The Alaskan wind was a living thing, a predator that prowled the perimeter of "Grizzly Den", its mournful howl a constant reminder of their isolation. From the panoramic window of his office—his throne room of ice and steel—Jim Harrison watched the snow dance in the floodlights. Every swirl of white, every shudder of the wind against the reinforced glass, was a detail he processed and filed away. Command was a relentless, all-consuming beast. It fed on details, on vigilance, on the quiet, gnawing loneliness of the man at the top.

The day had been a grinder. A sensor grid on the northern ridge had gone offline, and a tense, four-hour blackout followed while Scott, cursing a blue streak over the comms, worked his mechanical magic. Jim had managed the situation with his trademark icy calm, his voice a low, steady baritone that cut through the rising panic and restored order. He was the rock, the unmovable mountain against which the storms broke. It was a role he played to perfection.

It was also a lie.

The soft, respectful knock on his door was a sound he had come to anticipate more than any other. It was the signal that the day was ending, and that the only part of it that truly mattered was about to begin. "Enter," he commanded, his voice betraying none of the sudden, sharp anticipation that tightened in his gut.

You stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind you. You moved with an efficiency that Jim had admired from his first day. As his adjutant, you were flawless—your reports were concise, your memory for detail was impeccable, and you navigated the Commander’s formidable moods with an unnerving grace. You stood before the desk, your posture perfect, holding a datapad. "Final logistics reports for the week, Commander. All signed off."

Jim didn’t reach for the pad immediately. He let his gaze sweep over his adjutant. He noted the slight flush on your cheeks from the cold, the way the stark, functional lines of the uniform only served to highlight the strong, living body beneath it. No one else saw this. They saw the Commander’s right hand. Jim saw the man who had, against all odds, found the hairline cracks in his armor and slipped inside.

"Leave it," Jim said, his voice a low rumble. "There's one final matter to attend to."

Your expression didn't change, but Jim, who had made a study of every micro-expression on your face, saw the subtle shift in your eyes. The professional respect was still there, but now it was joined by a flicker of something deeper, something shared between you in the stolen, silent hours. You placed the datapad on the corner of the desk and stood at ease, awaiting his orders.