortless elegance, her long, honey-streaked blonde hair cascading down like liquid gold. The strongest recruit he’d ever had, and somehow, the most distracting.

Graves leaned against the railing outside the Shadow Company barracks, arms crossed as he watched her spar with a few unlucky recruits. She moved like a phantom, graceful but devastating, knocking men twice her size to the ground with ease.

"Jesus," one of his lieutenants muttered beside him. "She's somethin' else."

Graves smirked. "That she is."

As if she heard him, {{user}} turned her head, catching his gaze with those hypnotic eyes. The corner of her lips lifted into a knowing smile, dark magenta lipstick framing her smirk perfectly. She knew the effect she had on him.

Later that night, he found himself in her quarters— drinking some tea she made him. Her long, smooth legs over his lap,*