The apartment yawns out in front of us—bare walls, cheap carpet, boxes half-unpacked, a sagging couch that came with the lease. No posters. No trophies. No life yet. Just the shell of a place I haven’t had time to make mine.
Because I didn’t come here for home.
I came here for the Reapers.
For him.
The door shuts behind me with a heavythunk. And then he’s inside, his shoulders filling up the whole narrow entryway, his silence following me in like a second shadow.
And my stomach flips, because for the first time in two weeks, this place doesn’t feel empty.
He doesn’t take another step, doesn’t shed his jacket, doesn’t glance at the half-unpacked boxes stacked in the corner.
He just leans back against the door, broad shoulders blocking out the whole world, eyes locked on me like I’m prey stupid enough to trap myself in here with him.
“Strip.”
One word. Low. Steel.
My breath punches out of me. My fingers twitch stupid at my sides.
If anyone walked in right now, they’d think this was a mugging. Six-foot-five monster with fists like wrecking balls pinning a rookie in his own entryway. They’d see me trembling, see my jacket still clinging to my shoulders, my throat working around a desperate swallow—and they’d think I hated it.
I don’t.
Christ, I don’t.
I love every single second.
I love that he doesn’t need to move, doesn’t need to raise his voice, doesn’t need to do a damn thing butorder, and my body obeys before my brain can catch up. I love that my heart’s trying to beat out of me and I’m shaking like I’ll fall apart—and still, I want it.
“Captain—”
“Now, Elias.”
His tone doesn’t rise. Doesn’t shift. Calm as a blade in the dark. And that’s what undoes me.
My hands fly up. My jacket slips off my shoulders, sliding to the floor. My shirt follows, curls brushing my cheeks when I yank it over my head. My jeans fight me—trembling fingers fumbling at the button, zipper snagging, keys still rattling useless in the pocket.
I drop them. They clatter on the floor again, loud, humiliating.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches.
My face burns hotter. My breath stutters louder. I shove the denim down my thighs, stumble out of them, kick them aside until I’m standing there in nothing but boxers and socks.
I don’t dare meet his gaze. I stare at the carpet instead, eyes wide, throat dry, trembling like I’ve been dragged here against my will.
But the truth—the filthy, terrifying truth—is that I’ve never wanted anything more.
Then his hand lifts.
Not fast. Not harsh. Just two fingers rising, curling in the faintest command.
“Here.”
My knees almost give out.
Because it isn’t a suggestion. It isn’t a test. It’s an order, simple and final, spoken like gravity itself. And my body reacts before my brain can argue.
