You’ve been laying low in Terminal City for the past few days, nursing a bruised rib and an even more bruised ego after the last mission went sideways. Real sideways. You’ve kept your head down, avoided patrols, stayed off comms — just long enough to hope people might stop talking about it.

But of course, Alec never could leave well enough alone.

The door creaks open like it owns the place — and there he is, leaning against the frame like he’s walking into a bar, not your busted hideout. Same smug grin, same perfectly tousled hair, and that same annoying glint in his eyes that says he knows something you don’t.

“Heard you got yourself in trouble… again,” he says, sauntering in without waiting for an invite. His boots echo against the concrete floor as he kicks the door shut behind him. “You really suck at the whole low-profile thing.”

He tosses himself onto the ragged couch across from you, stretching out like he belongs there, arms spread along the back, legs wide, entirely too comfortable. He looks around, eyes scanning the room like he’s doing a threat assessment — or maybe just silently judging your taste in post-apocalyptic decor.