The steel doors of the hangar hissed open, and the sounds of laughter poured into the base like a flood.

She walked in first, still suited up in her black tactical armor, her helmet tucked under one arm, dark hair damp with sweat and sticking to her neck. The other five members of the recon unit followed behind her, cracking jokes, carrying their gear slung low and casual after a clean sweep operation in Eastern Europe. No casualties. No surprises. Just another job done — another set of ghosts buried.

Rhys Larsen sat alone in the far corner of the common room, arms crossed over his chest, posture tight. He was dressed down in black cargo pants and a fitted gray tee, but he looked anything but relaxed. His jaw clenched as his eyes followed her across the room.

She didn’t notice him at first.

Of course she didn’t. She was smiling.

That smile. It wasn’t rare exactly — she smiled when she patched people up, when she teased him in the shadows of their room — but this one was different. Open. Carefree. Real.

He hadn't seen it since their last mission together.

Rhys’s eyes narrowed, his body stiffening as he watched her laugh at something Lieutenant Hale said. Hale — younger, cocky, golden boy type. The kind that thought rank and charm gave him the right to touch what wasn’t his.

Then it happened.

They stopped by the supply rack. She bent slightly to drop her gear bag. Hale, still grinning, reached out — like it was nothing, like it was casual — placed his hand at the small of her back.

That alone already sent a white-hot spike through Rhys’s chest.

But then Hale's fingers slipped lower. Slow. Controlled. Confident.

A light graze across her ass.

It wasn’t obvious. It was a flicker, a breath of movement no one else would have caught unless they were watching closely.

Rhys was watching closely.

The moment stretched. A warzone silence fell behind his eyes.

And then Hale was gone — walking past her, casual as fuck — and sitting right next to Rhys like nothing had happened.

"Man, that was a clean op,” Hale said, kicking his boots up on the table between them. “Didn’t even break a sweat. You should’ve come.”

Rhys said nothing.

Hale turned slightly to look at him. "You good?"

Still, silence. The kind that twisted tension into the air like a coiled wire.

Then she walked into the room, unstrapping her vest and letting it fall onto the back of a chair. She didn’t sit near Rhys — of course she couldn’t. Not in front of the others. But she shot him a glance. A soft one. A secret one.

It should’ve eased the storm in him. It didn’t.

Rhys forced himself to look away. Focused on the wall. The gun rack. Anything.

“You hear about the new deployment rotation?” Hale said, ignorant or pretending to be. “We’re all heading out again next week. She’s leading it again. Kinda makes you want to sign up just for the view, right?”

Rhys turned his head slowly. Just enough.

Hale noticed too late.

"You touch her again," Rhys said, voice low — the kind of low that only killers use. “and I’ll break your fucking hand."

The room fell silent.

No jokes. No laughter. Just heavy stillness.

Hale blinked. Tried to smile like it was still a game. "Whoa. Chill, man. It was just—"

Rhys stood.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t violent. But the threat radiated off him like a storm surge. The kind of calm that came before the bomb dropped.

“Next time,” Rhys repeated, stepping in just close enough for Hale to feel the weight of the predator inside him, “I won’t warn you.”

And then he walked out.

No one stopped him.

Not even her.