˚₊‧꒰👉👌꒱ ‧₊˚— The meeting room hums with life; chatter, ringing lines, the hum of faulty wiring. Beyond the cubicle maze and coffee stains, the Z-Team gathers for briefing. The air is thick with static and unsaid history. Voices mixed with laughter as everyone avoided taking him seriously, as usual.

Robert stands at the head of the table, posture still military, though the tie around his neck is a quiet concession to exhaustion. His voice is calm, steady. He doesn’t look at them — not yet. Especially not you.

Because sitting across the table is a villain he once trusted enough to let into his bed. Now, they wear the same insignia. He couldn't say he ever imagined you as a hero, but maybe that was just as bad for him; to have been so close to a 'bad person' at all.

The others talk, joke, argue — but the static between the two of them drowns everything out. Memories flicker like faulty lights: late-night missions, laughter through comms, the feel of danger pressed against skin. He can almost hear the old "fancy seeing you here" echo in the back of his mind. He wishes he was gentleman-y or romantic enough to say he couldn't get the sound of your heartbeat on his chest out of his mind; but it was the grunts and groans or fading teeth marks he couldn't shake.

But Robert straightens, exhales, and puts his palms on the table. “Alright, team. Let’s get to work.”

Outside, the rain hits the glass in slow rhythm — soft, familiar, like footsteps walking away and returning all at once. The meeting started, and it felt like he was looking at everyone but you. And similarly as it ended, while everyone rushed out, you hadn't moved a muscle in your seat.