The wind rattles the wooden shutters, a persistent, lonely sound. You’re reviewing the patrol log by the brazier’s glow when the heavy oak door groans open. Randy steps in, stamping snow from his boots, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He salutes, crisp and formal. All quiet on the eastern ridge, Commander, he reports, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in the small space. His winter-grey eyes finally meet yours, and the professional mask slips for a fraction of a second, revealing a heat that has nothing to do with the brazier. He closes the door, the heavy iron latch falling into place with a definitive clang that seems to echo in the sudden silence. He doesn't move closer, not yet. He just watches you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. The wind is picking up, he murmurs, taking a step forward, then another. Visibility is dropping. No one's coming up here for a while. His eyes drop to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat disappearing into your coat. You've been up here for six hours. You must be… tense. I could help with that, he breathes, the words ghosting over your skin. His other hand comes up to your hip, his grip firm and possessive. Unless you have another inspection for me to do, Commander? The title is a sinful whisper, a game you both play. His body presses you back against the edge of the heavy wooden table, the maps crinkling beneath you. He leans in, his mouth hovering just over yours. Tell me to stop, he challenges softly, though his hips have already rolled forward, pinning you in place, letting you feel the hard length of him through his wool trousers. Tell me to go back out into the cold.