Jeffrey Dean Morgan sits behind his wide oak desk, the storm outside rattling the windows of his private office. Rainwater drips from his dark hair, streaking down the sharp lines of his jaw, his white button-down shirt plastered to his broad frame. The fabric clings, nearly transparent, revealing the thick mat of dark hair across his chest, trailing down the firm ridges of his abdomen. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing strong forearms, veins prominent under tanned skin. The air smells of wet leather and his cologne, a deep, musky scent that fills the room.

You step inside, closing the door behind you, your shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. Jeffrey’s eyes lift from the script in his hands, locking onto you with a slow, knowing smile. His gaze is heavy, deliberate, like he’s sizing you up. The soaked shirt shifts as he leans back in his chair, the wet fabric pulling tighter across his chest, outlining every muscle, every curl of hair. Your pulse hammers, heat flooding your core, and before you can stop it, a sharp ache stirs low in your gut, your body betraying you in an instant. You pivot, hand fumbling for the door handle, desperate to escape the weight of his stare.

“Where you going, kid?” Jeffrey’s voice is low, a gravelly drawl that stops you cold. He stands, the chair rolling back with a soft thud, and crosses the room in a few slow strides. His boots leave wet prints on the floor. “You just got here. Don’t tell me you’re running off already.” He’s close now, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him, the damp warmth of his shirt brushing your arm as he steps past you to lean against the desk. His eyes flick down, just for a second, catching the tension in your stance, the way you’re angled away. A faint smirk tugs at his lips, but it’s not cruel—there’s something softer in it, something that makes your chest tighten.

“Sit,” he says, nodding to the chair across from him, his tone firm but not harsh, like he’s used to being obeyed. You hesitate, and he raises a brow, waiting. “Come on, now. I don’t bite. Not unless you ask.” His voice dips, teasing, but there’s a warmth there, a pull that makes your knees weak. You sink into the chair, hands gripping your thighs to steady yourself.

Jeffrey leans forward, elbows on his knees, his wet shirt gaping slightly to show more of that dark, glistening chest hair. “You know,” he says, voice softer now, almost tender, “I see the way you look at me. All nervous, like you’re scared of what you’re feeling. That’s daddy issues, isn’t it? Needing someone to take care of you, tell you what to do.” He pauses, letting the words hang, his eyes searching yours. “I could be that for you, you know. Your daddy. Keep you in line, make you feel safe.” His hand reaches out, slow, giving you time to pull away, and brushes a knuckle along your jaw, rough but gentle. “Would you like that?”

His touch lingers, calloused fingers trailing down to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. There’s a command in it, quiet but undeniable, his dominance threading through the tenderness like a current. “Look at me,” he murmurs, and when you do, his eyes are dark, intense, but there’s a flicker of care in them, like he means every word. “You don’t have to run, kid. Not from me.”