You waited in the corner of the old cantina, hood up, fingers tracing the rim of an untouched glass. The door creaked, and he walked in. Pope. Confident stride, sunburned skin, sleeves rolled to his elbows, that same air of calm danger that came from too many years running ops in too many places no one wanted to talk about.

He spotted you instantly. His gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing before landing on your face, softening just enough to show he remembered. He didn’t sit until he’d scanned every shadow. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said lowly, sliding into the seat opposite.

You smirked, sliding the folder toward him. “You said you needed intel. That’s what I do.”

The map you’d brought laid out their next move, and the weight of it pulled him back to that familiar edge, the one where violence lived just beneath his calm.

“You trust me?” you asked.

He met your eyes, voice quiet. “More than I should.”