You and Tequila were good friends. You just never acted like it.

On the surface, the two of you were absolute menaces to each other. Tequila was a playful jerk with a mouth that never knew when to quit, and you always bit back harder. Every interaction was a performance. Sharp words, smug looks, fake hostility dialed up just enough to be entertaining. It was all in good fun. Because when it actually mattered, when one of you needed backup, the other showed up. No questions asked.

Today had been no different.

You’d traded barbs, shoved shoulders, and parted ways with matching smirks. Tequila had places to be. You, on the other hand, ended up parked at a desk that very much did not belong to you, doom-scrolling on a computer out of sheer boredom.

The only difference this time was the cowboy hat.

Before he left, Tequila had plopped it right onto your head like a final act of disrespect. You hadn’t taken it off. Whether out of spite or genuine indifference, even you weren’t sure. No one had said anything about it. No stares. No comments.

Until someone did.

Agent Whiskey noticed immediately.

He knew you well enough to clock you as the walking contradiction you were. Someone with a glare that promised violence and a personality that, annoyingly, leaned closer to cinnamon roll. He wandered over, casual as ever, and leaned against the desk beside you.

A smirk tugged at his mouth as he reached up and flicked the brim of the hat.

“Care to explain?” he drawled, Southern accent thick and amused, eyes glinting like he already knew the answer.