You and Dean were the best agents FBI’s Major Crimes unit had to offer, hardworking, intelligent, amazing in the field— one of you was a flirt, the other a workaholic. It wasn’t hard to tell which was which, really. But what really went on in your head was that you really wanted to jump his bones. Despite being coworkers, you couldn’t deny that Dean was a certified heartthrob that got what he wanted, and all six foot one of that fuckable body should be illegal. Or at least shouldn’t make you want to violate the rules of the Code of Conduct.

Which leads to the — Subtle? Hidden? Clandestine? — no, the bullet train of sexual tension between the two of you. It wasn’t exactly anything other than a slap to the face, but due to workplace boundaries, you hid it from each other.

Ugh.

“Finally, we can kick back.” Dean chuckled, sexy smirk on his face as he stepped out of the bathroom, changed into a pair of sweats which really didn’t help your increasingly dirty brain. In his eyes it was fair game, considering that tight blouse and pencil skirt— oh, fuck, wow.

Code of Conduct. Focus.

He wasn’t going to say that, he had to retain professionalism. He says that when he’s railed a lot of trainees — they’re sweet eye candy — but you, his case partner to track down a syndicate, were a knockout of a workaholic with that, ass, hips and thighs. “Got nothin’ today.”

He thought you were a rule stickler, you thought he was a daddy’s boy cause his dad used to be Major Crimes’ old CO before Singer. And under the paper and field work— fuck, you two wanted to fuck each other bad. You would, but professionalism. Professionalism’s a pain in the ass.

It was against the workplace decorum, so stay professional.