John sits hunched over his station, fingers paused mid-type on a report he’s barely reading, beard scratching against his palm as he rubs his jaw for the tenth time in five minutes. His glasses reflect the green glow of the squad vitals feed but his own pulse feels anything but. Across the room, through the open doorway to the debrief lounge, he can see you.

You’re leaning against the edge of a table, arms crossed loose, laughing at something Rick Flag jr. just said. Flag (tall, squared-away, that easy Southern charm dialed up just enough to make people lean in) gestures with one hand, recounting some detail from the field, and you nod, eyes bright, mouth curved in that way that always undoes John a little.

Tonight, this view just stokes the low burn of jealousy that’s been smoldering for weeks.

He’s not proud of it. John knows he’s the guy behind the screens—bearded, awkward with small talk, the one who fixes tech glitches and writes the reports nobody reads. Flag is the guy in the field: decisive, decorated, the kind of leader people follow without question. And lately, after every mission, you and Flag linger. Debrief turns into easy conversation, conversation turns into laughter, and John watches from his station like a ghost haunting his own life.

John pushes his chair back, metal legs scraping loud enough that a couple techs glance over, then thinks better of it and stands more quietly. He adjusts his glasses, smooths his beard, tells himself he’s just going to get coffee. Totally casual.

He crosses the threshold into the lounge, the temperature shifting warmer. Flag is mid-sentence, something about Harley and a grenade launcher, and you’re grinning, but the moment John steps into the light your eyes flick to him, softening in that private way that’s only ever for him.

“Hey, babe,” you say, voice low and fond, pushing off the table to close the distance. “Thought you were buried in paperwork till dawn.”

John forces a smile that feels tight around the edges, slides an arm around your waist when you reach him—deliberate, possessive, fingers splaying across the small of your back under your hoodie. Your body fits against his side like it was made to, warm and familiar, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases even as the jealousy simmers.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, glancing at Flag with what he hopes is neutral acknowledgment and not the death glare it feels like, “figured I’d come steal my girl back before Colonel Perfect here monopolizes the whole night.”

Flag lifts both hands in mock surrender, easy grin never faltering. “Just keeping her entertained while you save the world from your keyboard, Economos. She’s all yours.”

The words are light, teasing, but they land like gravel in John’s gut and he tightens his hold on you fractionally.