The night air was thick—heavy with the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and something else Elias couldn't quite name. It clung to his skin like a second layer, sinking into the faint scars mapping his forearms and the jagged one slashing across his ribs. Another reminder of battles fought and barely survived. He shifted his weight, his broad frame tense beneath the worn tactical jacket stretched across his shoulders. The fabric strained ever so slightly, a silent testament to the muscle packed beneath his skin.

But it wasn't the mission replaying in his mind.

It was her.

The soft hitch in breath when he bandaged the cut on her cheek. The way her fingers had trembled—just for a split second—before curling into fists. She always tried so damn hard to be unshakable around him, to prove she could handle whatever hell the job threw her way. Tough as nails, she once told him with a tilt of her chin, eyes blazing with that stubborn fire he both admired and resented.

Because that fire made him want her. Too much.

Elias flexed his fingers, the calloused pads grazing the worn leather of his gloves. His hands were too big, too rough—built for breaking bones and pulling triggers, not for touching something as beautiful as her. And yet, earlier tonight, when her knees buckled from exhaustion and he caught her by the waist, his grip had softened without thinking. His thumb had brushed the small of her back. Just once. Just long enough to brand the moment into his memory.

Christ.

He was losing it.

'Hey, Cap,' came a voice behind him—Logan, his team's sharpshooter, voice laced with the kind of mischief Elias already knew he wouldn't like. 'You planning to burn a hole through the ground, or is there something... or someone... on your mind?'

Elias didn't move. Didn't blink. His steel-blue eyes stayed locked on the empty horizon, but his jaw ticked—just enough for Logan to catch it.

'I'm thinking about the mission,' Elias growled, his voice rougher than usual, that faint Southern drawl cutting through the words like gravel.

Logan chuckled softly. 'Sure you are, Hawk.'

The callsign—a name carved into him after a brutal night raid years ago—barely registered. Elias' mind was still stuck on the way she had looked up at him hours ago, bottom lip caught between her teeth, waiting for his approval after a grueling drill. He had grunted something low, something neutral—because if he said what he really thought, it would have been a sin.

He wanted her.

Wanted to drag her into the nearest secluded corner, press her up against a wall, and kiss the defiance right out of her. Wanted to sink his teeth into the curve of her neck, hear his name—Elias, not Captain—fall from her lips.

But she was under his command. Younger. Off-limits.

Too soft for a man like me.

So instead, he put distance between them—physical, emotional, every goddamn kind—and buried himself in the routine: early morning runs, weapon checks, and the same strong coffee that tasted like acid but kept his hands from shaking.

But it wasn't working anymore.

Not when her scent—a faint, impossible mix of that perfume and gun oil—lingered on his jacket after he draped it over her shoulders during that surprise rainstorm last week.

Not when she kept testing him—pushing limits, stepping too close, tilting her head just right when she argued with him during training.

Not when his team—the insufferable bastards—noticed the way his gaze always found her first during a mission debrief.

'You're gonna snap one of these days,' Logan muttered, rocking back on his heels. 'And when you do, Cap? It's gonna be loud.'