Under his Command: My best friend's Dad

POV: Nora

The moment I stop in front of the bar, I already regret every life choice that brought me here.

The cold night air bites the back of my neck. My heart won’t slow down, my hands won’t steady, and my reflection in the glass door looks like someone who absolutely should not be going on a blind date.

My hair looks too red under the streetlight, my eyes too green, too bright, too exposed.

Like they’re announcing to the world I don’t belong here.

My heart is beating so fast I can feel it in my throat.

I open the group chat.

Elena:

You better be inside in the next 30 seconds.

Cole:

If you run, I swear I’ll file a missing person report just to embarrass you.

I type with my thumb shaking.

Me:

I don’t think I can do this.

Elena instantly replies.

Elena:

You CAN. This is not a marriage proposal. This is ONE DRINK and maybe a good night of sex.

NO names. NO details. NO strings. Exactly what you said you wanted.

Cole adds:

Cole:

And for the love of God, stop working and start living. Daniel wouldn’t want you frozen like this. Go inside.

My stomach twists at Daniel’s name.

Even after a year, it still feels like someone touched a bruise inside my chest.

I breathe in, breathe out.

I straighten my jacket.

My hands are cold.

Me:

Fine. But remember the rule: no names, no history. Just a night. Nothing else.

Cole:

And remember the code: black shirt. If he’s wearing black, he’s your guy. Now go.

Right.

Black shirt.

Easy enough.

Elena reacts with ten heart emojis and a fire.

Cole reacts with a thumbs-up and a peach because he’s an idiot.

I close the chat before I can vomit from nerves, pull open the door, and step inside.

Warm light. Soft jazz. Conversations blending together.

But all of this fades instantly.

Because I see him.

And absolutely nothing else exists.

A man sits alone at the back booth, one arm stretched over the seat like he owns the whole place.

He wears a black shirt — fitted, sleeves rolled to his forearms, fabric clinging to a chest that shouldn’t be legal.

His shoulders are broad and powerful, his posture straight, relaxed in a way only men with authority in their bones can pull off.

Light brown hair, short and neat, with streaks of silver at the temples that somehow make him even more unfairly handsome.

Eyes—God—blue and sharp even from across the room.

A face carved from something expensive and dangerous.

I stop breathing.

That cannot be my date.

That is not a “let’s-see-what-happens” guy.

That is a “this man could ruin my sanity in ten minutes” guy.

He lifts his gaze at the exact moment I take a step forward, like he felt me walking in.

Like he sensed me.

And when our eyes meet, something hits low in my stomach.

Hard.

His gaze lands on me like pressure — heavy, assessing, consuming.

And every nerve in my body lights up.

That has to be him.

Black shirt. Alone. Too beautiful, too magnetic, too… him.

Of course my friends would match me with someone built from temptation.

I force my legs to move.

As I cross the room, he watches me the way a predator watches movement — calm, confident, sure of his strength.

When I reach the table, he stands.

And up close…

He’s even taller. Broader.

His presence hits like a wall of heat and control.

“Hi,” I manage. Barely.

His voice is deep enough to vibrate through me. “Hi.”

Up close, his eyes are impossible.

Glacier blue.

Focused entirely on me, like he’s stripping me down without touching me.

I swallow. “You’re… definitely not what I expected to look like.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. The smallest suggestion of amusement.

And dominance.

“And what did you expect?”

“Someone less…”

I gesture helplessly at him.

“Attractive. Intense. Large.”

His brows lift slightly. “Large?”

Oh God.

My face heats. “I meant—height. Shoulders. Presence.”

He hums, low, like he already knows how flustered he’s making me.

I sit before my knees betray me.

He sits opposite — though it feels more like he chooses to sit instead of stand.

His gaze never leaves mine.

I need to stick to the rules. I force them out quickly:

“Okay, so. I should be honest. I’m here because my friends forced me. I’m not ready for anything serious. Or emotional. Or long-term. I’m not… available for that.”

His jaw flexes — just once — like he understands more than I said.

“What are you available for?” he asks.

His tone does something to my spine.

I swallow hard.

“Distraction. Just a night. No names. No past. No expectations.”

His eyes darken.

There’s a flicker in them — hunger, interest, something sharp.

“No names,” he echoes.

“No past.”

He leans in slightly — not enough to touch me, just enough for heat to radiate off him.

“And if the night is unforgettable… that’s enough for me.”

My breath catches.

He’s commanding without trying.

Magnetic without effort.

And somehow, I feel myself wanting to follow wherever he leads.

A waiter approaches, and the man looks at him with a single sharp glance that says “wait” without a word.

The waiter obeys instantly.

Jesus.

Who is this man?

“My car is outside,” he says softly.

“I want to take you to dinner. Somewhere better than this.”

I shouldn’t agree.

Not with how fast I’m falling under his orbit.

Not with how dangerous he feels.

But I nod anyway.

Because tonight is not about rules.

It’s about letting go.

And because his voice, his eyes, his presence…

They make obedience feel easy.

