Work Text:
Benefits with Doubt
It got dark so quickly those days.
He checked his watch for the fifth time. It was shaping up to be one of those nights when nothing happened—though he quietly wished it would.
From the start, he didn’t expect anything from it. It was a clear arrangement—meant to make things easier, cleaner, and less complicated. And he believed he could stay detached.
Self-control and compartmentalization were his strong suits for over thirty years.
He was used to waiting for the worst. Expected nothing good.
It was only ever temporary relief. Nothing serious. Nothing important.
The arrangement was simple: if it happened, it happened. No questions. No awkward conversations after. No ties. No binds. No strings.
Just something pure and good—because they wanted it.
They never said it out loud, but both knew: their lives were already full of complications. That was the only space where they let themselves be honest—without judgment, without consequence.
Heaven or hell. Demon or angel. It didn’t matter.
As long as she let him in, he let her take him anywhere she wanted.
When his eyes flicked to hers across the meeting room, a sharp twinge of heat pulsed in his chest—like a sudden spike of current through a stable wire.
Her lips parted slightly, and in that split second, a flash of where those lips had been before shot through him, kicking heat lower.
Her face betrayed nothing. Of course it didn’t.
And he knew his didn’t either.
They were both good at it—pretending nothing ever happened.
He pulled out his chair and sat casually. Across from him was Luther, and next to Luther, Diego.
She took the seat beside Diego, who immediately slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her in for a quick kiss on the cheek.
No one noticed how his feet planted a little firmer on the floor beneath the table.
He told himself it shouldn’t affect him. It was expected.
He had no place—no right—to feel anything beyond indifference.
Just like the rest of his siblings.
After all… they had been together for six years.
The last few years were rough. They fought often, sometimes loud enough for the whole team to hear. Still, officially, they were a couple. Still engaged.
She didn’t wear the ring often—missions made it impractical, and it was hard to throw punches without damaging the damn thing—but when she did, it caught the light just right. Sparkled like it had teeth. Like it stabbed him in the chest.
He hated the reminder.
Because it shouldn’t have mattered.
She shouldn’t have mattered.
He couldn’t say when it started, the slow unraveling of detachment. It wasn’t supposed to go that way. She wasn’t someone he should’ve cared about, especially considering how they met—all sharp edges and thinly veiled contempt.
From the moment they crossed paths, he knew something was off. A gorgeous woman breaking out of an asylum with his idiot brother, throwing expert punches, knowing exactly when to run and when to strike? There was no way that was a coincidence. She played Diego like a fiddle, but Five didn’t trust her for a second.
And he was right.
She was the adopted daughter of the Handler—the same villain who nearly wiped them out with the Aetherlock, a machine designed to strip their powers and cage them in their own skin. If Five didn’t use the last of his ability to rewind time and take her out before she activated it again, they all would’ve been dead.
He wouldn’t have forgiven her.
But then he saw it—how the Handler discarded her just as easily. One moment she was useful, the next she was nothing.
And in that moment, he felt something he didn’t expect.
Not pity—something worse. Empathy.
When Diego begged to bring her into the fold, and Reginald coolly approved, calling her mimic ability “an asset,” Five didn’t protest.
He could’ve spoken up. Should’ve. But by then, it was already too late. From the moment he saw her—those dark, defiant eyes with that maddening flicker of playfulness—she took up space in his mind he never meant to give. He didn’t trust her. God, no. But it didn’t stop him from watching.
There was something about her he couldn’t shake, something sharp and beautiful in all the wrong ways. The way she looked… it was trouble. And unfortunately, exactly his kind of trouble.
For all the chaos she brought into his life, she had never been a liability in the field. Quite the opposite—when they were paired together, they were the strongest unit the team had. No one else had come close.
It was more than just skill. Their instincts locked into each other with an ease that couldn’t be taught. They moved like parts of the same machine—intuitive, fluid, lethal.
The first time Reginald threw them on a mission together—a takedown of a faction of rogue time-traveling assassins—he had expected it to be a disaster. Instead, it was electric. They moved in sync without exchanging a word. In high-pressure moments, they always seemed to know exactly what the other would do.
They weren’t just good. They were dangerous together.
Watching them fight was like watching two elements in harmony—fire and smoke, wind and water. Every strike, every dodge, every glance was answered instinctively. He’d teleport mid-battle and she’d mimic the move half a second later, flanking him without missing a beat. The chaos around them barely touched them—they moved through it like they belonged there.
And when they were outnumbered, when the enemy was too strong—they turned it into theater. A fake fight. A staged betrayal. Raised voices and flaring tempers that made their enemies smirk and lower their guard. And then came the kill. Swift, silent, brutal.
It was all too easy. Too comfortable.
He told himself it was just the way they worked. Just compatibility in the field. But it gnawed at him, how natural it felt. How they didn’t need words. How being near her didn’t make him wary anymore—it made him sharp. Alive.
But things would be so much easier if she could just work with her actual partner—her fiance—Diego.
Easier if she lit up around him the way she did in the middle of a fight.
But she didn’t.
