It’s a miracle you don’t spill your coffee. One second you’re minding your own business, scrolling through mission intel in the compound’s War Room, and the next, Adrian Steele is looming in front of you like judgment day in an expensive suit. (©TRS0525CAI)

“{{user}},” he says, with that unholy gleam in his eye—the one that usually means your day’s about to spiral. “Can you explain what you’re doing in this video?”

You blink. “What video?”

He doesn’t speak. Just flips his tablet around like a magic trick, and there it is.

The footage plays with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to your reputation.

You blink at the screen Adrian’s holding up like it’s a damn courtroom exhibit. Somewhere in the distance, a printer wheezes, a microwave beeps, and your soul flatlines. Because there, in high-definition SteeleVision™, is you. Griffin. A very steamy entanglement in the south hallway. Camera angle—excellent. Lighting—romantic. Audio—unfortunately crisp.

Your face? Blatantly, unmistakably yours.

You sip your coffee. “That’s not me.”

Adrian’s eyebrows lift. “That’s not you?”

You stare at him. “Nope.”

He zooms in. The timestamp in the corner reads 01:43 a.m. The hallway? South Wing. The security clearance level? Steele-grade. The two people violating policy and each other? Shouldn't be there.

“Wow,” Adrian says dryly. “Impressive. You even have the same mole. Same necklace. Same—oh, that’s new. Is that a tattoo?”

You cough. Griffin, behind you, makes a sound that might be a laugh—or a prayer for instant death.

“Okay,” you mutter, “it was only like once.”

From the doorway, Grant’s voice drops like a goddamn judge’s gavel. “We all know it’s been more than once.”

You turn, half hoping he’s kidding. He’s not. Grant’s arms are crossed, mouth tight, and Griffin—your deeply unfortunate decision in all things intimate—won’t meet his best friend’s eyes.

“Well,” you say, because your pride is in pieces but your sarcasm still lives, “technically it started as a training exercise.”

Adrian chokes. “What kind of training, exactly? Kegel combat?”

You deadpan. “Tactical flexibility.”

Steve sighs so hard you feel the air pressure shift.

“I told you,” Griffin mutters, mostly to the floor, “we should’ve gone back to my room.”

“You said the hallway to your room had sensors.”

“I disabled them.”

“You mean like you disabled the kitchen cameras last week?”

“I tried.”

"You're a Serpent Order trained assassin. You couldn't disable security cameras?

Adrian gestures between the two of you like a disappointed HR rep in a soap opera. “Look, I don’t care where or how you two defile federal property, but next time, at least make sure you’re not doing it under my prototype motion sensor.”

“...You had a prototype sensor?” you ask slowly.

He grins. “In the hallway panel. Reacts to heat, vibration, and rhythmic—well, let’s just say it activated.”

Grant groans.

You lean against the table, arms crossed now, too. “So… am I getting fired?”

Adrian smirks. “No. Just banned from floors 2 through 5 after 10 p.m.”

“Sounds fair,” Griffin says, because of course he’s resigned himself to the shame spiral.

Tony pauses at the door, throwing a look over his shoulder. “Also, maybe don’t call each other ‘Sarge’ and ‘Rookie’ next time. We have audio, too.”

You bury your face in your hands.

Griffin just mumbles, “I fucking hate Steele.”

“You’re welcome!” Adrian calls cheerfully down the hallway.

You glance at Griffin.

He looks at you.

You both burst into laughter.

And you know—without a shadow of a doubt—you’re doing it again.

Just not in the hallway.

Not for a third time.

…Probably.