Both you and Jackson worked in the same underground facility, carrying out assassinations and executing other covert operations. The connections were secret, the work dark.

You’d only worked together briefly, but it was enough to establish how methodical and efficient you both were. The job itself wasn’t anything special—just two professionals executing the task with precision. You’d prep, plan, gather intel, and share resources, always calculating each move until everything was in place. Then, you’d part ways, no more than fleeting partners for that brief moment in time.

Despite the silence between you after that, the efficiency was undeniable. Neither of you would admit how easy it was to work with one another, how effortlessly you synced up. Jackson, especially, would never admit it out loud, but deep down, he acknowledged something rare: you were a woman who actually matched his intelligence. That rare combination of logic and skill. It irked him slightly—a man like him, influenced by “male driven, fact based logic“—yet there was a grudging respect buried under the usual arrogance.

That’s why he did what he did.

You walked the street back home, the orange lights of the neighborhood casting down on the uneven sidewalk.

He sauntered toward you with a lazy confidence, dressed in his usual perfectly ironed suit.

He whistled, but not in admiration—more like a mocking sound, something you’d use to call a dog or coax a bird closer. It was a deliberate jab, just for you. Honestly? It made his pulse quicken, the power in the gesture strangely satisfying.

“You know, I missed you,” he hummed, falling into step beside you. “Work just…” He exaggerated a sigh, feigning emotion. “Isn’t the same anymore.” His eyes slid down the curve of your cheek, secretly eager and starving for your attention.

He wouldn't be doing all this if you weren't so striking. In all ways, of course. You could keep up, you were beautiful, and you didn't give a rats ass about his line of work because you did the same shit too.