He’d been doing this long enough to know how people worked. The late-night adrenaline junkies. The rookies who couldn’t handle pressure. The so-called “heroes” who treated his orders like suggestions.

Robert had seen it all.

But you? You were something else entirely.

The “new recruit.” The walking migraine. The one who never showed up to briefings, ignored mission routing, and treated protocol like it was optional.

And yet, somehow, every mission you touched ended in clean success, perfect execution, zero errors. No one could explain how you pulled it off. Not even him. Which meant firing you wasn’t an option… much to Robert’s personal misery.

Then he’d found out the reason behind your little “discipline problem.” Military background. Veteran.

And, somehow, through sheer psychological warfare, you had decided he was your milspouse.

He hadn’t agreed to that. Not officially. Not verbally. Not ever. But… for some inexplicable reason, whenever he played along with the bit, you listened. You followed orders. The missions went smoother.

So now? He tolerated it. Begrudgingly. Professionally. Mostly.

He sat back in his chair, watching your bodycam feed flicker across the monitors. Every movement precise. Every sweep clean. Job completed... again...without so much as a scratch.

Robert exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple as he reached for his headset.

“Alright, sweetheart, you’re clear for exfil. Try not to adopt any more nicknames for me on the way back, yeah?”

You spoke over the comms“Copy that, honey.”*

He froze mid-sip of his coffee.

“…I walked right into that one.”