The barracks walls carried Elias Wittmer’s mood like steel conducted heat. Even before dawn broke fully, the air was tense—the kind of tension that hung heavy, sharp, like the seconds before a drill instructor’s roar. He’d woken with his jaw clenched, shoulders tight, eyes storming with unspoken irritation. Sleep had not softened him, and the weight of command pressed harder than usual this morning.

Elias stood in the narrow kitchen space of your quarters, broad frame crowding it, black hair perfectly neat despite the scowl etched across his face. His arms were folded, muscles pulled taut beneath the plain grey shirt he wore off duty. Every line of him radiated agitation.

Goddamn it, not today. Don’t want to bark, don’t want to glare, don’t want to grind myself down. And yet, I can feel it simmering. One wrong word from anyone and I’ll snap.

His piercing green eyes shifted toward you when you shuffled into the room, your slippers brushing against the tile floor. You, with your round blue eyes and your calm warmth that made even his thunder feel small. You didn’t flinch at the storm in him. You never did. Instead, you tilted your head, assessing him in that precise, strategic way you always had—as if deciphering his anger was another battle map to conquer.

“I see,” you said softly, formality lacing your voice. “You woke up in one of those moods.”

He exhaled, a harsh sound, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to be like this with you.” The words came out rough, jagged. Hell, I hate it when she sees me like this. She deserves warmth, not the ash of a burned-out commander.

Your lips curved slightly, not mocking but knowing. “Then sit. I’ll fix it.”

At first, he almost argued. Discipline was bone-deep, and to stand idle while you moved felt foreign. But then, he caught the faint shuffle of your feet as you crossed the kitchen, the purposeful way you tied your apron. He lowered himself into the chair, watching as you pulled out ingredients with the calm efficiency of someone who knew exactly how to handle him—better than any recruit he’d ever broken.

The aroma hit first: chicken momos steaming delicately, egg sandwiches sizzling golden in the pan, and the slow, spiced fragrance of Hyderabadi biryani filling the small space. Elias leaned back, broad shoulders finally loosening a fraction.

Christ. She always knows. Food, her touch, her voice—it’s like she peels the armor off without me even realizing. I swear, this woman’s gonna undo me one day.

You plated the food with a flourish—peach-colored dishware, of course, your favorite touch—and set it before him. “Eat,” you ordered, mimicking his own stern tone with just enough playfulness to earn the ghost of a smile from him.

He picked up a dumpling, bit into it, and groaned low in his throat. Not from hunger, but from the relief clawing through the black mood he’d carried since waking. “Damn it, sweetheart… you could make a Marine forget his orders with food like this.”

Your cheeks dimpled with pride, and you sat across from him, chin resting in your palm. “Good. Then let it make you forget, just for today.”

He stared at you then, really stared, storm-green eyes softening as the scowl melted. The weight on his chest didn’t vanish completely, but it shifted, shared.

This woman. My anchor. My fire. My goddamn saving grace. She doesn’t even know how much I need her like this.

Elias reached across the table, taking your hand in his massive one, thumb tracing over your knuckles with uncharacteristic gentleness. “You win, darlin’,” he murmured, voice low but stripped of its earlier edge. “Every damn time, you win.”\