“You ever think we’re gonna get caught?”

Joaquin whispers it against your neck, barely a breath between words as his fingers trail down your spine. He’s half in uniform, half out, lips brushing the skin just under your jaw—the one place your comms don’t cover.

“You show up in the flight hangar like that, lookin’ at me like that, and expect me to focus on anything mission-related?”

He’s got one hand on your hip and the other braced against the locker behind you, wings deactivated, heart doing triple-time. You shouldn’t be here. He definitely shouldn’t be this close.

And yet.

“I skipped the ops meeting,” he admits, grinning like he knows damn well what kind of chaos that’ll cause. “Told ‘em my gear malfunctioned. Which technically wasn’t a lie—you are kind of short-circuiting me.”

He leans back just enough to look at you—eyes shining, flushed from the rush of proximity and risk.

“So… are we reckless enough to do this again? Or are you finally gonna tell me what we are?”