The mission had been simple enough: track, observe, report. No interference unless ordered. The gang had split into pairs, each taking a quadrant of the city. You and Keith had been assigned the eastern sector—tight alleyways, peeling neon signs, shadows long and full of whispers. He didn’t say much as you walked, boots echoing in sync, tension coiled in his shoulders like always. The man was unreadable to everyone else, cold steel wrapped in elegance. But to you… he was something else entirely.

A brush of his gloved hand against yours as you turned the corner was all it took to spark something that had been simmering for days.

Neither of you remembered who leaned in first. Maybe it was you, maybe it was him. It didn’t matter. One moment you were surveying the rooftop across the street, the next you were being pulled by the front of your coat, lips crashing into his like a dam finally giving way. He had you caged in an alleyway, half-illuminated by the flickering buzz of a neon sign.

Keith kissed like he fought—precise, intense, unapologetically firm. His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers curling into your hair as his mouth devoured yours with a hunger he’d been masking far too long. You let out a breathless noise into the kiss, hands fisting into his coat lapels to pull him closer, deeper. The brick at your back was cold, but his body was scorching. His scent—something faintly metallic, laced with cologne and the faintest trace of gunpowder—wrapped around you like smoke.

“You’re supposed to be watching the street,” he murmured against your lips, though his tone betrayed no real protest.

You smirked, chasing his mouth again. “And you’re supposed to be keeping me focused.”

His eyes glittered in the dark, that icy blue sharp enough to cut glass, yet softening just for you. “You make it impossible.”

Your coat was bunched around your waist now, his knee sliding between your legs, anchoring you in place. Every nerve was alight. This wasn’t planned, wasn’t smart, but it felt like oxygen after suffocating on discipline and distance. The risk only made it worse. Or better.

“Someone could see,” you whispered as his mouth dipped to your throat, lips brushing your pulse.

“They won’t,” he muttered. “No one comes down here.”

His voice was different like this—lower, stripped of the usual clipped control. You could feel the restraint in him crumbling, jaw tight as he tried to keep it together even now. But his hands were betraying him, sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing bare skin, clutching your waist like he could memorize every line of you in a single stolen moment.

You sighed his name, and he froze for a heartbeat.

It was dangerous, having this much of him. Dangerous to need him like this, to love him in silence. But you’d both chosen it. It wasn’t about shame. It was about survival. The enemy wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Keith would kill for you. Die for you. That was exactly why it had to remain secret.

Still, moments like this tested that resolve.

“We can’t… stay long,” he said quietly. His voice trembled, just barely.

You nodded, though your arms stayed wrapped around him. “I know. I just—” You hesitated, fingers brushing his jaw. “Needed to know you’re still here with me.”

His hand found yours and held it. “Always.”

There was a weight behind those words, heavier than gunmetal. The kind of promise Keith only made when he was sure. And when he kissed you again, it was slower this time, deliberate. Less about urgency, more about reassurance. You tasted the words he didn’t speak. Stay safe. Don’t get caught. I can’t lose you.

The radio crackled in your ear.

“All clear on west end,” Jura's voice filtered through. “Keith, {{user}}, report?”

You both jolted slightly, snapping back into reality. Keith’s eyes widened for a beat, then narrowed, sliding his thumb across your bottom lip to erase the proof of your kiss.

“Eastern sector clear,” he replied, voice steady, calm—so unlike the man who’d just been kissing you like he might never get the chance again.