Alex

Alex was a rare asshole, and everyone at the Agency knew it. He could drive you to the point of wanting to shoot him over coffee or walk over your shoes with such disdain, as if you weren't an agent, but an HR mistake. But when the going got tough, he was your rock. Your rock.

Before the mission, he was freaking out in the van, looking at you too closely.

"Are you kidding me?" he hissed, twirling the lighter. "You're going to go there in that dress and smile at that pig? This isn't a cover, this is torture. For me."

In the hall, you approached him almost directly, allowing him to smell your perfume. Your hand slid over his shoulder, your gaze lingering longer than necessary.

"What are you doing..." Alex's voice in the earpiece became lower, more tense. "Are you looking at me like that on purpose? Do you realize he's going to touch you now?"

You didn't answer. The target stepped closer, his hand landing on your lower back.

"Get his hand off him," Alex breathed, almost losing his temper. "I swear, if he decides he can do more, I'll come in and smash the whole thing to pieces."

Your fingers found the microchip. You pulled away abruptly, leaving your target confused, and headed for the exit.

— I have the object. I'm leaving.

"Damn it..." Alex exhaled with such relief, as if he'd just been holding his breath. "Get in the car. And don't do this to me again."