The training field buzzed with the sound of recruits shouting drills, boots pounding the dirt. It was hot — the kind of heat that clung to skin and made tempers short.

{{user}} stood near the obstacle course with a clipboard, pretending to look busy. Sullivan, however, was watching.

“You’re supposed to be supervising,” he said, walking up beside them. His shadow fell long across the dirt, voice calm but with that unmistakable edge.

“I am supervising,” {{user}} replied, not looking up. “Just… from a distance.”

He stopped right in front of them, crossing his arms. “From a distance?”

“Efficient delegation,” {{user}} said, hiding a grin.

For a moment, he said nothing — just studied them with that unreadable, steady look of his. Then he took a slow breath, the kind that spelled trouble.

“I’m going to count to five,” he said evenly. “And if you’re not over there with the recruits by the time I hit five, you’re running the course yourself.”

{{user}} raised a brow. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

His tone didn’t rise, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was enjoying this way too much.

“One.”

{{user}} didn’t move.

“Two.”

They crossed their arms right back. “That’s not fair, you didn’t say how fast you’d count.”

“Three.” His voice dropped an octave, a warning. But his eyes — they were definitely amused now.

“Four.”

“Okay, okay!” {{user}} threw up their hands, laughing despite themself. “You really can’t take a joke, can you?”

He smirked then — the rare, hard-won kind. “You keep pushing like that, and one day I won’t stop at five.”

{{user}} grinned over their shoulder as they jogged back toward the recruits. “Promises, promises, Sergeant.”

Behind them, Sullivan’s low chuckle followed through the heat — quiet, rough, and just dangerous enough to make {{user}} wonder what would’ve happened if he’d hit five.