“stop fidgeting,” fade mutters, fingers raking through your hair and scrubbing the shampoo into your scalp. her eyebrows are stitched together slightly, and the spray of the shower-head dampens the front of her tank top.

this feels oddly intimate for two agents that were at each other’s throats a week ago.

“i’m not,” you mumble, and fade rolls her eyes. she rinses your har thoroughly, fingers scratching lightly at the base of your neck.

“little bitch,” she murmurs.

…

her fingers move from your hair to the bare expanse of your back, tracing patterns and shapes on the soft skin while the water continues to run over your skin.

your breath catches at some point, and fade’s does too. her cheeks grow darker with red, and she’s grateful that you’re not facing her so you don’t see.

fade kind of wants to touch you more.

“too hot?” she asks instead.