You weren’t sure what possessed you to walk into the training facility right then. Maybe you forgot something. Maybe you just needed an excuse. Either way, you weren’t ready for him.

John was standing in front of the mirror wall, half-dressed in his tactical gear. Chest plate already strapped tight. Gloves on. His black suit hugged every sharp line of his frame, that U.S. Agent star dark and worn but still commanding attention.

He adjusted his collar, jaw tense, his reflection unreadable. You paused in the doorway, trying not to stare. Failing.

“You gonna keep standing there like I owe you a salute?” he asked without turning around.

You blinked. “Sorry—didn’t realize you were—”

He turned, cocking a brow. “Changing? Dressing for war? Trying not to think about what you’d do if I told you to drop to your knees?”

Your stomach twisted. “Is this how you treat your commanding officers?”

He smirked. “You’re not in uniform. So right now?” He stepped toward you slowly, boots heavy on the floor. “You’re just a very pretty problem.”

You should’ve left. You should’ve pulled rank. But when he stood in front of you, the scent of leather and steel clinging to him, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place…

You said nothing.

Just like he wanted.

He leaned down, breath warm at your ear. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

His voice dropped. “That you love a man in uniform.”

Your lips parted. No sound came out. He laughed—quiet, smug, knowing.

“That’s what I thought.”