Page 27 of Boomer

She’d seen him unguarded. Heard him laugh. This was the version of him the world never saw. The version that wrecked her composure more than his voice ever could.

Boomer examined the reinforced hatch, running his gloved hand along the seam again, head tilted, eyes narrowed behind his goggles.

“Impenetrable?”

He shook his head, flashing her the kind of grin that projected all kinds of confidence. “Ain’t nothing I can’t get through,” he muttered.

“You blowing it?”

“Steel box like this? The blast’d bounce back and gut us.” He prepped the exothermic torch instead. “Clean cut, no boom. Less fire risk with these compounds in the air.”

Taylor’s heart kicked harder. He didn’t just blow doors. He read them. Solved them. Respected them like puzzles that could kill.

“Welded post-entry,” he murmured. “Someone wanted this sealed hard.” She watched him unpack the torch. Movements smooth. Efficient. Like he could do this with his eyes closed. “Looks like a brute force cut,” he murmured, voice low and practical. But to her, it didn’t sound tactical. It sounded intimate. Like an invitation. Like a promise.

His hands were steady as he checked the line, gloved fingers brushing along the seam of the bulkhead with the kind of care that made her breath catch. It was intentional. Methodical.

Sensual, in the way only complete control could be.

Her pulse thudded deep in her core.

Gott, get it together. This is a breach, not a seduction.

But it was him, and everything he did was quiet precision and slow burn.

There was something about watching this man prepare to break through reinforced metal that made her think about her own walls, the ones he was dismantling one gloved inch at a time.

He handed her the thermal goggles. Her fingers brushed his. She felt iteverywhere.

He didn’t look up. Just said, “You’ll need to spot while I cut. Watch the stress lines. Call if anything shifts.”

She nodded. Slid the goggles on.

He struck the torch. Sparks screamed to life, a bright, white-hot arc lighting the corridor like a furnace. His arms flexed as he braced the torch with both hands, steady as a machine.

Taylor was not okay.

His focus. His control. The sheer rawforceof him, commanding metal and heat like it wasnothing.

Gott, help me.

Her mouth went dry.

I need a cold shower and a blast door between us.

He kept cutting, muscles coiling with every shift, sweat starting to dampen the collar of his shirt beneath the armor. She split her focus between stress lines and watchinghim,praying the process would take longer than expected.

One second he was cutting with precision, and the only stress lines that were active were all hers. It went silent, the door gave with barely a sound.

Boomer surged forward, and the way he moved was like a charged line, tight and efficient, power and purpose fused into every breath.

Taylor followed, swept left.

Inside, chaos. Men shouting. Flashlights cutting through haze. One raised a weapon, and Boomer dropped him with a two-shot rhythm that was almost beautiful in its efficiency.

Another lunged from the side, knife flashing.

Boomer stepped into the attack, not away,into it,disarmed, swept the man’s legs, and drove a knee into his sternum before Taylor even reached them.