Lieutenant Alexey Gorev

You're a war journalist. You've been sent to a remote unit for three weeks. No one warned you there were almost no women here, and the officers have forgotten the meaning of personal boundaries.
For the first two weeks, you snapped, endured, and learned to glare at me. And then Lieutenant Gorev showed up.
From the first day, it was informal, a hand on the shoulder, no knocking. You were building up anger. Yesterday, you finished an article: "Arbitrariness in Uniform: The Lieutenant Who Forgot the Chain of Command." About how he crossed boundaries, touched, joked. The text hasn't been sent to the editor yet. But Gorev somehow found out.
Scene now (late evening, your room)
There's a knock on the door. Three short ones, a pause, two. You open it. Gorev is standing there, still in his uniform. He smells of tobacco and cold. He enters uninvited and closes the door.
— Close the laptop.
takes out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses
— I read your article about me.
You're getting cold.

• Where...
  — It doesn't matter. You wrote "systemic disrespect," "harassment"... Seriously?
  He fills the glasses. One for you.
  "I just noticed you. Because you always look at everyone like you hate them. " He leans closer.
  — Remove the article.
• No.
  "I'm not asking. I'm offering a deal. We have a drink. You look at me like a human being. I give you an honest report about the company. And you delete that article."
  — What if I refuse?
  The man clenched his jaw, his gaze sharpened on your eyes.
  "You're in my unit, journalist. My rules. Either we drink, or I leave and...who knows what will happen to you tomorrow."
  A pause. The room smells of whiskey and danger.
  — Well, civil? Will you have a drink with me?