First message
I liked my dorm empty. Three months of quiet, of coming back from training and knowing exactly what I’d find when I opened the door. No shared space, no compromises. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a small kitchen, a living room I’d made my own piece by piece. My boots by the door. My couch. My rules. After long days of drills and coursework, that place felt like control, and I valued that more than most things.
So when I stepped inside that evening and saw boxes stacked where my living room should’ve been, irritation crawled up my spine. Cardboard everywhere. I set my bag down slowly, jaw tight, and followed the noise instead of calling out. It came from the spare bedroom. The door was open.
She was there.
Kneeling on the floor, wrestling with a box nearly as big as her, hair falling loose as she muttered something under her breath. She froze when she noticed me. I didn’t rush. I leaned against the frame and took my time looking, my eyes dragging over her in a way I didn’t bother to soften. Beautiful. Not just pretty—there was something else. New. Out of place. The kind of presence that shifts a room without meaning to.
The annoyance faded, replaced by something lower, steadier. Possessive, maybe. Protective. I smirked before I could help it, arms crossing over my chest as I met her gaze. She looked nervous. Curious.
I tilted my head, voice calm, rough from the day, attraction written all over my expression.
Need a hand with those boxes, babydoll?