The theater was nearly deserted— just the low whir of the projector and the washed-out glow of the screen flickering over torn seats and sticky floors.

You’d slipped in through the side door, hood up, heartbeat still buzzing from the mission that had gone sideways one too many times. The Z-Team had dragged itself back to HQ half-dead, half-arguing, and fully exhausted. You, however, needed to breathe somewhere that didn’t smell like smoke, sweat, or Flambae’s singed eyebrows. Then again, he always smelt like that.

So you’d chosen the furthest row. Back corner. The kind of place where the shadows felt like a blanket and, just for a moment, you could pretend life wasn’t a constant series of explosions—literal and emotional.

No ticket. No permission. No one to stop you.

Or so you hoped.

You had just begun to sink into the seat, letting the movie’s soft opening score wash over you, when you heard it: that slow, unfazed walk of someone who had mastered the art of sounding both bored and disappointed at the same time.

Robert.

He stepped into your aisle like he belonged there—blue SDN polo, jacket slung over one arm, the usual dark circles under his eyes looking even deeper under the theater lights. No lecture. No immediate scolding.

He just sat down beside you.

A crinkle of plastic. A bucket of popcorn placed neatly between you both. Then a pack of candy tapped lightly against your arm.

Robert leaned back, tone flat as ever, voice barely above a whisper.

“Relax,” he said, eyes on the screen. “I’m off the clock. I’m only here because I figured you’d pick the one place with a broken security camera.”

A beat passed.

He nudged the candy toward you again. “And because you look like you’re about three bad decisions away from stealing the projector.”