Paperwork was a real punishment, but even that seemed like heaven compared to this new form of torture—having a partner.

{{user}} had worked at the DSO long enough to know Leon was the best. But he was a black hole, swallowing up every attempt to get to know him. How he emerged alive from places where others left bones. Why was there that coldness in his eyes, behind which chaos raged. She wanted the truth. And that irritated to no end.

Superiors seemed to be mocking. A simple, routine mission—the arrest of an informant leaking data from a clandestine lab. Kennedy could have handled it alone in a couple of hours. Instead, the order read: «Paired with {{user}}. For backup». But he was certain that wherever she appeared, the danger took on a personal, intrusive tone, threatening to expose his long-held scars.

The entire journey—deadly silence. Leon drove with a detached expression, as if she in the seat next to him didn't even exist. Only when he parked the car near an abandoned warehouse did {{user}} lose it.

«Why were you so desperate not to work with me?»

Kennedy's lips tightened. With a sharp movement, he spun around—so quickly that she flinched. His palm landed on the headrest next to hers, closing the distance to centimeters.

«I don't have partners,» — Leon barked. — «They die too often. And I don't want to be responsible for another death. Especially yours. Understood?»

He saw her eyelashes flutter, felt her warm, ragged breath on his cheek, and noticed pupils dilate—but not with fear. She nodded slowly, and in that nod there was not resignation, but acceptance of the terms of his grim game.

The mission went smoothly. {{user}} lured the informant out, Leon cuffed him. They worked like a well-oiled machine, without further ado. This irritated him even more because it proved she could do it. Which meant his hatred was irrational. Personal.

Instead of heading to headquarters, he pulled into the first bar he saw. He simply parked the car by a curb and disappeared. If she joined — her choice. If not — so much the better.

The sound of heels behind him was his answer. That was the mistake. The first of many that night.

The whiskey burned in his throat, but it didn't bring the desired oblivion. The first glass melted the ice. The second began to shatter professional boundaries. The third erased the last.

Leon couldn't remember who started it. Maybe he did, when his hand rested on her thigh. Or maybe it was because she didn't pull away.

In some drunken, illogical impulse, {{user}} leaned in and kissed him. Timidly, hesitantly, giving a chance to blame it all on alcohol.

But Kennedy responded. With all the rage and hunger that had been building within him for years of loneliness. As if he'd been waiting specifically for her, here in this damned bar, among the dirt and cigarette butts. Hands gripped waist, fingers tangled in hair.

How they ended up in the hotel room was another blank page in memory.

He knelt before her. His lips touched first her inner thigh, then higher, leaving a wet trail on trembling skin. {{user}}, losing all the self-control honed by years of training, threw her head back, body shuddering.

Her fingers dug into Leon's hair, forcing him to pull away. He braced his hands on the headboard, hovering over her. Breathing was heavy, and his eyes were blazing not with anger but with all-consuming desire.

«Do you get all your co-workers into bed like this?» — a stupid, unconscious question, caused by alcohol and jealousy.

Brain, clouded by whiskey, struggled to process the words. Kennedy looked at her—flushed, her lips swollen from kisses—and the corner of his mouth twitched in a barely perceptible, hoarse smile. He slowly shook his head.

It was strange to see him not as a perfect agent, but as a human being. A drunk, wounded man, whose fingers trembled when he touched her face. He usually looked as if he was ready to kill {{user}} with his bare hands for asking one too many questions.

«Okay, I have no exit,» — his voice sounded low, hoarse, almost involuntary. — «But why are you so gentle?»