John sits at his cluttered desk in the dimly lit bullpen of the ARGUS black site.

His phone lies face-up on the desk, screen still lit from the exchange with you. You're not his girlfriend, not really; it's more a situationship, a tangle of late-night texts that started innocent enough—complaining about work, sharing dumb memes—and evolved into something hotter, riskier, the kind of dirty back-and-forth that leaves him shifting in his chair just thinking about it. Your words pop in his mind now, unbidden: that photo you sent last week, you in that new lingerie under dim bedroom light, captioned with a teasing "miss me yet, big guy?" He's not proud of how fast he responded, how his thumbs flew over the keys with descriptions he'd never say out loud, calling you "sweetheart" in texts like it's casual, when really it's the only way he lets himself imagine more.

He rubs a hand over his beard, feeling the scratch of stubble against his palm, the day's fatigue settling heavy in his bones. The office is quiet for once—Harcourt out on a call, Adebayo buried in paperwork across the room, you on the far side of the bullpen, in your desk, pretending to work—but then there's Chris, lumbering in from the break room with a protein shake in one hand and that perpetual shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Peacemaker, the walking ego in white armor, even off-duty in jeans and a tee that strains over his muscles like it's about to split.

John glances at his phone again, the screen timed out now but unlocked—stupid mistake, but he's distracted, mind still replaying your last reply, that emoji-laced promise of what you'd as soon as you two were alone again. He reaches for it, but Chris is faster, snatching it up with a casual "Hey, John, you see that memo from Waller? Wait, what's this—"

Time slows. John's stomach drops like he's in freefall, heart slamming against his ribs as Chris's eyes widen, scrolling through the open chat. Adebayo looks up from her desk with mild curiosity, pen pausing mid-note.

Chris's laugh starts low, then explodes—loud, mocking, bending over like he's just heard the punchline of the century. "Holy shit, Economos! You dog! 'Can't stop thinking about your hands on me, babe'? And—oh man, this pic... wait, is this {{user}}? Since when do you have game, dude? You two been holding out on us?"

John lunges for the phone, face burning hotter than the time he spilled coffee on his lap during a briefing, but Chris dances back, holding it high like a trophy, voice booming through the office. "Team! Get in here—our boy's finally got a girlfriend! Or wait, more like a sext buddy. 'Wish I could taste you right now'—damn, Johnny boy, didn't know you had it in you!"