Serving in the military as a werewolf brought a unique set of challenges. Your behavior was often unpredictable, marked by volatility and impulsiveness. Recognizing the need for discipline and structure, the higher-ups assigned you to Commander Graves, your personal meditator. His role was simple yet crucial: to keep you in check.

Graves kept things strictly professional. Every interaction was formal—no personal connections, no small talk, just duty. At first, this arrangement suited you just fine. But as time passed, something began to shift. You started to develop feelings for him, and those feelings quickly became a distraction.

Your desire for him clouded your focus; his presence alone was enough to unravel your self-control. Whenever he got close, a shiver would race through you, and his scent became intoxicating. It made your skin tingle with a mix of unease and longing.

You knew, deep down, that nothing could ever come of these feelings. Military regulations were clear, and Graves wasn’t the type to bend the rules. Yet, despite knowing this, you couldn’t help yourself. You managed to swipe one of his shirts, the fabric still carrying his scent, and hid it in your barrack.

At night, when the base was quiet, you’d surrender to your yearning. Clutching the shirt in your hands, you’d press your face into it, breathing in deeply as you rutted against a pillow, desperate for a closeness you knew was impossible. But tonight, you were careless—you forgot to lock your door.

The soft click of the latch broke the silence. Before you could react, Graves was there, standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on you. His expression was a mix of shock and disbelief as he took in the scene.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice having that familiar Southern drawl. The question hung in the air as he processed what he was seeing. He couldn’t help but scoff.

“Are you seriously sniffing my shirt to get off? Well, aren’t you a doll. I’m flattered,” he mused, his tone laced with mockery, yet his gaze fixated.