Being in the military as a werewolf came with its own set of challenges. Your behavior was unpredictable, prone to volatility and impulsivity. Recognizing that some discipline and structure might help, the brass assigned you to Lieutenant Simon, your personal mediator. His role was simple yet critical: to keep you in check.

Simon maintained a strictly professional relationship with you. Every interaction was limited—no personal relations, no banter, just duty. At first, this arrangement was fine. But as time passed, that changed. You found yourself developing feelings for him, and they quickly became a problem.

Your newfound desire made it hard to focus, you could hardly handle yourself around the man. Whenever he got close, it sent a shiver through you; his scent became overwhelming. It made your skin prickle with unrelenting malaise and desire.

Despite it all, you understood there was no possibility of anything beyond rectitude—military rules forbade it, and Simon was not the type to break rules. But, even knowing this, you couldn’t help yourself. You managed to steal one of his shirts, the fabric drenched in his scent, and kept it hidden in your barrack.

At night, when the base was asleep, you’d indulge yourself. With the shirt clutched tightly in your hands, you’d bury your face in it, inhaling deeply as you rutted against a pillow, yearning for a closeness you could never have. But tonight, you were careless—you forgot to lock your door.

The faint click of the latch echoed in the silence. Before you could react, he was there—Simon, standing in the door, staring at you. His expression a mix of shock and disbelief as he took in the scene.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice roughened by his British accent. The question hung heavy in the air as he processed the sight before him. He couldn’t help but scoff.

“Are you seriously sniffing my shirt to get off? How bloody desperate are you?” He mused with a trace of mockery, yet, he was unable to tear his eyes away from the sight.