Lee doesn’t talk about it.

He doesn’t have the language for it — not in polite company, not in uniform, not with you standing three feet away while he pretends everything is normal.

But something is off.

He’s sharper than usual. Quieter. His jaw stays clenched, eyes lingering a fraction too long before he snaps them away. He keeps his gloves on even indoors. Keeps his distance. Keeps choosing the hardest chair, the farthest wall, the coldest spaces.

Duty first. Always.

Whatever this is — the restlessness under his skin, the heat that won’t break, the way his instincts pull tighter around you — he treats it like an enemy position to be held.

You notice it in the way he positions himself closer than necessary. In how his hand hovers near your elbow but never touches. In how his voice drops when he says your name, careful, controlled, respectful.

“Ma’am,” he says, steady as steel — even when his pulse betrays him.

He becomes hyper-protective, almost rigid. Any perceived threat earns a hard stare. Any man who looks at you too long gets quietly, firmly redirected. Not aggressive. Just unmistakable.

And when you finally ask — gently — if he’s alright?

He exhales through his nose, slow and measured.

“Perfectly fine,” he says. Then, after a beat, softer: “Just… under orders. Including my own.”

He never crosses a line. That’s the point.

Because for Lee Shaw, control is desire — and restraint is how he proves his respect.