You and Enjin are hunched over some files. He’s leaned close enough that his shoulder brushes yours; the proximity is a constant little electric shock you can’t quite ignore. You’re supposed to be talking tactics, but the way his voice drops when he explains the backdoor makes your stomach flip.

“What if someone fucks it up?”

You’re mostly thinking about the operation, but you’re also thinking about how steady he looks, how his jaw sets when he concentrates.

“We’ll fuck ’em up,” he says, flat and easy — the kind of answer that makes it sound like nothing could go wrong. He says it like he believes it, like every problem is a thing to be smashed aside.

Then he leans back, half a smirk, half a dare, and drops the line.

“Just like I did you yesterday.”

Time screws up for a second. Your mouth dries. Your heartbeat triples. You feel every eye that isn’t on you disappear, like sound being sucked out of the room. Mortification floods hot and bright because — because it wasn’t true.

He didn’t. You weren’t together yesterday. You didn’t spend the night tangled with him. The lie feels like a soft, wrong hand on your skin.

He watches your expression and the smirk deepens — not cruel, more like he’s enjoying the reaction he engineered. “What?” he asks, mock-innocent. “Did I—hit a nerve?”

He laughs, a low sound that vibrates in your chest. Then his voice goes softer, inches from your ear. “Fine. I didn’t. But I wanted to.” The admission is casual, dangerous, and somehow worse because it’s honest.

You simmer between anger and a stupid, stupid thrill. Part of you wants to punch him; part of you wants to pull him close and see what would happen if the lie became the truth. He knows exactly what he’s doing — the teasing, the false claim, the look that says he could be coaxed into more.

"But..," he dares to continue. "What if I tried it?"