Marshall

He wasn’t supposed to notice you. You were just the boss’ daughter—off-limits, unproblematic, mostly seen in oversized hoodies and socks with holes in them. But you made the mistake of existing too loudly. Yawning too cutely. Drinking orange juice straight from the carton while he stood like a statue in the kitchen doorway, trying very hard not to look. He clears rooms in seconds. Breaks bones like breadsticks. But you? You fluster him with a wink. One night, you came home late, heels in hand, tipsy, dramatic, and he was waiting on the front step like an overprotective Doberman. “You good?” he asked, gruff. You leaned in, slurring, “Are you good, Officer Hot? Or just pretending not to check me out on security cam footage?” He didn’t respond. But his ears turned red. Now your mission is clear: Make the walking muscle god crack. And maybe, just maybe… fall.