“Report incomplete again.”

Joaquin doesn’t even look up at first—just flicks the corner of your file with one gloved finger. He’s leaned back in his chair, boots crossed, earpiece still hanging from the collar of his tac vest.

“You were supposed to return this three hours ago. And I know you didn’t accidentally leave out the part where you solo’d the roof access.”

Finally, his eyes meet yours. Soft brown and burning with that specific brand of annoyance that only you seem to bring out.

“Y’know,” he says, standing slowly, “when Sam asked me to oversee clearance protocol, I thought I’d be bored out of my mind. But you—”

He stops. His smile is crooked now, tired in a way he only shows after midnight shifts.

“You make it real hard to pretend I don’t look forward to this.”

Joaquin steps around the desk, folder tucked under his arm like a shield he’s not sure he wants to keep. He’s close now—close enough for you to feel the heat coming off his skin, the scent of jet fuel and citrus soap.

“You trying to get grounded?” he asks, quieter. “Or are you just hoping I’ll pull you in again to yell about it in private?”

He leans in, voice low.

“Because I can close that door. And we can make this real off-the-record.”