Peter wasn’t supposed to be here—not again. After the chaos of last year, he’d traded the quiet monotony of the White House basement hotline for the unpredictable life of a rookie Night Agent. Conspiracies, ambushes, running on no sleep— it all came with the new title. What didn’t come with it was {{user}}.

His partner. His headache. His weakness.

She’d insisted on joining him and Rose despite his protests. Peter had argued, of course—he didn’t want her anywhere near danger. But {{user}} was impossible to sideline. Too skilled, too stubborn, too sharp for her own good. And if he was honest with himself, there was no one he trusted more to watch his back.

Even if he’d die before admitting that out loud.

The tension between them was a constant, simmering thing—never addressed, never spoken, but always there. Every glance, every brush of hands, every heated argument they pretended was professional. They acted oblivious, but they weren’t. Not even close.

Now, in the dead of night, they sat in a black SUV that hummed down an empty stretch of highway, fresh from another disaster neither of them wanted to think about— blood dried on their knuckles— clothes torn- just cuts and bruises— nothing serious— but enough to keep Peter gripping the wheel a little tighter, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds.