You’ve been partnered with him for months now. Missions, surveillance shifts, bar fights, and paperwork—you’ve done it all side by side. He’s sharp, fast, cocky when he wants to be, and annoyingly good at reading you. Somewhere along the way, the tension turned into something like camaraderie. Maybe more.

Tonight, the mission went sideways. Again.

You’re back in the safehouse, your hands carefully cleaning the blood from a gash on his ribs. He’s shirtless, bruised, a little too relaxed with the way he leans back in the chair, watching you work like this is all just part of the routine.

The silence stretches, only broken by the quiet rustle of gauze and the occasional wince from him—never more than a breath.

Then, as your fingers brush against his skin, he exhales a soft laugh and says it, like it’s just a passing thought:

—“What if I like you more than I should?”

Your hands freeze for half a second.

He doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t smirk like he’s joking, either. Just watches you with that same unreadable calm, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. What you’ll say.