The explosion wasn’t supposed to happen. At least, that’s what Walker kept telling himself as smoke filled the museum lobby, alarms blaring and people running in every direction.
One minute he was on a normal school trip — bored, half-listening to the guide talk about some 17th-century painting — and the next, he was yanked behind a marble pillar by a stranger in all black.
“You move, you die,” she hissed.
He froze, hands up. “W-what—who are you?”
“Not important.” Her eyes darted toward the broken window where a van screeched away. “What is important is that you just saw something you shouldn’t have.”
Walker blinked. “I—what? I didn’t see anything!”
She gave him a sharp look. “Really? Because the man you were standing next to was an arms dealer, and now he’s missing. So either you’re a suspect or an idiot. Which is it?”
He swallowed. “…Can I be an idiot?”
Her lips twitched — almost a smile. Almost. “Come on.”
That was how it started.
By the next morning, Walker Scobell — who’d never even gotten detention — was being briefed in a dimly lit government facility by an actual agent. You.
“Let me get this straight,” he said, staring at the tablet you handed him. “You think I accidentally got involved in an international weapons trade because I was standing next to a guy?”
You didn’t even look up. “That’s the short version, yeah.”
He frowned. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke.”
“Wow. Can’t imagine why you’re single.”
You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Focus, rookie.”
“Rookie? I’m not even supposed to be here!”
“That’s funny,” you said, crossing your arms, “because neither was the bomb.”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. “…Point taken.”
You studied him — tall, messy blond hair, blue eyes too soft for this world. Definitely not agent material. But the director was adamant: he’d been seen with the dealer, and until they figured out why, you were stuck with him.
And apparently, training him.
⸻
Day one was a disaster.
Walker couldn’t throw a punch without apologizing for it. He tripped over a dummy during obstacle drills. And when you handed him a gun, he dropped it — twice.
“Okay,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re officially a liability.”
He puffed out his cheeks. “Hey, in my defense, I didn’t ask to be James Bond.”
You smirked. “Please. Bond would’ve cried by now.”
That earned a grin. “You think I’d cry?”
“I know you would.”
Still, he showed up the next day. And the day after. And somehow, between bruises and bickering, he got better.
By week two, he could hit a target. By week three, he could disarm an opponent. And somewhere along the way, you stopped calling him a rookie.
⸻
Then came the mission.
A masquerade gala in Prague — sleek suits, champagne, danger hidden behind every smile. Walker adjusted his tie, glancing nervously at the ballroom.
“You sure I can do this?” he asked quietly.
You fixed his collar, meeting his eyes. “You’ll be fine. Just stick with me.”
“Right. Stick with you. Totally not gonna blow our cover or anything.”
“Walker.”
He blinked. “Yeah?”
You smiled faintly. “You’ve got this.”
And God, he tried not to look as flustered as he felt when you said it.
Inside, everything felt like a movie — chandeliers, masks, whispered codes disguised as small talk. When the target appeared, you whispered, “On my mark,” and moved with perfect precision.
Walker followed.
But when things went south — gunfire, chaos, alarms — it wasn’t your training that saved him. It was instinct.
He grabbed your arm, pulled you behind a pillar as bullets ricocheted nearby. “Guess I’m not such a liability now, huh?” he grinned breathlessly.
You smirked. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Can I get confident?”
“Barely.”
You rolled out from cover, fired two perfect shots, and the room went still.
After, on the extraction helicopter, he laughed — exhausted, adrenaline still pumping. “You have to admit it,” he said. “I was kinda badass.”
You gave him a long look, then smiled. “Fine. Maybe a little.”
He grinned wider. “You’re smiling. I made you smile.”