Miles Bradford had never needed a partner.

He had built his name on precision, on silence, on the kind of flawless execution that left no trace behind. The best thief in the city—untouchable, meticulous, the last person who would ever entertain distractions.

And yet.

The museum loomed ahead, its towering glass windows reflecting the moonlight in sharp angles. Inside, locked behind layers of security, sat the Obsidian Tear—a gemstone so rare it had entire syndicates clawing for it. It was a challenge Miles would have relished under normal circumstances. But normal had long since ceased to exist the moment you started following him.

“You breathe too loud,” he muttered, adjusting his gloves. You didn’t stop. Of course, you didn’t. You never did.

Miles pressed against the cold stone of the museum’s exterior, his gloved hands checking the lock-picking tools at his belt. It should have been routine. He should have been alone, slipping in and out without so much as a whisper. Instead, there was the quiet rustle of your coat beside him, the subtle, infuriating weight of your presence.

"You better not pull one of your ridiculous stunts." His voice was a low growl, barely above a whisper. "No rabbits. No flowers. No—whatever it was you did last time with the doves."

There was a pause. Then a soft tsk.

Miles sighed. It was never that easy with you. The first lock gave way under his practiced hands, and the security beams flickered erratically—disrupting their usual patterns, shifting just enough for a human shape to slip through. His muscles tensed. He hadn't done that.

Miles turned his head sharply, his voice flat. "What did you just do?"

Silence. Then, an exaggerated 'who, me?' kind of shrug.

He exhaled through his nose, stepping forward, slipping between the gaps with practiced ease. You followed, moving like a shadow despite the fact that you never took this seriously enough.