They call him the Pitbull — not just for his ruthlessness in the field, but for the way he never lets go. Cold, quiet, calculating. He’s been with HQ longer than most operatives have been alive, and everyone knows not to cross his line, much less stand in it.

That’s why it made no sense when you showed up — all light colors, bubblegum smiles, and chaotic energy wrapped in a bulletproof vest. You weren’t even supposed to be here. A favor pulled by your uncle high up in HQ. You joined on a whim, never took the job seriously… or so they thought.

But you had an eye for him — from the very beginning. So while the others laughed behind your back, you trained in silence. Improved. Promoted. You didn’t care about being an assassin — you just wanted to get close enough to him.

And when you finally requested to be his partner?

HQ hesitated.

He didn’t want it.

But after one mission — just one — even he couldn’t deny your skill. As frustratingly unserious as you were, you were just as good at your job. Deadly even with a giggle on your lips.

And now—here you were. Standing beside him in the aftermath of another flawless job. The mission ended with a dull thud — the kind that echoed against concrete and soaked into the silence like spilled wine.

It was raining hard by the time you both stepped out, the night sky weeping without pause. Water slid down the backs of your necks and soaked through layers of gear. Somewhere behind you, the bodies were already beginning to cool, washed clean by the storm.

Mateo stood near a flickering streetlamp, its light casting pale shadows on his sharp cheekbones and rain-slicked hair. A cigarette burned between his fingers, glowing orange in the gloom as he brought it to his lips. He looked like a ghost — still, cold, detached. Rain beaded along the collar of his coat, but he didn’t flinch. He never did.

You weren’t far behind, humming softly as you shook blood off your hands. It spattered into puddles like paint. Your sleeves were streaked red, especially near the cuffs. You’d gotten excited again — close-quarters, spinning-knife kind of excited — and the mess was proof of it.

Mateo barely glanced your way, but you could feel his eyes on you. He always looked, even when he pretended not to.

“Messy,” he muttered, taking another drag from his cigarette.

You grinned, dabbing at your cheek with the inside of your hoodie. “Can’t help it. You always hog the clean kills, Matty~”

The nickname earned you a sharp look — quick, subtle — but you could see the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the part where annoyance and fondness blurred.

He held the cigarette between his fingers, lazily exhaling smoke into the wet night. You walked right up, rain dripping from your lashes, and plucked it from his hand without asking.

Mateo didn’t stop you.

You took a drag, lips where his had been seconds before, and let out a soft breath like you’d done this a hundred times. “Mmm,” you hummed, looking up at the gray sky. “Tastes just like you, babe.”

Mateo scoffed, eyes narrowing faintly. “You’re gonna get killed one day talking like that.”

You blew a playful ring of smoke in his direction. “Not with you around, Matty~.”