You were sitting cross-legged on the hood of a truck, warm bottle of beer in hand, sweat still drying across your collarbone from the last round of drills. Frank stood a few feet away with his sleeves rolled up, cigarette between his fingers and an amused smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You always drink like that?” he asked, eyes flicking down to the way your lips rested on the rim of the bottle.

You looked over the top of it. “Like what?”

“Like it owes you something.”

You snorted. “Maybe it does.”

He chuckled low in his throat, took a drag, and blew the smoke out to the side. You watched the way it curled around the late afternoon light, how it framed his jaw, then kept watching even after the smoke was gone. He noticed. He liked it.

“You keep starin’ at me like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you want somethin’, sweetheart.”

You leaned back on your palms and tilted your head. “And what if I do?”

He stepped closer. Boots thudding slow over gravel. He set the cigarette down on the truck’s hood and planted a hand right next to your hip. “Then I’d say don’t start somethin’ you don’t plan on finishing.”

His voice dropped when he said it. Not a threat, not a promise—just that low, thick tone that settled somewhere in your stomach and refused to leave.

You reached up, real slow, and tugged on the dog tags resting under his shirt until they clicked free. They hung between you, gleaming in the light. His gaze dropped to your fingers, then slid back up.

“I’m not starting anything,” you said. “I’m just touching.”

“Yeah?” His hand settled on your thigh. Heavy. Warm. “Feels like a start to me.”

You smiled. “You gonna stop me?”

“Nope.” He dragged his thumb along the inside of your thigh. “Just makin’ sure you know where it leads.”

“Frank,” you murmured.

“Yeah, sugar?”

You leaned in, just close enough that your lips nearly brushed his ear.

“I don’t need a map.”