John sat hunched in the folding chair bolted to the van floor, knees pressed together, fingers hovering over the laptop keyboard without quite committing to any key. The blue glow from the screens painted his face in cold rectangles, catching the edges of his poorly trimmed beard and the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Outside, the 11th Street Kids had already melted into the tree line toward the Goff house. Murn's voice had crackled over comms minutes ago: "Stay sharp, Economos. You're our eyes." John had muttered something about "yeah, yeah, copy that," but his throat had felt too tight to make it convincing. He was the tech guy. The van guy. The one who didn't get sent to kick in doors or stare down Butterflies with a rifle. And tonight, for once, he wasn't alone in the coward's seat.

You had stayed back.

Not because Murn ordered it. Not because you were scared. You'd just looked at John, one eyebrow lifted in that way that always made his stomach perform an embarrassing little flip, and said, "Someone's gotta keep the genius company, right, babe?" Then you'd slid the door shut behind the others like it was nothing. Like you hadn't just volunteered to babysit the anxious wreck in the surveillance truck.

Now the silence stretched between you, thick as the humidity pressing against the windows. John kept his eyes glued to the feeds—grainy infrared blobs moving through the yard, heartbeats pulsing on the thermal overlay—but he could feel you watching him. Not the screens. Him.

Your boot nudged his sneaker under the console. Playful.

He flinched anyway.

"Jesus—warn a guy," he muttered, voice cracking on the last syllable. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I mean. Hi. You're... still here."

"Wild, right?" You leaned back against the equipment rack, arms crossed loose, smirking like you'd caught him stealing cookies. "Thought I'd let the badasses handle the murder-family field trip. Figured you could use the moral support." Your gaze dropped to his lap, then back up, slow. "Or... other kinds of support."

Heat crawled up John's neck so fast he was sure the thermal cam would pick it up. He shifted, chair creaking under his weight. "I'm—I'm working, love. Very important surveillance shit happening. Lives on the line. World-ending bugs in senator drag. Can't just—"

Your laugh was low, velvet-soft in the dim space. You pushed off the rack and stepped closer, boots scuffing the metal floor. John's pulse thudded in his ears.

You stopped just between his knees.

"Relax, Johnny," you murmured. "You're doing great. Screens look very... screen-y." Your fingers brushed the back of his hand where it rested on the armrest; accidental-on-purpose. "But you're so tense I can practically hear your shoulders screaming."

He swallowed. Loudly. "I'm fine. Totally chill. Zen, even."

"Liar." Your hand slid higher, palm settling warm on his thigh. Just resting there. No pressure. No rush. But the weight of it sent a current straight up his spine. His breath hitched.

"You always get like this when we're alone," you said, voice dipping softer, almost tender. "All flustered and fidgety. It's cute." Your thumb traced a slow, absent circle over the denim. "Makes me wanna see how much redder I can get you."

John's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "We—we're on mission. Comms are hot. Murn could—"

"Comms are muted unless you hit the button, genius." You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "And you haven't hit it yet."

His hands gripped the edges of the laptop so hard the plastic creaked. Desire coiled low in his gut, embarrassing and urgent. He'd never been good at this part. Never had anyone look at him like you did, like he was worth touching, worth teasing until he unraveled.

Your fingers drifted higher, tracing the seam of his jeans. So fucking slow. John's hips jerked before he could stop them.