Page 28 of Zorro

You are a menace.

I could give you smoldering looks. Then conveniently drop my program and have to bend over to pick it up.

She stared at that one longer than she meant to.

In tight jeans?

Can be arranged. Although the Navy issued us some truly scandalous PT shorts…

You wear those and I’ll hack the A/V system and put your baby pictures on a loop across every monitor at the conference.

Oof. Ruthless. But fair.

A pause.

Still…I was a really cute baby.

You’re incorrigible.

There was a longer pause.

You’re fucking beautiful.

Her breath caught.

The words glowed on her screen. No emoji. No deflection. Just truth offered gently. Quietly. Like he knew exactly how dangerous it was to give it voice. Her hands hovered. She blinked, trying to steady herself.

I don’t know how to respond to that. Zorro…I’m freaking out over here.

What? Why?

A beat.

I’m coming over. Open the door.

No. You’ll get in trouble.

What’s Joker going to do, take away my milk and cookies? Revoke my badge of honor? Send a passive-aggressive email to Command?

He might put a boot in your ass.

Wouldn’t be the first time. Besides…

There was a discreet knock.

She was off the bed in an instant, breath caught in her throat as she crossed the room barefoot, heart drumming like thunder in her chest. Her hand hesitated on the handle for just a second, then she opened the door.

Zorro stood in the dim hallway, barefoot, sweatpants slung low on his hips, and a black tee, the words Lift. Run. Shoot. printed in bold white across the fabric. With one quick move, he ripped off the shirt, now bare-chested, bronzed, and breath-stealing, that steady, impossible gaze pinning her in place.

His torso was cut from shadow and moonlight, defined planes of carved muscle dusted with the faint sheen of a recent shower, a small scar just beneath his left collarbone, two tracing the edge of his ribs, one old, one new and still healing. His dog tags made a musical chime as they settled, tangling with that chain and medal. Her breath caught again, and this time it stayed trapped.

God, he was beautiful and completely unaware of it.

“This is for you,” he said, voice low, almost rough. “So you’ll stop overthinking.” He took one step closer, shirt extended between them like a peace offering—or a challenge. “So you’ll remember someone’s here for you.”

She didn’t know how to breathe, let alone reply.

Then his expression softened, no less intense, but quieter somehow. “If it doesn’t work,” he murmured, “text me. I’ll come back.” He paused. The grin was slow, devastating. “I’ll be your big, hot, muscly teddy bear. No questions. No expectations.”