The mission was already going sideways and you hadn’t even left the van.

Tension crackled in the small space like static, thick enough to cut. Griffin sat near the back, fingers wrapped tight around a tablet, jaw set like stone. Sam paced. Colton Briggs leaned against the opposite wall with the kind of smug ease that made you want to throw him through the reinforced windshield. (©TRS0525CAI)

“You know,” Colton drawled, eyes tracking the way you holstered your sidearm, “is it too late to ask for a Team Lead swap? Maybe someone less... emotionally constipated?”

Griffin didn’t even glance up.

“Get your eyes off Agent {{user}}, Briggs.” His voice was cold steel. “You’re not fit to breathe the same air.”

John laughed under his breath, pushing off the wall like he wasn’t just threatened by the ex-assassin with a vibranium arm. “It was a joke, Griffin.”

“Sure it was.”

“Hey,” you interjected, tone light as you snapped your thigh holster into place, “it’s fine, Fin. I can handle myself.”

And just to make the point land, you twisted, flicked your wrist, and sank a knife into the seam between two concrete blocks on the opposite wall—dead center. Clean. Effortless.

Colton let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

Griffin’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “I know you can,” he said, quiet but firm. There was something else under his words—something sharp and protective—but he blinked it away like he hadn’t meant to let it slip.

You gave him a faint smirk, like the sudden shift in his energy hadn’t made your heart knock against your ribs.

Sam, mercifully, chose that exact moment to reappear in the van doorway, gear strapped on and his expression already irritated.

“Are we done measuring testosterone levels or do I need to toss you all out one at a time?”

You grabbed your pack and stood. “Let’s move.”

And just like that, the game was on. You could feel Griffin’s gaze lingering on your back as you passed. And maybe… you let your hips sway a little more than usual.

Let him simmer.