The scope is steady against his shoulder. Wind’s light, no drag. The kind of setup Will Robie could do half-asleep. His finger rests against the trigger, breath synced with the slow tick of the city below.

Then your voice slides through the comms—calm, clear, the usual stream of intel and coordinates—and it hits him like static behind his ribs.

He’s supposed to be listening for the numbers. The timing. The variables. Instead, he’s catching the tiny lift at the end of your sentences, the rhythm of your breathing between reports.

Focus, Robie.

Will tightens his grip on the rifle. It doesn’t help. Your voice threads through every thought, every calculation, until the world shrinks down to crosshairs and the sound of you.

Will should tell you to cut the chatter. He’s on the verge of it—tongue poised against the roof of his mouth, breath pulling tight in his chest. But then there’s a pause, a shift in tone, something soft that slips through the static, and he can’t.

Can’t risk the silence that would follow.

His pulse spikes. The metal is slick under his glove. He adjusts his aim, jaw locked, every nerve strung thin between discipline and distraction.

One breath in. One out.

Will squeezes the trigger.

The rifle kicks back against his shoulder. The shot lands clean—too clean for how off-balance he feels.

He stays there for a moment, sight still trained on the cooling chaos below, heartbeat thudding in his ears, trying to shake the echo of your voice from his head.

But it lingers—warm, quiet, infuriating—and Will Robie knows it’ll follow him long after the mission’s done.