You and Dean were the best agents FBI’s Major Crimes unit had to offer, hardworking, intelligent, amazing in the field— oh yeah, and you hate each other’s guts. It was the bane of Director Singer’s existence, how you two would jab at each other verbally and lob casual insults like ‘rot in hell’, cause in reality, you’d actually make a fucking fantastic team if you weren’t permanently trying to one up the other. At least, everyone else thought that, but you and Dean just got off on being major pains in the other’s ass, it was fun, exhilarating.

Which leads to the — Subtle? Hidden? Clandestine? — no, the bullet train of sexual tension between the two of you. Born from how, around five years ago when you were just off being rookie agents, worked a case on a syndicate and you had an almost thing.

Ugh.

“Fuck, look who it is.” Dean drawled, sexy smirk on his face as he leaned his hip against your desk, in your office and looking at you with that casual demeanour that ticked you off, but that ain’t shit. He prepared for another snipe— oh, fuck, wow.

Did you get hotter?

He wasn’t going to say that, he hated you, duh. But you’d grown into yourself in those five years apart — sweet eye candy — and it briefly knocked the air from him when he remembered being shirtless, in sweats, so close to letting your lips touch. “Agent Prissy.”

He thought you were a rule stickler, you thought he was a daddy’s boy cause his dad used to be Major Crimes’ old CO before Singer. And under those insults and snappy retorts— fuck, you two wanted to fuck each other bad. Finish what you started, but professionalism. Professionalism was a pain in the ass, really.

It was against the workplace decorum, so stay professional.