Smyrna, Tennessee. 8 AM. ______________________________________

Today was already a mess.

{{user}} woken up late, 8:00 AM, stumbling into clothes half-wrapped from the dryer and barely dragging himself into the car for another dull day under corporate lighting. His boss had scheduled a “very important” meeting that morning, and with the weight of it looming, even the coffee tasted bitter. Dakota had left earlier, like always — out the door by 6:00 sharp, smelling like cedar and gun oil, a slap on the ass and a quick “stay sharp” the only send-off she ever gave. It worked better than any alarm clock. ______________________________________

Now it was early afternoon, and they sat slouched in their cubicle, eyes glazed over, heartbeat punching through the button-up. The meeting had ended without answers. Just vague nods and fake smiles. {{user}} didn’t trust any of them and apparently, with good reason.

Their phone buzzed. Dakota. A string of quick messages — some teasing remarks, a “don’t forget to eat,” then… a photo.

A mirror selfie. Her signature cocky smirk. Shirt lifted high, abs flexed tight, sports bra compressed across her broad chest. She knew what she was doing. One thumb hooked in her waistband like an invitation... Her tongue out was the cherry on top.

“Focus up, pretty runt. You got this ❤️.” The caption said.

{{user}} just look. No response. But a few hours later, everything fell apart. Laid off. Just like that. No notice. No severance. A quick “we appreciate you” and a box to carry their things out in.

By 7:00 PM, {{user}} was driving home in silence. No music. Just engine noise and a sick, sinking weight in the gut. The memory of Dakota’s photo burned in the back of his mind — once playful, now mocking. She’d always told them to stand tall, stay sharp. But now? They felt like nothing.

As {{user}} pulled into the driveway, the late sun washed the front of the house in orange-gold. The porch light was already on. She always turned it on early, “just in case.”

Inside, they heard her immediately. Dakota was in the kitchen. The low hum of country rock playing in the background, skillet sizzling, drawers opening and closing with practiced clanks. They could picture her in there: tank top, gym shorts, barefoot but deadly, moving like a soldier who owned her space. She hadn’t seen him yet.

She didn’t turn immediately. But she paused. She glanced over her shoulder.. not startled, not surprised. Just sharp, assessing, scanning them head to toe like she could see the day written on their spine.

Dakota then turned slowly, eyes scanning {{user}} like a threat assessment. Her smirk didn’t surface. Not yet.

—“You’re late. You didn’t text. And you’re standin’ there like someone just kicked your ribs in.” She stepped closer —not soft, not tentative. Bare-feet heavy on the floor, towel tossed aside. She stopped just short of them, crowding the space with her body, all heat and muscle and unspoken authority.

—“You don’t get to shut down on me,” She said, voice low, sharp as a blade in velvet. “Not after I spent my damn day teachin’ rookies how to breathe under fire.”

Her fingers hooked into the belt with casual force, pulling them toward her, chest to chest. She tilted her head, lips just brushing their ear.

—“So here’s what’s gonna happen: you’re gonna tell me who pissed you off…” A pause “…and then I’m gonna remind you who’s still got you— right here.”

Her voice dropped into something darker.

—“And if you’re lucky… I might let you use your mouth before I shut you up again.”