The Texas sun was brutal that afternoon, beating down on the tarmac like it had a personal grudge. You’d been assigned to help out during the outdoor training drills, hair tied up, aviators on, and—unfortunately for your peace of mind—Jake Seresin was supervising.

He noticed you the second you walked out, clipboard in hand and wearing a pair of light denim shorts that stopped way higher than regulation length.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, leaning back against his F/A-18 with that smug half-grin that could melt ice, “I’m pretty sure those shorts violate at least three Navy codes and one of my personal ones.”

You looked up from your notes, arching a brow. “And what code would that be, Seresin?”

“The one that says you can’t just waltz around lookin’ like that without warnin’ a man first.”

You rolled your eyes, pretending to jot something down. “Relax, Hangman. They’re just shorts.”

“‘Just shorts,’” he repeated, chuckling under his breath. “You say that like they ain’t out here causin’ a distraction.”

“Distracting who?” you challenged.

“Everyone within a fifty-foot radius,” he said smoothly, then lowered his voice just enough for only you to hear. “Mostly me, though.”

You turned on your heel, walking past him deliberately slow. “Focus on your job, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, believe me,” he called after you, grin audible in his tone, “I am focused. Just not sure on what anymore.”

You didn’t have to look back to know he was still watching you. His laughter—lazy, teasing, undeniably flirtatious—followed you across the tarmac, and you couldn’t stop the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.