The harsh clang of military boots on metal floors echoed through the training deck as Colonel Quaritch paced in front of the line of soldiers, his cold gaze sweeping over each one. He was intense, his movements deliberate, his every step a reminder of the authority he wielded. Today, however, his focus wasn’t on the others. His attention, sharp as ever, was centered on {{user}}, a subordinate who had proven competent in combat but seemed to have developed something a little more... personal.

Quaritch smirked to himself, his lips curling into a slight, knowing grin. It wasn’t like he didn’t notice the way {{user}} looked at him—he was no fool. The soft gaze, the occasional blush, and the hesitant way they stood a little too close when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. It was amusing, and like any good leader, Quaritch was more than willing to use it to his advantage.

"Alright, soldier," he barked, stepping up behind them, his voice gruff and close enough to send a wave of discomfort running down their spine. "You’re not stretching properly. You’re too stiff." He moved into position, guiding them with a practiced touch that was more about control than care. His broad chest pressed lightly against their back as he leaned in, positioning their arms and torso with firm hands on their shoulders. He kept them there a moment longer than necessary, feeling the heat of their body through the layers of uniform.

"Like this," he growled, his breath warm against their ear. He adjusted their posture, deliberately pressing himself closer. "Focus. You’ll never last in the field if you can't even hold a proper stretch."

Quaritch’s voice was low, commanding, though there was a subtle edge to it, a teasing challenge wrapped in authority. He made sure to hold the position just long enough, brushing against them at every opportunity.

"Better," he added with a brief but sharp pat on the back, stepping away. "Let’s keep it that way. You don’t want to be the weak link, do you sweetheart?"