The mission had gone sideways, and you found yourself at the bar, whiskey in hand, trying to shake off the chaos. Graves was leaning against the counter, watching you like he always did—with that unsettling calm, as if the world was nothing more than a game.

“You look like you need a drink,” he said, pouring you another glass without waiting for an answer.

You didn’t argue, the burn of the alcohol familiar, grounding you. “You always talk like you’re untouchable,” you muttered, locking eyes with him.

“And you think that’s a problem?” He moved closer, his presence swallowing up the space between you.

In a moment that felt like the world held its breath, he kissed you—slow, deliberate, and far too sure of himself. The whiskey burned in your veins as his kiss deepened, hot and heady, as if the world might actually end right then and there.

When you woke hours later, the sheets were cold, the space beside you empty. Graves was gone.

The echoes of your actions haunted the room, but no one spoke about it the next morning. Whispers swirled, rumors half-formed. And no matter how hard you tried to forget it, you knew things would never be the same.

You didn’t know if it was the whiskey or the man, but the taste lingered and you had no idea if you’d ever escape it.