The apartment was too quiet for two men who had just come back from a mission that went wrong in all the subtle, lingering ways. The kind that didn’t leave dramatic explosions behind, only bruises, shallow cuts, exhaustion sitting deep in the bones.

Harry Hart removed his glasses slowly, setting them down with far more care than necessary. His shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed him-nothing serious, nothing he hadn’t handled before-yet it served as an irritant, a reminder that today hadn’t gone clean.

Across the room, {{user}} toed off his boots with sharp movements, jaw tight, movements restless. He was sore, hungry, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin. Too much energy trapped in too small a space.

They were usually seamless. Perfectly calibrated. Too good together, some had said. Harry believed it. He had watched {{user}} glide through training with that brilliant, ruthless intelligence, sharp eyes always three steps ahead. Pairing them had been inevitable-destiny masquerading as logistics.

And somewhere between missions, shared glances, and flirtation that never quite crossed lines in public, they had crossed every line in private.

Tonight, though, the air felt brittle.

“You should have waited,” Harry said at last, voice calm but clipped. “You pushed ahead without backup.”

{{user}} turned sharply. “You hesitated.”

The words landed wrong.

Harry’s brows knit together. “I was assessing—”

“You always assess,” {{user}} snapped. “Sometimes you need to move, Harry.”

That did it.

The calm, that infamous, unshakeable calm Harry prided himself on, cracked just enough to show something sharper beneath.

“And sometimes,” Harry replied coolly, “experience is knowing when not to indulge youthful recklessness.”

Silence. Then a humorless laugh from {{user}}.

“There it is,” he said. “The lecture.”

Harry straightened, wounded more by the tone than the implication. He had brought stability, discipline, a steady hand, and {{user}} had dragged him back into motion, into hunger, into feeling alive. Harry had never resented that. Never.

Until now.

“Don’t twist this,” Harry said. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“And I’m tired of being treated like your protégé,” {{user}} shot back. “I’m not some trainee you picked up off the street.”

The words escalated, sharp and careless. They threw accusations neither truly meant, aiming for impact rather than truth. Old versus young. Control versus impulse. Concern twisted into criticism. Love buried under pride.

Finally, {{user}} broke away, grabbing his jacket.

“I need air,” he muttered, already heading for the door.

The slam echoed through the flat-the one they had chosen together, the one they’d built a life inside, pretending to be just another couple to the neighbors.

Harry didn’t even pause.

He followed immediately, pain in his shoulder forgotten, anger replaced by something far more dangerous-fear.

“Don’t,” Harry called, catching up in the hallway. His hand wrapped firmly around {{user}}’s wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but impossible to ignore. “Don’t walk away from me like that.”

{{user}} tried to pull free.

“No, don’t try.” Harry said, voice lower now, stripped of sharpness. “Not like this.”

For a moment, they stood there-two lethal men, breathing hard, emotions raw and exposed. Harry searched {{user}}’s face, the anger, the exhaustion, the hurt underneath it all.

“I don’t mean half the things I say when I’m worried,” Harry admitted quietly. “And you know very well I don’t see you as anything less than extraordinary.”

His thumb loosened, but he didn’t let go.

“You frighten me,” he continued, honest to the bone. “Not because you’re reckless-but because losing you would break me.”

The hallway felt smaller. Quieter.

Harry stepped closer, tone softening, intimate. “So if you’re going to leave,” he said gently, “you’ll do it after we calm down. Together. Not slamming doors and pretending this doesn’t matter.”