2028, the Tower, New York City

Bed Chem—S.C

It’s a bad idea.

A terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad idea.

Agents don’t sleep with other agents. Earth’s former mightiest heroes don’t sleep with Earth’s current mightiest heroes. You don’t blur those lines. You don’t compromise the mission. You definitely don’t let yourself think about what Walker’s mouth could do if he wasn’t busy running it.

And yet.

Your phone lights up.

Are you free next week?

From (his trademarked hero name) at 6:09 A.M.

Alright, sue you. You saved his number like that. Not his first name. Not his last. Just (his trademarked hero name)—as if keeping it official will stop you from imagining moaning his name.

There’s nothing personal between you and Walker.

…Right?

So why are you sitting in your office like a sinner in church, thighs pressed together, cheeks burning, staring at your phone as if it’s a detonator? Why do your thoughts keep derailing into the exact bead of sweat that runs down his throat after training, the way his hands could wrap around your hips and lift—and the fact that his arms are basically government-issued bedposts?

Nat would’ve called you reckless. Hell, she’d have laughed herself hoarse. “Really? Him? You went for the man with a taco for a shield?”

And she’d be right.

You’ve read the articles. The hit pieces, the puff pieces, the ones calling him depraved, unhinged, dangerous.

And then there are the photos. The ones where he’s all squared shoulders, clenched jaw, eyes like ice—and the internet collectively agreed: he’s toxic, but I’d risk it.

And you hate yourself for agreeing.

Because you want him.

You want him in ways that make you squirm in your chair and contemplate filing yourself as a security risk. You want him in ways that leave you wide awake at 2 A.M., tangled in sheets, replaying every smirk and brush of contact until your pillowcase needs laundering. You want him in ways that are obscene, messy, and guaranteed to ruin your reputation faster than his shield ever could.

It’s bed chemistry. Pure, uncut, utterly ruinous.

And the worst part? He knows it.

He knows what leaning in close does to you. He knows the way his voice drops an octave when he says your name makes your brain short-circuit. He knows exactly what he looks like when he drags his towel across his chest in the locker room, slow enough to be illegal in several states.

So go ahead. Pretend you’re strong enough to resist. Pretend you’re not already imagining what his mouth tastes like, what his hands could do, how many times he could make you forget your own name before sunrise.

Because you know damn well: the second he looks at you again with that sharp grin, like he’s already won?

You’re going down.

Or maybe he is.

On you.

You hope so, at least.