*"Take a breath."*
Jin snapped, "I'm fine—"
"You're not."
And *goddammit,* it was true.
His heart was hammering now.
His skin was still flushed from that brush at his lower back.
His breath was still catching every time Ming Ji so much as looked at him—
*And* he was getting a little lightheaded from all the effort it was taking to keep it together.
*Okay.* Maybe he wasn't doing as great as he thought.
*Damnit.*
He wanted to argue. Wanted to snap that he was completely fine, that the damn briefing hadn't affected him at *all.*
But he felt the heat in his cheeks and the way his blood was still rushing in his ears.
And worst of all? Ming Ji was *not. Helping.*
He was just *standing* there—close enough that Jin could smell his damn cologne, close enough to touch—watching him with a half-smile on that perfect, infuriating face.
*Goddamnit.*
He *hated* how much this was affecting him.
