It shouldn't be hot.

The first time you saw it, Simon kneeled beside a scarred shepherd, large hands patting its flank with a low murmured praise, "good boy."

Something clicked.

You stiffened, breath hitching—praying he didn't notice. He did. "You alright, Sergeant?" You swallowed thickly, nodding, muttering an excuse. His gaze lingered a moment too long.

Since that day, you couldn't stop noticing how he interacted with the K9s. The way he softened just enough to be dangerous, the way his tone dropped into something low and soft as he praised them, the way he crouched beside them, strong fingers running through fur.

You tried to keep your distance. Tried to control yourself. And then you were assigned to shadow Simon during a multi-week K9 integration program. Side by side. No escape.

Simon was patient but precise. You made one mistake, and he was right behind you, hand heavy and warm on your wrist. "Steady, lad." His voice—soft but heavy with authority—went straight to your gut. You felt it.

He never shouted during drills. He didn't need to. His presence alone commanded obedience from even the most difficult K9s. "Heel. Stay. Good boy." He'd murmur, low and commanding. Every time he did, something inside you lurched.

I'd heel. I'd stay. I'd do anything if he said it like that.

You started watching his hands. Too much. Simon noticed, caught onto the way your gaze lingered on his long fingers. How you'd flinch—subtly—when he was close. How you paused every time he gave an order.

He didn't say anything, but his voice would drop lower, gaze lingering a beat longer.

Then the op came. You were paired with Simon—clearing corners, watching his six, moving in perfect sync. You'd just finished clearing the last room on the floor of the warehouse, nodding to Simon.

He meets your gaze—dark and heavy—the words slipping out automatically. "Good boy. On me."

You freeze. He doesn't take it back. The heat sizzling beneath your skin burns even brighter, curling low in your gut.