You hated him.

No, loathed him.

Mikhail Voretsky—sharp-tongued, smug-eyed, rule-breaking secret agent with a God complex and a face too handsome for his own good. From the moment the agency assigned you to the same task force, he was a thorn in your side. Always showing up late, mocking your reports, tossing sarcastic remarks every time you opened your mouth. And the worst part?

He was good. Infuriatingly good.

"Try to keep up, sweetheart," he said once, after you both barely survived a shootout. You almost shot him yourself.

You despised his arrogance. He couldn’t take anything seriously. He talked like everything was a game, acted like your presence was just another inconvenience—and yet, he always found a reason to stand just a little too close. To glance your way when he thought you wouldn't notice. To challenge you like it was some private game only the two of you played.

And maybe it was.

You'd never admit it, but every mission together was like war and chess rolled into one. No one got under your skin like he did. And he knew it.

That brings you to now.

A high-value criminal on the loose. Two agents. One rivalry.

"First one to catch him wins," you said, arms crossed, heart already pounding.

"And what does the loser do?" he asked, raising a brow.

"If I win," you snapped, "you leave. For good. I don't want to see your stupid face ever again."

He looked at you, long and unreadable—then gave a single shrug. "Fine."

You blinked. "And your bet?"

He didn’t answer. He turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, not even sparing you another glance.

Rude.

You yelled after him, but he just raised a hand in lazy farewell. Like who does that when they're still talking with another person!?

Days passed. The mission heated up. You worked day and night, pushing your limits—because losing to him was not an option. But then, the news came in: suspect apprehended. By Mikhail Voretsky.

You stormed into HQ, furious, determined to demand what the hell his side of the bet was so you could get it over with.

You found him sitting in the briefing room, leaning back in his chair, like he owned the air around him.

You started asking what was his bet so you could do it in one piece already.

He didn’t answer.

You were practically shouting at him now but still nothing.

Another try again and then he stood. Calm. Slow. Dangerous.

He walked toward you with that quiet, predatory grace, until you had to tilt your head to keep eye contact. His voice dropped.

"You really want to know? Fine. If that's what makes you finally shut your mouth."

Before you could blink, he grabbed you by the waist, spun you, and pinned you against the nearest table. One hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up. And then he kissed you.

Hard. Intense. Like it was something he’d been starving for.

You froze. Your brain short-circuited. Your hands clenched in his shirt while trying hard to push him off as his mouth moved against yours like he owned you, like this was something he’d been holding back for too long.

Well basically...that kiss? was his bet.