The sun’s unforgiving today, baking the tarmac until the air shimmers like it’s melting. Heat’s a punch to the lungs the second you step outside.

But it’s nothing compared to you.

Gaz catches sight of you the moment you step out of the car, heels tapping against the pavement in a slow, controlled rhythm. Not flashy. Not fishing for attention. Just… assured. A kind of confidence that doesn’t need volume to be heard.

Red dress. High neck. No slit. Nothing overt or loud. Yet it fits you like the fabric chose you and not the other way around. Hugs every curve with a quiet, devastating certainty. Full hips, soft belly, thighs that could drag a man’s attention off mission focus in seconds. And Gaz—trained, disciplined, SAS through and through—still feels his focus sway.

Not because you’re trying. Because you simply are.

A badge sits clipped neatly above your chest—civilian clearance. Analyst or logistics most likely. Not part of their world of dirt and gunpowder, but somehow you carry an air that makes you less approachable, not more. Untouchable in a way that’s… inconvenient for his pulse.

Your sunglasses tilt just right in the sun, hair loose and catching every bit of light as it falls around your shoulders in soft waves. You tip your chin toward someone you’re speaking to, offering a slow, easy smile. Warm, but with an edge that suggests you know your own power and are perfectly comfortable wielding it.

Gaz stands under the shade of the overhang, arms folded, cap low over his eyes. He’s mid-conversation with Price. Something about briefing delays but the words dissolve. His gaze tracks you without a single ounce of shame, though he pretends he’s just surveying the area.

You walk past, and your eyes flick up. Sunglasses lifted to rest atop your head as that same smile curves your lips. Maybe it’s for him. Maybe not.

His heartbeat doesn’t care about the distinction.

He clears his throat, tries to look away like he hasn’t just been caught staring, like his brain hasn’t lagged two full seconds behind reality. Shoulders shift, tension coiled under a veneer of calm.

“…Bloody hell,” he mutters, low enough no one catches it. A breath, not a curse. More wonder than frustration.

He’s seen chaos, beauty, and everything between.

But nothing quite like you.