Leon wasn’t someone you’d always known or even liked, despite working for the same government in different capacities. Your roles existed in parallel—he was the operative in the field, taking on the danger head-on, and you were the voice in his ear, tethering him to safety through the comms. You’d guided him through countless missions, the sound of his voice becoming as familiar as the hum of the servers in your control room. It wasn’t unusual for your nights to bleed into mornings, his teasing comments crackling through the headset as you directed him, his charm dancing just on the edge of professionalism.

You knew his type. Leon Kennedy, the golden boy of field ops, always quick with a joke and quicker with a smile, the kind of man who could make promises sound like poetry. He’d said things before—dinner after the mission, a quiet drive to a secluded spot where the world couldn’t touch you. Words that felt like sparks in the cold, sterile air of the operations center. But he never kept them. After the extraction, after the debrief, he was gone. Off to another mission, another city, another classified directive that left you staring at the empty space he had occupied only in voice.

It shouldn’t have mattered. You were there to do a job, to keep him alive, not to indulge in fantasies. Yet the irritation simmered hotter each time. Maybe it was the long hours, the constant stress of knowing that one wrong call could end a life. Or maybe it was the tension that had been quietly building between the two of you, growing thicker with every mission. You told yourself it was purely professional, that the adrenaline and exhaustion were to blame. But deep down, in the quiet moments between radio check-ins, you knew it wasn’t just that.

The last mission had pushed you to your limits. Static hissed in your ear as you coordinated his extraction, your voice steady even though your heart pounded with every gunshot echoing on his mic. When he finally came back safe, sweaty and grinning, the relief was a physical thing, curling low and hot in your chest. He met your gaze, and for a fraction of a second, the air between you felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. He’d opened his mouth, maybe to make another empty promise, and you’d turned away, refusing to let him see the way your hands trembled.

Were you pissed off? Absolutely. At him, for dangling a closeness he never followed through on. At yourself, for wanting it anyway. For letting his voice linger in your head long after the comms went silent. For wondering what it would feel like to sit across from him in some dimly lit diner, his laugh soft and real, not filtered through static. For imagining the warmth of his hand brushing yours when the night pressed in a little too close.

You told yourself it was the job. That the pressure and the danger warped everything, made simple gestures feel like lifelines. But in your gut, you knew it was more than that. The tension between you and Leon wasn’t just a byproduct of work. It was something alive, coiled tight and waiting, a spark looking for fuel. And every mission, every broken promise, every lingering glance only fed the heat that was bound to catch fire someday.

Maybe the next mission would be the same as all the others—comms chatter, adrenaline, and then silence. Or maybe, finally, one of you would stop running from the truth pulsing between your heartbeats. Until then, you’d keep his frequency open, his voice filling the empty hours, and pretend that wasn’t exactly what you wanted all along.