Instead, they argued constantly. And not the good kind of arguing. Not the sharp, back-and-forth, strategic friction she shared with Five—the kind that produced quick decisions and brilliant improvisations. No, this was different. Frustrating. Sloppy. Loud.
Diego’s overbearing nature always seemed to box her in, like she wasn’t allowed to operate at full capacity. He never really listened to her. Not the way Five did. And it grated at Five more than he’d admit.
There were moments—so many moments—when Five wanted to snap and say it outright:
“She’s right. That tactic would work better than your half-baked brute force.”
But he didn’t. He held his tongue. It wasn’t his place.
He wasn’t supposed to be in this.
So he waited until it was a group discussion, until it was acceptable to speak. Then he’d echo her plan, with a cold, logical tone that no one could argue with. Because it always worked. Her strategies—no matter how chaotic or strange—worked.
And so he gave her the floor. Every damn time.
Because she deserved it. Because she was brilliant. Because someone needed to hear her out without trying to control her.
And maybe—just maybe—because he couldn't stand the way Diego dismissed her like she wasn’t the sharpest weapon in the room.
It irritated him more than he could admit—how Diego never seemed capable of bringing out the best in her. How could his thick-headed brother not see it? The way she lit up in the heat of battle, how devastatingly gorgeous she was when her brilliance was on full display—every calculated move, every vicious strike, executed with wicked precision. The sparks in her dark eyes when a plan clicked into place, the crooked smirk when she outmaneuvered an opponent, the glint of mischief when she knew she held the upper hand.
Being with a woman like that wasn’t just rare—it was electric.
And that truth rattled him more than he cared to admit. Before her, he would've said he wanted someone simple. Quiet. Someone who could slip into the stillness of his life without disrupting it. Someone who wouldn’t challenge the fortress he’d built around himself. But he’d been wrong. So damn wrong.
She was chaos incarnate. Complication, trouble, headaches—wrapped in fierce eyes and a sharper mind. Everything he never thought he wanted. Everything he shouldn’t want. Especially after discovering she’d once been a spy for the Handler. He’d sworn he’d hate her forever.
But then something shifted.
He didn’t know how to stop it.
All he knew was this: he was drawn to her like Icarus to the sun. She was intensity and danger and everything he should run from.
And still, he moved closer.
Because somewhere deep down, he didn’t mind the burn.
They’d been dancing around it for far too long.
Somewhere along the line, things shifted. Accidental touches began to linger—hands brushing too long, gazes locking across the room when they should’ve looked away.
Treating each other’s wounds after missions turned clumsy, less about efficiency and more about pretending not to notice the tremble in their fingers.
It took more effort to look away than to stare.
And sometimes, a single brush of her skin stayed with him for hours—left a phantom burn etched into his nerves like some invisible brand.
He told himself it was nothing. Just adrenaline. The aftermath of life-or-death missions could scramble even the sharpest minds. But that didn’t explain why his pulse quickened when she stepped too close.
Or why he caught himself cataloguing the curve of her mouth, the rough edges of her knuckles, the flick of her eyes when she had a new idea.
It was dangerous—whatever this was.
Not just because of Diego. Not just because it complicated everything.
But because it made him feel.
And Five wasn’t supposed to feel. Not like this. Not for her.
Every time he caught her eye during briefings or drills, something sparked under his skin—hot, electric, impossible to ignore. And she’d hold his gaze like she felt it too, just for a second, before laughing it off or looking away like none of it mattered.
But it did.
It mattered more than he could admit.
Especially when her voice softened, just for him, between the cracks of chaos.
It chipped at his armor, inch by inch, until he didn’t know where the line was anymore.
And then it happened.
All it took was one misstep.
The mission had been brutal—one of their hardest yet.
The enemy was fast, reactive, always two steps ahead. Five had planned ten moves in advance, but they kept countering with impossible precision. Someone on the inside? Maybe.
Or maybe just someone too good. In the end, Five did what he always did—took the risk no one else would. He used himself as bait.
Lila, who usually backed him up without question, hesitated this time. Something shifted in her expression—barely perceptible, but it was there. A flicker of panic. A crack in that fearless mask. Her brows drew tight, her voice sharp with protest. Her dark eyes, usually blazing with confidence, glinted with something unfamiliar.
Worry.
Was she worried about him?
The plan worked—barely. Five lured the enemy to the edge of a cliff, triggered the vortex trap… and then jumped.
He caught a jagged branch jutting from the rock wall just as his powers fizzled. No energy left to teleport. No way back unless someone pulled him up.
He saw her face above—wild with fear. She’d screamed when he fell. And when she reached him, she yanked him up with both hands, only to shove him hard the second his feet hit solid ground.
“What the fuck, Five?!” she snapped, breath ragged.
“You think I had options?!” he shouted back.
They fought. Loud. Close. Faces inches apart, breath hot, words sharp. Rage coiled tight between them—and then—
It broke.
Not into words.
Into a kiss.
Violent. Raw. Furious.
Lila’s hands twisted in Five’s jacket, dragging him forward. His fingers fisted in her hair as their mouths crashed like a storm—wild, inevitable, long overdue. No softness, no hesitation—just heat, contact, and desperation.
