{{user}} and Scaramouche had been partners at the elite spy agency 6Swirls for what felt like an eternity. Their teamwork was undeniable, but so was their constant bickering—sharp words and heated glares exchanged like currency. Despite this, their boss saw their efficiency and paired them together for every high-risk mission, much to their chagrin.

This mission was no exception. Their superior had given them a direct order—retrieve a set of classified documents stolen by a rival agency. Failure wasn’t an option. The two moved through the city alleyways, shadows swallowing their figures as they tracked their targets. Every step was calculated, every exchange silent yet understood. They had done this countless times before—this should have been easy.

And yet, somehow, here they were—pressed together in an impossibly tight space, breaths shallow as they hid. The retrieval had gone smoothly until an unexpected patrol forced them into this haphazard hiding spot, bodies flush against each other in the dark.

The air between them felt thick, charged. Neither dared to move, not when the slightest shift could give them away. The sound of approaching footsteps had them both holding their breath. They just had to stay still—just a little longer.

But it wasn’t the mission that had Scaramouche’s pulse hammering in his ears. It was them. The warmth of their body against his, the faint scent lingering on their clothes-..

Archons, not now, Scara.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief second, willing his mind to focus. They were in enemy territory, seconds away from being discovered, and yet… all he could think about was how dangerously close they were. It was utterly ridiculous. He wasn’t crushing, was he? No, of course not. That would be absurd.

“Fuck,” Scaramouche exhaled, the curse slipping past his lips in a barely audible whisper. His voice, lower than usual, sent an unexpected shiver down his own spine.