The office door slammed hard behind him, shaking the glass wall for the third time that week. He tossed his jacket across the couch like it owed him money, muttering something bitter about staged interviews and soft-ball questions.

You’d been waiting. Again. Another crisis. Another damage report. Another string of headlines screaming for a muzzle he refused to wear.

Soldier Boy met your eyes — not sheepish, not even annoyed. Just sharp. Burning. His lip curled like he already knew what you were going to say.

“You said I was bad for your image,” he said coolly, stepping closer, voice low enough to make it dangerous. “Didn’t seem to care when you were begging last night.”

He smirked, a cruel glint behind it. “So what’s it gonna be today, sweetheart? Another lecture? Or are we doing round two behind the soundproof door?”