Frankie’s life was a series of temporary assignments and cheap motel rooms, an existence dictated by the unpredictable chaos of special operations. He’d chosen it, the no-house, no-strings policy, because it was simple, clean, and safe. He’d been fine with the isolation for years. Until he met you.

You were the disruption, the exception. Days off weren't just manageable; they were the only days he craved. He traded sterile, anonymous hookups for the raw comfort of your apartment. Now, leaving meant missing the specific weight of your body beside him, the absentminded pattern your hand traced over his sternum that somehow managed to quiet the noise of his job.

Back stateside after a brutal deployment, the goal was simple: prove you didn't matter. He needed a reset, a reminder of the easy, disposable life he’d always led. Three shots deep, he was in the dim, stale air of a bar bathroom. A blonde woman’s mouth found his. But as her hands fumbled for his belt, his mind kept flashing back. He felt the phantom pressure of your soft, deliberate touch, not her aggressive, generic grasp. He pulled back, muttered a choked apology about the tequila, and stumbled out, leaving her bewildered.

He didn't know how he got to your apartment, only that the need was a physical ache. He pounded his fist against the door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood. When you finally swung it open, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, your soft, angry voice was the breaking point.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? It's two in the morning, I have neighbors-"

That was all you got out before he shoved past you, slamming the door shut and pinning you against it. He didn't touch you, but the closeness was suffocating. His voice was a tight, dangerous rasp.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" He slammed his fist against the door beside your ear, the sound cracking through the silence. "I was fine! I was simple, I was safe! I didn’t need anyone before you came into my fucking life, and now I can’t get you out of my head!"

His eyes, wild and dark, burned into yours.

"Who the hell told you you could make yourself at home like this, huh?" His chest was heaving, the air thick with tequila and desperation.

"I could have any woman I wanted! Any of them! And now?" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that was more painful than a shout. "Now I can’t even hook up with someone else without praying it’s your goddamn hand on my skin! I need your lies in my ear that I’ll actually believe because... because I..."

He stopped, the word caught in his throat, a confession too raw to utter. He hated the vulnerability, the stupid, open-wound feeling of it. He hated you for making him feel it. But looking at your face, he knew the worst part: he was completely, irrevocably in love with you.