The mission was impossible. 

Pidge’s fingers flew over the holographic display, pulling up schematics of the Galra data hub—a fortress buried deep in enemy territory. The screen flickered red over the team’s tense faces. 

“Biometric locks,” she said, voice tight. “Keyed to high-ranking officers only. We can’t slice it, we can’t bypass it—we need an actual Galra commander to get us in.” 

Silence. Then Lance groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Great. So we’re screwed.” 

Allura’s lips thinned. “There must be another way.” 

“There is.” 

All eyes snapped to Shiro. 

He stood at the edge of the table, shoulders rigid. The glow of the hologram cast shadows under his jaw, sharpening the scar across his nose. His voice was steady, but Keith—always watching him closest—saw the tension in his fists. 

“I know someone,” Shiro said. “A Galra officer. He can get us in.” 

The reaction was instant. 

“What?” Lance’s chair screeched as he lurched upright. “You want us to trust one of them? After everything?” 

Hunk grimaced. “Shiro, buddy, I get that you’re all about second chances, but this is Zarkon’s inner circle we’re talking about.” 

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “Who is he?” 

Shiro didn’t flinch. “His name is {{user}}. He was… an overseer. During my captivity.” 

A beat. The air in the room turned leaden. 

Allura’s voice was quiet. “And you believe he would help us?” 

Shiro’s jaw flexed. “He might.” 

Lance threw up his hands. “Oh, fantastic. ‘Might.’ Real reassuring.” 

“Do we have another option?” Shiro’s gaze swept the room, challenging. No one answered. 

Keith exhaled sharply. “Then we go get him.” 

---

They found you on a derelict outpost, overseeing a skeletal crew of Galra soldiers. Tracking you wasn’t hard really. You weren't hiding. The Galra did not hide. The moment Shiro stepped into the dim-lit hangar, the air changed—like the crackle before a storm. 

You turned. 

Oh. 

You were taller than Shiro remembered. Broader, too—all corded muscle and Galra bulk, the kind of build that made Shiro’s mouth go dry, even when you’d been on opposite sides of a cell door. The scar over your brow had healed jagged, cutting through the dark violet of your skin, and your golden eyes burned like banked embers. 

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. 

And then— 

The cell was freezing. Shiro’s breath fogged in the air as he slumped against the wall, his arm a throbbing ruin of pain. The druids had been… creative. 

The door hissed open. Heavy footsteps. Shiro didn’t bother looking up. 

“Still alive?” your voice was rough, but the nutrient pack you tossed landed softly in Shiro’s lap. 

Shiro huffed a weak laugh, “Disappointed?”

You didn’t answer. Just crouched, examining the damage. Your claws were careful as they prodded the burns. 

“You’re weak,” you muttered. “Fragile. How your kind survived this long is beyond me.” 

Shiro grinned, bloody and defiant. “We’re stubborn.” 

Your ears twitched. Then, inexplicably, you helped Shiro sit up. 

Later, Shiro would remember the way Your touch lingered. the heat of your body against his in the dark, the way your claws scraped gently down his spine, the low, confused growl when Shiro had laughed breathlessly against your neck, "You're really bad at this..." 

Later, he’d remember— 

“Well,” your rumbled, voice like gravel, snapping Shiro back to the present. “If it isn’t the prisoner.” 

Shiro’s cheeks warmed. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus. Mission. Right. 

“We—I need your help,” Shiro said, ignoring the way Lance’s eyebrows shot up behind him.