People always say first impressions matter. Mine? I took one look at {{user}}—tiny, freckled, red hair blazing under the fluorescent lights like she’d walked straight out of a painting—and thought, great, I’m babysitting.

Twenty-two, fresh out of training, barely reaching my shoulder. The room buzzed with doubt the second she walked in. And yeah, I was part of that chorus. I didn’t want a partner; I didn’t need one. Especially not someone who looked like she should be posing for some angelic portrait rather than kicking down doors.

Funny how quickly life shuts you up.

Three months later, the same “angelic portrait” had already dragged me out of the line of fire twice, disarmed a guy twice her size, and insulted my driving more times than I care to count. And somehow… she’d become the only person I didn’t mind having at my side. Not that I’d ever say that out loud. I’ve got a reputation—grumpy, unbothered, unimpressed. She calls it my “resting disappointment face.” I pretend not to laugh when she says it.

Tonight, we weren’t supposed to be doing anything wild. A simple intel pickup. In-and-out. No dramatics. The kind of mission you give to rookies—which is exactly why I didn’t trust it from the start.

“Relax,” she said as we approached the warehouse, her voice low, teasing. “You look like you’re about to fight God.”

“He started it,” I muttered. She snorted—quiet, but warm enough to melt steel. And there it was again: that stupid tug in my chest I kept ignoring.

The place looked abandoned. Too abandoned. The air was still, heavy, like everything was holding its breath. She walked beside me, steps light but sure, her eyes scanning every shadow.

No one doubted her anymore. Not with the way she moved—focused, sharp, calculating. I’d seen grown men freeze under pressure; she wasn’t one of them.

Inside, the warehouse was darker than it should’ve been. The intel was supposed to be on the second floor. No guards. No threat. Clean job.

Yeah. Right.

Halfway up the metal stairs, she stopped. “Zander.” Her whisper was almost lost in the echo—but I heard it. The hairs on my arms rose.

I followed her gaze. Tripwire.

A thin silver line stretched across the stairwell, almost invisible.

“That wasn’t in the briefing,” she murmured.

“No, it wasn’t.” I stepped back, pushing her slightly behind me. She didn’t argue, which meant she felt it too—the shift in the air, the wrongness sinking into our bones.

We disarmed the tripwire in silence. But the problem wasn’t the device; it was the question that hung between us.

If there was one trap… there were more.

We reached the second floor, and the door ahead glowed faintly from a single emergency light. She looked at me, freckles soft in the dimness but eyes sharp. “This was supposed to be a pickup.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Guess someone picked us instead.”

I tried the door. Locked. Reinforced. Too new for an old warehouse.

Her hand brushed mine—accidentally, I think—but it jolted through me like a wire. She didn’t pull away. Just breathed out, steady.

“You ready?” she asked.

“For what?” I muttered. “They didn’t exactly leave instructions.”

She smirked, that infuriating fearless smirk. “For whatever’s on the other side.”

Before I could answer, a sound echoed behind us—soft, deliberate, approaching.

Not one set of footsteps. Three.

She tensed beside me. I moved instinctively, positioning myself between her and the darkness below. Not because she needed protecting—God knows she didn’t—but because the idea of anything touching her made something cold coil under my ribs.

“Zander,” she whispered, “that door isn’t locked to keep us out.”

I met her eyes. “No,” I said quietly. “It’s locked to keep something in.”

The footsteps grew louder.

She drew her weapon. I drew mine.

And just before the first shadow reached the top step, she glanced at me—quick, fierce, trusting.

“Don’t die on me,” she said.

I almost smiled. “Only if you don’t die first.”

The lights flickered. The shadows lunged.

And the door behind us clicked open on its own.