He guides me into the restaurant with a hand at the small of my back, and—God help me—it’s barely a touch, but my entire body reacts like I’ve been plugged into a socket. His palm is warm, firm, claiming, and I swear he knows exactly what he’s doing. I feel the pressure increase just a little, enough to make my breath catch.

The hostess leads us to a table in the corner, dim, private, too perfect. He pulls out my chair, and the movement is so effortless, so natural, I almost forget how to sit for a second.

I nod, even though the way he says it makes my skin tighten. Like he already knows I’m lying. Like he knows tonight won’t be enough.

The second I sit across from him, something inside me goes quiet. Not calm—alert. Focused. The way it happens when I’m profiling someone dangerous or powerful. Except tonight I’m not working. Tonight is supposed to be simple. A blind date my friends bullied me into.

And yet here he is.

And I can’t read him.

That alone unsettles me more than his impossible beauty.

He’s… blocked. That’s the only word I have. Like every attempt I make to pick up a thread about him—tone, posture, microexpression—hits a wall. A deliberate wall. He’s either exceptionally private or exceptionally trained. And I don’t know which one scares me more.

Or excites me more.

Cole said this guy was some friend of his cousin. That he was “solid,” “stable,” “normal.”

Nothing about the man sitting in front of me is normal. He radiates authority so naturally that even the waiter straightens when he walks by.

I take a sip of water to distract myself, but he notices everything.

“You don’t like the table?” he asks, voice low.

“It’s fine.”

It is. That isn’t the problem.

I can’t look away. The candlelight hits his jaw, the few gray streaks at his temples, the faint scars that cut across the hard lines of his knuckles. I’m staring. I know I am.

His eyes catch mine.

“Something on your mind?”

His voice is that kind of low that feels like it’s spoken directly against my neck.

I swallow. “I noticed your… scars.”

My gaze drops to his hand resting on the table.

His mouth lifts slightly. Not a smile—something darker.

“You want to know how I got them?”

Absolutely yes. Absolutely no. Both at once.

“I—” I shake my head quickly. “No. I didn’t mean… I don’t want to know anything. Not tonight.”

It spills out in a rush, embarrassing and honest.

He leans back in the chair, studying me in a way that makes heat coil in my stomach.

“Just tonight, then?”

He studies me, and for a second I almost feel profiled myself. My pulse trips.

“What do you like to eat?” he asks as the waiter approaches.

“I—um—Italian? Mediterranean? I’m not picky.”

He hums once. A sound that vibrates right under my skin.

He orders for both of us, mediterranean, pasta with tomatoes, basil, and the olive oil, confidently explaining what pairs with what wine, his tone relaxed but in control. The waiter nods like he’s been commanded by a general.

When he turns back to me, his eyes lock on mine, and I swear the air gets heavier.

“You look like someone who enjoys good wine,” he says.

“I enjoy pretending I know what I’m doing.”

He leans back, lips curving slightly. “Honesty. I like that.”

My cheeks warm. I’m irritated at myself for reacting so easily. I’m good at reading people, at staying detached. But with him? My instincts feel scrambled.

“Tell me,” he says, “what were you expecting tonight?”

“A date.”

It comes out soft, more breath than voice.

“And now you have one.”

God help me, I feel that sentence everywhere.

The food comes. I try focusing on the meal, the wine, anything normal. But I’m too aware of him. The way he eats slowly, measured. The way his fingers rest on the stem of his glass. The way he always seems a second away from reaching out and touching me.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs at one point.

“I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

You.

But I can’t say that.

“About how you… don’t fit the profile I expected.”

“Profile,” he repeats, amused. “You’re profiling me?”

I swallow. “I profile everyone.”

“And what’s the verdict?”

“That I can’t figure you out.”

The admission slips out before I can stop it.

His gaze drops to my mouth. When he looks back up, something darker flickers in his eyes.

“You don’t need to.”

The words hit me low, hard, hot.

Dinner wraps up almost too quickly. I don’t want it to end, but I also can’t keep sitting this close to him without doing something reckless.

He stands first, offering his hand lightly on my back as I rise. The warmth shoots straight through me, unexpected and overwhelming. His touch is soft, guiding, confident. Testing.

Outside, the night air cools my skin but not nearly enough.

He faces me, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

“I’m staying nearby,” he says quietly. “A hotel. If you’d like to continue the night.”

My breath snags.

This is the moment.

The line.

The choice.

“I—” My voice wavers. I clear it. “I usually don’t do things like this.”

His hand reaches out, brushing my fingers, slow and deliberate.

“Just one night?”

A question, a promise, a challenge.

My pulse trips. “Just tonight.”

His eyes darken like he just claimed the words.

“Come with me.”

And I do.

Not because I’m reckless.

Not because I don’t know better.

But because everything in me is drawn to him like gravity, and resisting feels impossible.

He leads me toward his hotel, his shoulder brushing mine with every step, and the heat between us feels like it could ignite the air.

Tonight is just tonight.

And that’s the only reason I let myself follow him inside.