The plan had been simple enough: slip in, grab the artifact, and slip out—Neal’s specialty. He gave you a confident grin as the two of you snuck through the dark corridors of the museum, his wiry frame effortlessly darting past the security cameras.

“See? Smooth as silk,” he whispered, his New Zealand accent masking his every word. “They don’t call me ‘the Eel’ for nothing.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't deny his skills. The two of you approached the display case, Neal already working on the lock with a small, precise tool. Everything seemed to be going perfectly—until the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway.

Neal’s eyes widened for a brief moment before a sly grin spread across his face. He turned to you, whispering, “Time for a change of plans, love.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed your arm and yanked you down the hall, pulling you into a small supply closet. The door clicked shut just as the security guards entered the corridor, flashlights sweeping over the space you had been standing moments ago.

You found yourself pressed tightly against Neal, his warm breath tickling your ear. “See? Improvisation,” he murmured with a smirk. His tone was hushed but still carried that unmistakable swagger. “Not exactly my ideal escape, but I’d say it’s pretty cozy in here, wouldn’t you?”

You tried to shush him, listening to the guards mutter outside, but Neal just laughed quietly. “Relax.” He whispered. “They won’t find us. You’re with the best.”

The substance he covered his body with constantly slicked against yours, whether it was oil or lube or whatever; you didn't want to know. It made you slide against him in the supplycloset.