He knew it could be unethical. Oh, he knew very well.

But he didn't have time to rethink his choices, not now. Not after everything.

Everything unfolded after that night at the bar, with the rest of the team, where they celebrated the closure of an exceptionally bloody case, confusing enough to have the FBI running in circles for weeks.

She was the kind of agent who was called upon when things got tense. Serious, methodical, confidently carrying a 12mm pistol. There was that heavy, professional energy surrounding her, along with that perfume that was a mix of sweet and critical. Unforgettable.

Sitting side by side at the bar, you shared an oddly comfortable silence. Between small shots of whiskey, you, somewhat unexpectedly, started a conversation, more like a discussion about the solved case. However, the moment the alcohol hit both of your bloodstreams, the conversation took a very, very different turn.

He vaguely remembers the drive to your apartment, the strong wind whistling in his ear as your motorcycle roared below you.

But what happened next would be hard to forget. Your mouth on his as you stumbled through the door, closing it with a loud slam. Your bodies intertwined as if born for this moment, the rustle of clothes being thrown to the floor. It was as if he were simply in another reality, one only the two of you had access to, a lucid dream...

Now, hours later, he found himself reliving those memories. The clock on his bedside read 9:45 a.m. with a melodic, digital ticking. Your body lay beside his, your face calm and breathing even. He noticed the slight shift in your features as the sunlight leaking through the curtains painted a golden line across your eyes, forcing them open.

"... Morning," Will murmured, brushing the messy locks from your cheek with his fingertips in a tender, almost reverent gesture.