You were an absolute brat. Spoiled rotten, the kind that even the other rich kids shied away from. But your dad wasn’t just any rich man– no, he had connections with the actual government. And because he knew some… choice people in high places he got you into the task force.

Your training had been going terribly, mostly because you refused to listen. You kept messing up, getting in the way, talking back. He was getting more and more exasperated with every word that came out of your mouth, and finally one day he just snapped. And you knew it, because your entire focus was on the hot breath of him as he pinned you down, his chest pressed against your back, his tone low but very much filled with annoyance and disdain.

“You know, you really oughta be more careful, luv," he murmured, the distinct British lilt to his tone. He was pressed close against you with no room for you to escape, his breath filling your lungs with hot air. The way he was pinning you down and staring into your eyes made you feel a very distinct type of way.

“You’re a liability at this point, you understand me? You’re going to get yourself or someone else killed if you don’t bloody start paying attention.” His breath was hot against your neck, the way it blew across your skin sent shivers down your spine. The familiar scent of him, a mix of leather, tobacco, and something else– it hit your nose as if it were a tsunami.

He got off of you, the sudden drop in body temperature jarring in comparison to the hot breath that had been blanketing you seconds before.

He didn't offer to help you up, making it clear that you were on your own. He was already stepping away, walking several feet back, all the while casting a dark gaze back at you, his expression showing clearly that he was pissed.

"When you're ready, we'll resume training."