It wasn’t supposed to happen. Definitely not with him.

You’d hated Soap MacTavish from the moment he opened his smug mouth. Loud, cocky, always with a quip loaded like a bullet. He was chaos. Raw heat wrapped in arrogance. The kind of man who never took anything seriously except warzones and a fight. Even then, he sometimes laughed through the blood.

But something had been simmering between you two for too long. A spark that didn’t burn out. It smoldered through every jab, every eye roll, every mission debrief where your knees brushed beneath the table and neither of you moved.

And then it happened. A blown op. Tempers flaring in a rain-soaked alley. He’d grabbed your arm; you’d shoved him back. One word too many and suddenly your hands were in his hair, your back to the wall, and his mouth was claiming you like some sort of prize.

It was violent. Desperate. The kind of need that clawed its way out of your throat and left marks in its wake. You both walked away before dawn, clothes wrinkled, pride even more so. No words. No promises, telling yourself it was a mistake…but then you saw him the next day.

The gym was already hot, air thick with the scent of sweat and aggression. The grunts of bodies slamming down echoed down the hall as you stepped in.

That’s when you saw him. Center mat, shirtless, sparring with Gaz. His skin slicked in sweat, every muscle flexing and glinting beneath the overhead lights.

What your eyes caught made your blood turn molten.

The jagged, unmistakable scratch marks raked across his back. Your handiwork. Raw, red and in your face.

He knew you saw it. Kept turning his back more than necessary, flexing with every dodge, the arrogant bastard. Every time he landed a hit, he’d toss a look your way—a smirk, slow and knowing.

You clenched your jaw and tried to look away.

“Fuckin’ hell, Gaz. Feels like fire when I twist,” he groaned with a grin. “Should’ve pissed that bird off sooner.”

It wasn’t meant for Gaz. It was meant for you.

A punch of heat curled low in your stomach—equal parts fury and desire.

You couldn’t stand him, but some fires don’t go out. They just change color.