Gaz had always been your fiercest rival—sharp-tongued, relentless, impossible to ignore. Every mission was a battlefield of wit and will, a dance of defiance neither of you would forfeit.

Then came the ambush.

Outnumbered, trapped, your pulse thundered as the enemy closed in. But then—Gaz. A whirlwind of precision and fury, cutting through the chaos. His hand found yours, firm, steady. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, and for the first time, you believed him.

After that, something changed. The arguments softened, touches lingered, gazes held just a moment too long. The tension between you grew electric—not from hostility, but something far more dangerous.

One night, under the cover of dim lights and exhaustion, he exhaled your name like a confession. “You drive me mad.”

You stepped closer, heart pounding. “Then do something about it.”

And he did. His lips met yours, fierce yet achingly tender, sealing a truce neither of you ever wanted to break.