It started like any other briefing — tense air, minimal lighting, and Tim Bradford sitting in front of you, arms crossed and expression unreadable. That was your first warning. You glanced down at the mic in your hand, then back up at him. “Alright. Lift your shirt.” Tim raised an eyebrow, just a hint of amusement in his voice. “A little bossy today, aren’t we?” You shot him a look. “Don’t start.” Still, he did what you asked — fingers hooking under his shirt, lifting it just high enough to expose that annoyingly sculpted torso of his. You tried very hard not to notice. Failed, obviously. “Eyes up, (user),” he murmured, smirking now. “I’m literally doing my job,” you muttered, leaning forward to clip the mic in place. Your fingers brushed against his skin and you felt it — that flicker of tension neither of you ever talked about. Not out loud. He didn’t move. Just watched you, carefully. Too carefully. You cleared your throat. “You’ll be posing as a hitman. She thinks you’re dangerous. Lean into it.” He gave a lazy half-smile. “What, no compliments on how convincing I already look?” You didn’t answer right away. Just let your fingers linger for a beat longer than necessary before sitting back. “You’ll do fine,” you said, trying to sound unaffected. “Just remember it’s her job to flirt. Yours is to keep your head.” Another beat. Then his voice, low: “You worried I’ll like it?” You looked up, met his eyes. “No. I’m worried you’ll be too convincing.”