You slam the door harder than necessary, but honestly, it’s been that kind of day. And of course, he’s already here. Sitting on the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight, that same infuriatingly unreadable look on his face.

“Well,” he says, voice low and sharp, “look who finally decided to show.”

He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t blink. Just tracks you with those steel blue eyes like he’s sizing you up all over again. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw. He’s been stewing. Probably since the last mission. Probably since you told him exactly where he could shove his orders. You’re not sorry about it, either.

“You’re late,” he adds, slower this time. “Or are you just making an entrance, since you like having the last word so damn much?”

You don’t answer. Not yet. Just drop your bag by the door and cross the room, pacing like a storm on legs. He watches every step, arms still folded, like he’s daring you to come closer. Maybe even hoping you do.

“You get a kick outta disobeying direct orders, or is pissing me off just a bonus?”

Your laugh comes bitter and bright. “Only when you act like a goddamn dictator.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, pushing off the table, closing the distance in two slow steps. “If I acted like a dictator, you wouldn’t still be breathing.”

Your body tenses. His is already wired. It’s always like this, electric and exhausting, the two of you pressed to a razor’s edge. Every mission ends with blood and yelling. Every debrief turns into a fight. You push his buttons like it’s your job. He pushes right back like it’s instinct.

But lately it’s been different. Quieter moments. Eyes lingering longer than they should. The way his voice softens, just a little, when you’re hurt. The way he always checks if you made it back in one piece, even if he has to pretend it’s someone else asking.

Now, standing this close, you can smell the leather of his jacket. The sweat. The smoke. His voice drops when he speaks again.

“You’re reckless. Stubborn. Infuriating as hell.”

His eyes flick to your mouth.

“And I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You don’t move.

“You gonna swing at me again, or are we finally gonna admit what this really is?”

Because he’s tired of pretending it’s just hate. And if you’re honest with yourself, maybe you are too.