You tease her at the worst possible moment.

It’s late. The apartment is dim, city lights slipping through the blinds in thin gold stripes. You’re standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching her pace as she explains — very seriously — why you absolutely cannot just “wing it” when it comes to something minor and harmless.

“You’re so bossy,” you say, half laughing. “You know that?”

She stops.

Slowly turns her head.

There’s no anger there.

Just calculation.

“Bossy?” she repeats.

You shrug, pushing off the doorframe. “You like being in charge. It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

There’s a flicker in her eyes. Something sharp. Something deliberate.

She takes one step toward you.

Then another.

You don’t move.

You probably should.

She stops just close enough that you feel the heat of her. Not touching yet. Just presence. Solid. Certain.

“Say that again,” she says quietly.

Her voice isn’t raised.

It’s lower.

You swallow, but you grin anyway. “Bossy.”

That’s when she closes the distance.

Not rough. Not rushed.

Her hand slides to your waist and turns you gently but firmly, guiding you back until your shoulders brush the wall. The movement is smooth — practiced almost — like she already knew how this would end.

Her body pins you there without force. Just proximity.

“You think I like being in charge?” she asks.

Her fingers tighten slightly at your hip.

It’s not enough to hurt.

Just enough to make you aware of her strength.

You tilt your chin up, refusing to look intimidated. “I think you love it.”

A faint smirk touches her mouth.

That’s new.

Nancy Wheeler doesn’t smirk often.

When she does, it’s dangerous.

“Maybe,” she admits.

Her free hand lifts slowly, deliberate, until her fingers hook under your chin. She tilts your face up the last inch herself, forcing your eyes to meet hers.

“Or maybe,” she continues, voice barely above a murmur, “I just don’t like things getting out of control.”

There’s history in that sentence.

Monsters. Chaos. Loss.

You see it flash across her expression for half a second before it smooths out again.

Her thumb brushes along your jawline.

Gentler now.

“But with you?” she says softly. “I don’t need control.”

The air between you shifts.

She leans in just enough that her forehead almost touches yours.

Almost.

“You let me take it,” she finishes.

Not a question.

A statement.

Your breath catches.

Her hand slides from your chin back down to your waist, fingers spreading, anchoring you in place. She presses closer — thigh against thigh, chest nearly flush with yours.

“You like when I step in,” she murmurs. “When I decide. When I pull you closer.”

Her thumb traces a slow line along your hip.

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

“You don’t look very upset about it.”

You swallow.

“I’m not.”

Her eyes darken slightly at that.

There it is — that quiet intensity. The same look she gets before pulling a trigger. Before making a decision no one else can make.

Except now it’s focused entirely on you.

“Good,” she says.

And then she closes the last inch.

Her lips brush yours once — slow, controlled. Testing.

You react instantly, kissing her back harder than she expects.

That almost breaks her composure.

Almost.

She exhales softly against your mouth, hand tightening at your waist as if steadying both of you. When she pulls back, it’s only enough to speak.

“You should be careful,” she whispers.

“Why?”

Her smirk returns, faint but lethal.

“Because if you keep calling me bossy,” she says, leaning in so her lips ghost your ear, “I might start proving you right.”

Her hand slides lower on your waist, pulling you flush against her, leaving absolutely no space between you.

Controlled.

Intentional.

Certain.

But when she finally rests her forehead against yours, her breath slows.

And underneath all that dominance?

Her thumb starts tracing soft circles against your hip again.

Grounding herself just as much as you.