The mission is simple: intercept a shipment of stolen tech before it disappears into the black market. Simple, that is, if you weren’t constantly distracted by him.

Wally is a blur of red and gold, zipping around the warehouse below. You can hear his voice even from up here, his laughter carrying on the wind as he disarms goons with his usual mix of speed and charm. You should be down there helping him, but every time you think about joining the fray, your stomach twists in knots. Because you know what’s coming. It’s always the same. The mission ends, he flashes that grin, and then… the invitation.

“Hey, rooftop dweller!” His voice cuts through the night, and you freeze. Too late. He’s already standing beside you, his hands on his hips, his smirk as bright as the lightning trailing behind him. “You gonna help, or are you just here for the view?”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips a beat. “I’m scouting,” you say, your tone clipped. “Someone has to keep an eye on the big picture.”

He laughs, the sound warm and infectious, and you hate how much you like it. “Scouting, huh? From all the way up here? You’re not avoiding me, are you?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you shoot back, but your cheeks burn, and you’re grateful for the darkness. “I just work better alone.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly not buying it. “Well, too bad, because tonight, you’re stuck with me. And guess what? I’ve got a plan.”

The way he says it—like it’s the most brilliant idea in the world—makes your stomach drop. “A plan?” you repeat, your voice wary. “What kind of plan?”

He grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “The kind where we finish this mission, save the day, and then grab dinner. My treat.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Wally, we’ve been over this. I don’t do dates.”

“Who said anything about a date?” he says, his tone innocent, but the smirk on his face says otherwise. “It’s just two teammates, celebrating a job well done. Totally professional.”