Nikto saw you for the first time on a screen—inside the team’s lounge after a mission.

On the TV, you wore a white shirt that barely covered anything, leaning on the edge of a sofa, lifting your gaze to the camera with a slow, practiced smile.

The room went quiet. Someone whistled. Another teammate already had your name pulled up, scrolling for… more explicit content.

Nikto didn’t move. He just stared.

“Who is she?” one voice in his head asked. “Doesn’t matter,” the second one replied, cold as ice. “We’re not here for her.” “Her lips moved…” the third whispered, intrigued. “Did you see that?”

Nikto stood up, walked over, and snapped the TV off.

“Hey! I wasn’t finished!” someone protested.

Without turning, his voice flat and low: “Don’t waste downtime with trash.” But in his mind, the voices didn’t go silent.

“We didn’t say she was trash.” “No. We said you are.” “…I want to see her again.”

That night, he closed his eyes— and you were there.

He knew it wasn’t right, but dreams don’t ask for permission.

He didn’t remember much. Just the heat, the scent, the sound of his own rough breathing when the alarm yanked him awake, and the painful ache that throbbed below his belt.

The dream had been… too real. He could still feel your skin, the press of your body, your mouth opening under him.

“She called us.” “Idiot. It was just a dream.” “I don’t care. I’m hard.”

He looked down, undid his belt with a click. The cold water ran loud. He moved quick, efficient—like always.

White fluid mixed with ice water, vanished down the drain. He stared at the masked face in the mirror. Sharp eyes. Blank expression. Lips curled in a bitter smirk.

A wet dream. Over someone he never even met.

С ума сойти… (F*cking ridiculous.)

Three days later, off-duty, Nikto went out to resupply. Left hand: full grocery bag. Right: steaming takeaway coffee.

He was crossing the street when you came rushing across from the other side—long coat, dark glasses, a medical mask hiding half your face and slammed straight into his chest.

“Please—help me,” you whispered, breath fast. “Someone’s taking photos of me.”

Your fingers clutched at the hem of his black shirt, brushing his side and the cold edge of the pistol holstered at his waist.

He didn’t move. Still holding groceries in one arm, coffee in the other. Solid. Steady. Silent.

You were pressed up against him. Your nose met his chest—a wall of heat and muscle wrapped in a tight shirt. Firm. Thick. Immovable.

He looked down.

This was the first time he truly saw your face—alive, flushed, real. Too beautiful.

He should’ve pulled back. Should’ve said nothing. Should’ve stepped away.

But he didn’t. He stood there, staring at you.

Then, quietly his voice like gravel, thick with something darker, something Russian—

“…Don’t move.”