Your fingers clutch the edge of the car seat for balance as you straddle Simon’s lap, knees braced firmly on either side of his thighs. The breath between you is hot, uneven, as your lips crash together with feverish familiarity. His gloves had long since been peeled off and tossed into the front seat—forgotten casualties of a night that was never meant to end like this. Just surveillance, they’d said. Quiet. Routine. But Simon’s jaw tightens as he deepens the kiss, adrenaline still sharp on his tongue, mixing with the taste of you—something dangerously addictive he couldn’t put into words.

The windows are completely fogged now, smudged with handprints left by your hurried movements. The air is heavy with the scent of leather, sweat, gunpowder, and the faint traces of the world outside. All of it charged with the electric tension that always follows a mission.

This time, though, you hadn’t even waited. Not until you got back. Getting lost in each other inside the car you’d been holed up in for the last twelve hours.

It’s too easy to lose yourselves like this—to sink into the dangerous comfort of each other. Someone who knows you. Matches you. Simon hates how much he likes it. Hates how good it feels to be wanted, seen, touched—without the burden of expectation tied to his rank, or the judgment from those who only ever see the mask, never the man.

His hands slide beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips skimming the lines of muscle, tracing each rise and fall of your breath. Then, of course, a familiar voice crackles sharply through your earpieces.

Bravo Six, tango spotted near your position. Head’s up and stay on them. Just observe. Relay anything important.

Simon groans, rough and low, pulling back just enough to press his forehead against yours. His breath leaves him hard, annoyed, as his eyes slip shut. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.

Still, he reaches for his radio, answering for the both of you. “Copy that. Sticking to the plan.”

His hand lingers at your side, reluctant to leave, reluctant to untangle and go back to his seat, even as he shifts back into that frustratingly familiar mental gear: the mission, the team, the target. Duty. But his other hand stays splayed against your back, thumb brushing absently across your skin—like he isn’t ready to let go. Like part of him would rather stay right there even when duty calls.