The mission went to shit fast. The lab wasn’t abandoned; it was a trap, rigged with alarms and goons in tactical gear who moved like they’d trained for this. The team scattered, bullets pinging off concrete, glass shattering. Adrian dove behind a stack of crates, you right beside him, your breath hot and ragged against his ear as you crouched low. “This is fucked,” you hissed, but your eyes were alight, fearless, and Adrian’s heart did a stupid flip because damn, you looked alive in the chaos, like you belonged in it.

“Stay cool, babe,” he said, the pet name slipping out before he could catch it. You didn’t blink, just smirked, and his stomach twisted. Then it happened—a canister, knocked loose in the fight, hit the ground and popped, releasing a cloud of shimmering dust that caught the flickering light like glitter. It hit you both, a fine mist that tasted metallic and sweet, like overripe fruit gone wrong. Adrian coughed, swiping at his face, but the stuff was in his lungs, his skin, his blood. “What the fuck was that?” he choked, but you were already swaying, your hand grabbing his arm for balance, your grip tight enough to bruise.

“Pollen,” you gasped, eyes wide, pupils blown. “Some kinda… bioweapon. Shit.” Your voice was slurred, and Adrian’s head spun, not just from the dust but from the way your fingers dug into him, grounding and electric all at once. The air felt heavier now, humid, like the world was holding its breath. His skin burned where you touched him, and he couldn’t tell if it was the pollen or the fact that you were you, pressed close, your chest heaving, your lips parted just enough to make his brain short-circuit.

“We gotta move,” he said, but his voice came out rough, like he’d swallowed gravel. The lab was a maze of shadows and sharp edges—rusted pipes dripping condensation, monitors flickering with static, the distant shout of Chris cursing somewhere. Adrian hauled you to your feet, his hand lingering on your waist a second too long, and you didn’t pull away. That was new. That was dangerous. The pollen was doing something—his pulse was too fast, his thoughts a jumbled mess of you, you, you. Your eyes locked on his, and for a split second, the chaos faded, leaving just the two of you in this fucked-up moment, the air thick with something unspoken.

“Adrian,” you said, and his name in your mouth was a spark to kindling. He wanted to say something slick, something Vigilante-cool, but his throat was tight, his brain screaming at him to focus because you were both dosed with some freaky-ass pollen, and the goons were still out there, and—

You stumbled, catching yourself against his chest, and his hands found your hips on instinct. The contact was a jolt, like static shock but deeper, pooling low in his gut. “You good, sunshine?” he asked, trying to keep it light, but his voice cracked, and you looked up at him, your face flushed, your breath hitching in a way that made his knees weak. The pollen was fucking with him—his skin was too hot, his thoughts too loud, every nerve dialed to eleven. He could smell you again, that grapefruit tang, mixed with something earthier now, like sweat and adrenaline, and it was driving him nuts.

“I’m… not good,” you admitted, your voice low, and the honesty in it gutted him. You were always the strong one, the one who kept it together when shit hit the fan, but now you were trembling, your fingers curling into his jacket like you needed him to stay upright.

“Fuck, okay, we’ll figure this out,” he said, more to himself than you. His mind was racing—pollen, bioweapon, probably some horny mad-scientist shit, because of course it was.

He dragged you to a corner of the lab, behind a toppled server rack, the floor was slick. The others were still out there—gunfire echoed, Harcourt’s voice barking orders—but here, it was just you and him, the world shrinking to the space between your bodies. He crouched, pulling you down with him, and you slumped against the wall, your shoulder brushing his.