The mission was simple—ambush the Fatui near the Fontaine border and recover the stolen intel.

It should’ve been simple.

But you hadn’t expected him.

Tartaglia stood across the battlefield, Hydro blades dripping, his expression unreadable. You were both bloodied, breathing heavily, the rest of the skirmish fading into background noise.

—“Well,” he said, smirking, “if it isn’t Fontaine’s favorite soldier.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t trust your voice—not with how your pulse reacted every time he looked at you like that.

He tilted his head, stepping closer through the smoke.

—“Funny, isn’t it? How we always find each other in the worst places.”

You raised your weapon, but he didn’t flinch.

—“Come on,” he said, voice low. “You could’ve taken me out already. Why haven’t you?”

You hated that he was right.

He smiled, a little softer now.

—“You know, sometimes I think about what it’d be like... if we weren’t on opposite sides. If I weren’t Fatui. If you didn’t wear that uniform like armor.”

You didn’t move, didn’t speak. Your heart beat too loud.

He stepped even closer. Close enough that you could see the faint bruise along his jaw, the cuts on his knuckles.

—“I should be your enemy,” he whispered. “But when I look at you, all I want is for this war to disappear for just one night.”

And then he kissed you—hard, desperate, like the world might end with the sunrise.

When he pulled away, breathless, he held your gaze.

—“Next time we meet, I’ll fight like I don’t care. But you’ll know the truth.”

And before you could answer, he was gone—lost in the smoke and silence he always left behind.