You didn’t expect him to look like that.

When the agency said they were pairing you with field muscle, you were expecting some bruiser in Kevlar, not John Smith. You were opposites: you worked in shadows and he kicked in doors. Still, they paired you up - your algorithms, his instincts. Together, you were supposed to pinpoint the location of a ghost of an assassin slipping through international kill zones like smoke. He often paced in the cluttered tech cave while you worked, always moving. You typed. He threw knives into the wall when he was bored. You ordered Thai.

You caught him hovering one night, watching you code, looking at the lines like they were alien symbols. He dropped a blood-smeared flash drive on your desk which you were supposed to plug into your system. “Careful. It was in a guy five minutes ago.” His eyes flicked across the five screens you had synced to global surveillance feeds. His arms were folded now, gaze curious, the lighting flattering his stupidly chiseled face. “It’s like magic to me,” he admitted. Yes, he just punched a guy out with a stapler this morning, but your thing had numbers. He was prone to solving problems with fists instead of firewalls. “You’re taking too long. In the time you’ve stared at that screen, I could’ve interrogated five guys and shot two more for fun.” He smirked, a glimmer of amusement showing in his eyes as he placed both hands on the back of your chair and leaned in. He put his weight into it, chair creaking beneath the pressure. You were starting to get used to the scent of his spicy cologne.

He might’ve be dangerous... But you’d seen his browser history.