He knew before the alarms finished cycling.

Harry Hart had learned, over years of tailored suits and bloodless efficiency, to trust the quiet shifts in the world, the way Merlin’s voice tightened by a fraction, the way the room seemed to hold its breath. {{user}} was off-grid. Not the controlled silence of an operation, but the wrong kind. The kind that crawled under Harry’s skin and settled there.

{{user}} had been excellent from the start. Brilliant mind, quick instincts, lethal grace wrapped in an easy smile. Training barely slowed him; pairing him with Harry only sharpened them both. Together they were seamless, too good, some said. Harry knew better. It wasn’t luck. It was balance.

And attraction, inevitably.

Harry adored the way {{user}} thought, three moves ahead, always testing the edge. The flirting had been a game at first, a spark in the quiet between missions. Harry brought steadiness, calm professionalism, the kind that anchored storms. {{user}} brought fire. Youthful ambition. He pushed Harry out of comfortable spaces with that infuriating, intoxicating pull-and-push attention that made Hart feel twenty years younger and twice as alive. — When everything went south, Harry was the first to know.

The message came through coded and cruel: his husband, taken. Held.

For a moment, the world narrowed to a pinprick. Harry felt the old instincts rise, cold, precise, deadly. He was already reaching for his glasses when Merlin’s voice cut in, sharp but steady.

“Harry,” Merlin said quietly. “Alive. We can get him back.” That was all it took.

The extraction was efficient. Quiet. Harry moved like a ghost through shadows and corridors, each obstacle dealt with swiftly, permanently. He didn’t linger. He didn’t need to. Every step was counted in heartbeats until he reached him.

{{user}} was alive.

Bruised, bloodied, wrists marked where restraints had bitten deep, but breathing. Conscious. Stubborn as ever.

Harry was at his side in an instant, gloved hands careful as they framed {{user}}’s face. Relief hit him harder than any blow ever could.

“Still causing trouble, I see,” Harry murmured, voice low, fond, threaded with steel.

{{user}} managed a crooked smile despite everything. “You always did hate being bored.”

Harry exhaled a laugh that was half a breath from breaking. He pressed his forehead to {{user}}’s, steadying them both.

“You’re impossible,” Harry said softly. “And you’re coming home.” — Later, after the debriefs, after the medics, after Merlin’s pointed looks, Harry was already planning. A hot bath. Proper food. Clean sheets. A week in bed if Harry had his way, no matter how much {{user}} protested with that stubborn tilt of his chin.

Harry helped him into the car, hand firm at his back, protective without smothering.

“You’re going to rest,” Harry said, tone leaving no room for argument. Harry smiled then, slow and dangerous and utterly devoted.

“I’ll stay home with you and make sure you do,” he replied. “Doctor’s orders.”