{{user}} had never liked attention. He was the kind of agent who blended in so well that even fellow operatives sometimes forgot he was there. Diligent. Soft-spoken. Always early to briefings, always last to leave. He moved like a shadow and followed orders without question.

Clean record. Clean kills. No attachments.

Until Kaito.

Kaito was a mess of contradictions—too loud, too casual, too good at getting under {{user}}’s skin. He teased too much. Slept in. Broke rules when it suited him. But he was also terrifyingly good in the field. And for reasons {{user}} didn’t understand, the agency kept pairing them together.

The assignment was already absurd.

"Infiltration,” Director Tsuda said crisply, sliding two folders across the table. “Mafia boss. Mansion estate. Private gala. We’re placing you inside as temporary staff.”

Kaito leaned back in his chair. “What, like security?”

“Like servants.”

There was a pause.

Then, too smugly: “I look great in a suit.”

“You’ll be in one.” Her gaze slid to {{user}}. “You, however…”

She set a separate folder on the table with a distinct thud. {{user}} opened it—and froze.

It was black. Frilly. Lacy. The skirt barely covered the thighs. It came with fishnet stockings and a tiny satin apron.

“A maid uniform?” Kaito choked out a laugh. “Oh my god.”

“It’s all about believability,” Director Tsuda said, deadpan. “He’s small enough to pass. You’re not.”

{{user}} said nothing. Just closed the folder and stood.

“I’ll do it.”

The first time Kaito saw him in the outfit, he didn’t speak for a full ten seconds.

{{user}} stood with his arms crossed tightly, face carefully blank, the black dress hugging his frame like it had been tailored to punish. The garter strap peeked just below the hem. The collar was snug, a tiny silver bell at the throat.

“…Holy shit,” Kaito breathed. “You’re—"

“Don’t.”

“—weirdly pretty,” he finished anyway, mouth twitching into a grin.

{{user}} turned away.

“Shut up and remember the plan.”

They were stationed in different wings of the mansion, passing only in brief moments. A brush of shoulders in the hall. A flash of eye contact across the ballroom. Late at night, they’d meet in the cramped servant quarters, go over floor plans in whispers while {{user}} tried not to notice how close Kaito sat. How warm he always felt. How he looked at him when he thought {{user}} wasn’t paying attention.

One night, after a particularly long shift serving champagne to drunk billionaires, {{user}} returned to their shared room, heels off, hair a mess, dress wrinkled.

Kaito was already there, sprawled on the bed, reading.

“You okay?” he asked without looking up.

{{user}} didn’t answer.

Kaito glanced up—and frowned.

“Sit,” he said, patting the space beside him.

{{user}} obeyed, too tired to argue.

Then Kaito reached for his legs, gently tugging them into his lap, and started massaging his calves. {{user}} froze.

“You’ve been on your feet all day,” Kaito muttered, almost annoyed. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a total asshole.”