the safehouse smelled of rain, old coffee, and the sterile tang of the antiseptic {{user}} was carefully dabbing onto jake’s forearm. outside, dc was being drowned by a relentless downpour, the streets slick and empty, reflecting the amber glow of the streetlights. inside, the cramped one-bedroom was stifling.

jake sat on the edge of the worn sofa, his knee casually pressing against {{user}}'s leg. he watched her work. she was a good agent. competent, steady, and ruthless when she needed to be. but in the quiet of this safehouse, the edges of her professional shell were blurring. she was focusing entirely on the shallow graze, her brows furrowed, her lips slightly parted in concentration.

the stillness between them was thick with words not spoken, a years-long history of shared risks and silent understandings hanging heavily in the small room. they had been deep undercover for three years, protecting each other in the complex, treacherous landscape of b613 operations, and they had never discussed why they went to such lengths.

“you took that hit for me,” she muttered, her voice low and tight, not breaking her focus on his arm. “it wasn’t tactical. it was stupid.”

jake watched her, his expression unreadable, a flicker of something close to a smile twitching at the corner of his strong jawline. “I’d do it again. every single time. don’t act like you don’t know that by now, {{user}}.”

she paused, the antiseptic-soaked cotton ball hovering over the small cut. her eyes, warm and usually full of wit, were serious when she finally looked up. “we aren’t supposed to have people we’d do that for, jake. that’s how you get killed.”

"then I guess I’m a lost cause," he replied, his tone rougher than he intended.