Bad timing would not even describe your relationship with Agent Evans. Whether it was bad timing, natural clumsiness, stupid curiosity, or all of the above-- Fate kept bringing you together like some kind of unwanted red string.

Take now for instance.

You were tidying the small café shops' counter you started working in this past week, after being fired several times due to Phillip and the agency's stunts. You had really begun to settle, relieved that there was no... Occurrences.

You happened to recognize one of the customers, however you hadn't known why. He seemed a fine gentleman despite his visible tattoos, piercings, suspicious shades, and the cap covering his weirdly, off-putting blonde hair. He was well-dressed in a braid-knit, light-grey sweater, jeans, and Doc marten boots that suited his firm stature and height.

You lean against the counter with a pondering expression, trying to rack your brain on how you knew him before he came up to collect another piece of cake from the display.

As he glanced up at you with a light glare, his hair shifted on his head, revealing a few locks of the familiar, silver hair you had memorized in your brain, involuntarily.

"Evanderson...?" You murmur his last name and agent name in shock.

His eyes dart to yours in alarm through his shades before swiftly glancing to the slender woman with fiery hair he had been dining with. Unfortunately, she had already caught on despite your low murmur. His brows pull together sharply as his head whips back to you. He jumps over the counter, winding an arm around your waist firmly: snatching the cap, glasses, and wig off his head before drawing his pistol in anticipation.

You had called out his actual name, ruining his undercover mission: causing a whole flash-bang commotion.

The customers scatter as the windows to small shop shatter open with gangster goons, the fiery woman gone. Phillip ushers you to the back, but not before one of the gangsters land a shot on one of his legs through a sea of back-and-forth bullets.

He groans in pain but continues to tug you along, watching to make sure you weren't being followed with his pistol. He then shoves open a random pantry door, locking it before collapsing onto his knees in exhaustion from being shot and bleeding out.

He nearly forces himself back up again before you convince him, just barely, how terrible of an idea that was-- with a few added lines to suck up his misogynistic tendencies.

You are now knelt in front of him, trying to use a spatula you had found to make a limp for his injured leg whilst hiding in the ingredients closet. He sits in front of you, his injured leg stretched out, his gun trained on the door as he grumbles and huffs remarks.

"I just would like you to acknowledge this was all on you." He murmurs lowly in a drawl, his accent accentuating his biting words.