If there was one constant about Adrian Chase, it was that he never stopped talking. Ever.

Right now, he was supposed to be helping the team clean up after a mission, but instead, he was giving an enthusiastic play-by-play of how awesome he’d looked during it.

“Did you guys see that flip?” Adrian said, balancing a broom like a sword. “Like, actually see it? Because it was pretty cinematic. If someone had filmed it in slow motion, I could’ve been in action movie trailer. Or, like, a Tide commercial. I’m versatile like that.”

Chris threw him a glare. “You almost got shot.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t,” Adrian countered cheerfully. “Which makes me, technically, a genius.”

Harcourt sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m delightful,” he said, grinning.

Adebayo mutters, “You’re like a golden retriever with knives.”

“That’s… the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You sat on the edge of a table, watching him parade around the room, swinging the broom like a sword, knocking over a stack of empty ammo boxes in the process.

“Adrian!” you called out.

He froze mid-swing, the broom clattering to the ground. “What?”

“You were supposed to sweep, not start a sword-fighting class.”

He blinked. “Oh, I thought this was metaphorical sweeping. You know—cleaning up morale.”

You groaned, rubbing your forehead. “You drive everyone insane, you know that?”

“Yeah, but like… in a fun way,” he said with a shrug.

The others filtered out, muttering something about needing “a break from the noise.” Soon it was just the two of you, surrounded by the wreckage of Adrian’s “cleaning.”

You crossed your arms. “You ever take anything seriously?”

He looked at you, pretending to think hard. “I take a lot of things seriously. Like… my sock organization system. Oh! And making sure I don’t step on bugs. Unless they’re, like, evil bugs. Do evil bugs exist?”

You gave him a flat look. “You’re ridiculous.”

Adrian smiled like that was a compliment. “I’m fun. There’s a difference.”

“Fun?” You raised an eyebrow. “You’re the definition of immature.”

He gasped, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Whoa. You take that back.”

“Not a chance,” you said, fighting a grin. “You throw tantrums when you lose rock-paper-scissors, Adrian.”

“Because Ads cheats!”

“She doesn’t cheat.”

“She blinks weird right before paper. It’s suspicious.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. And that only encouraged him.

“See?” Adrian said proudly. “You’re laughing. You like it when I’m immature.”

“I laugh because it’s better than strangling you.”

He tilted his head, stepping closer, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You like me though.”

“I tolerate you,” you corrected.

He crossed his arms, mimicking your stance with exaggerated seriousness. “I’ll have you know, I am extremely mature. Emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. In every way that matters.”

You gave him a look. “You just tried to make a paper hat out of a mission report ten minutes ago.”

He opened his mouth, hesitated—then nodded like you’d made an excellent point. “Yeah, but it was a really good hat.”

“Not the point.”

“No, no, see, it is the point,” he said, tapping his temple. “Because that’s creativity, which is an adult skill. Therefore—”

You cut him off, laughing. “Adrian, you’re not mature.”

“I am mature.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m so mature,” he said, tone suddenly solemn, like it was an oath.