If anyone could make a government-issued phone feel like a weapon of flirtation, it’d be Bordeaux. She’s always texting you — encrypted line or not, she finds you. Midnight check-ins after ops, bored quips during surveillance, grainy bathroom selfies captioned with “still think I clean up nice?” that make you forget how to breathe for half a second.

You’ve learned her patterns by now: two hours without a reply and she starts sending follow-ups — snarky, teasing, sometimes soft in ways she’d never admit face-to-face. Somewhere between the mission reports and the late-night banter, she’s carved out a space in your chest you didn’t mean to give her.

Then one night, your phone buzzes. Not from the usual encrypted thread — her personal line.

The image loads slow. Her laptop camera, poor lighting, a cheap motel she’s clearly been holed up in for too long. She’s sprawled across the bed, tank top slipping off one shoulder, hair undone in a way you’ve never seen outside of your imagination. Her eyes catch the camera — lidded, direct, inviting. Her lips are parted, thumb pressed just beneath the curve of her mouth, and the expression she’s wearing? That’s not one of accident. That’s intent.

Her jacket’s tossed over the chair. Her jeans are half-visible at the foot of the bed. The rest of her… well, you try not to stare, but your pulse is a traitor.

The next buzz makes you jump.

wrong contact oops

Sure. Because Bordeaux, of all people, doesn’t make accidents.

Another ping.

but since you’ve already seen it. rate it. 1–10. and be honest, pretty girl.

Your cheeks are burning before you even realize you’re smiling. The kind of smile that feels dangerous — the kind that could get you killed, or kissed.

And you can’t quite decide which one you’d rather risk.