They stumbled, boots slipping over uneven rock. Five barely registered the cold or the cliff’s edge as she pushed him back. He caught her instinctively, falling hard, pulling her down with him.
She straddled him without thinking, hips grinding against his thigh. Their breaths tangled—short, sharp—blending with the wind that howled around them. Five’s hands found her waist, slid beneath her jacket, hungry for heat, for her.
The friction was maddening. No clothes came off. No skin bared. But their bodies moved like they knew each other—deeply, instinctively. Every shift, every point of contact fed the fire roaring between them.
She gasped when his mouth brushed her neck—just barely—and it struck her like lightning. Her head fell back, lips parted in a silent plea. Five’s eyes darkened. His grip tightened, fighting the instinct to pull her closer, harder.
And then—like a crash—it hit them.
The weight of it all.
They tore apart, breathless, stunned.
Lila pressed both palms to his chest, holding him back. Her eyes were wide, untamed. “We shouldn’t,” she whispered, voice raw.
Five swallowed, his hand trembling through his hair. “Yeah... we shouldn’t.”
But neither moved.
Their bodies stayed close. Hearts pounding. Skin flushed. The wind still screaming like a warning in their ears.
The weight of her on him. The sound of her gasp. Her taste. The burn beneath her skin. The press of her hips. The way his name had escaped her lips like a secret—
It looped through their minds. Relentless. Fevered. Impossible to erase.
And when they finally pulled apart—trembling, shaken—Five knew the line had been crossed.
There was no going back. No pretending the gravity between them wasn’t real. Wasn’t dangerous. Wasn’t everything.
They could’ve talked about it. Named the thing twisting between them. But instead—true to form—they skirted the truth with stubborn precision.
Rather than admit that something deeper had taken root, they settled on a far simpler explanation: pent-up desire. Nothing more than physical need. Sexual frustration from too much time spent in close quarters with someone they happened to work too well with.
So, later that night—when Reginald’s post-mission protocol required them to report to the armory and perform the mindless ritual of weapon maintenance—they finally addressed it. Quietly. Practically. Like the problem it was.
The night had settled over the compound like a heavy curtain. Most of the team was already asleep, the only sounds drifting through the halls were the distant hum of electricity and the soft rustle of dreams. But in the armory, the air crackled with something sharper—unsaid, unresolved, and impossible to ignore.
Lila knelt on the scuffed concrete floor, polishing her knives with rhythmic precision. The whisper of metal against cloth was clean and surgical. Across the room, Five reloaded magazines, his fingers moving with clinical efficiency—but his jaw was tight. Too tight.
The silence between them was electric, stretched taut with unspeakable tension.
Lila finally broke it, her voice a smirk wrapped in silk.
“Y’know, for someone who lives and dies by logic, you’re slamming those mags like they owe you something.”
Five didn’t look up. His tone was dry, clipped. “Maybe they do. Or maybe I’m just suffering through the collective sexual repression of this entire team.”
A soft laugh escaped her lips. She twirled a blade between her fingers, then flicked it—fast, effortless—into the wall just behind him. It landed with a quiet thunk. Five didn’t even flinch.
“Didn’t peg you for the frustrated type,” she said. “Figured you’d solved your libido with some genius equation by now.”
He finally glanced at her. Cool, measured. “I did. It’s just not working anymore.”
Lila shrugged, tossing another blade with deadly grace. “Could be worse. You could be stuck next to someone who thinks spooning counts as foreplay.”
Five’s brow arched. A flicker of something—curiosity? amusement?—passed through his eyes. “Didn’t think things with Diego were that… passionless.”
Her shoulder rose and fell in a slow roll. “He’s sweet. Steady. Safe.”
She stabbed the air for emphasis. “Safe’s never made me come.”
That made Five pause.
“Is that a confession,” he asked, “or a challenge?”
“Wouldn’t you love to know.”
He stepped closer, shrinking the space between them without touching her. Not yet.
“If we’re being honest,” he said quietly, “I’ve thought about it. More than once. Slamming you against a wall. Bending you over a desk. Just getting it out of our systems.”
Lila’s lips curled into a wicked smile. “And then what? We pretend it didn’t happen? Pretend we don’t want to claw each other’s clothes off every time we argue?”
Five’s voice dropped to something low and steady. “I don’t pretend.”
“Neither do I.”
Their eyes locked. The air sparked between them—equal parts danger and invitation.
“No strings,” he said. “No messy feelings. Just physics.”
“Just friction,” she echoed, grinning.
“We keep it quiet.”
“Controlled.”
“Dangerous.”
He took another step. Inches now. Close enough to feel her breath.
“Exactly.”
Lila nodded once. Crisp. Decisive. Then she turned toward the door but stopped just short, casting a glance over her shoulder, eyes glittering.
“You’ve got five minutes to meet me in the third-floor supply closet. If you’re late, I’ll assume you chickened out.”
Five smirked, straightening his collar. “I’ll be early.”
And with a blink, he was gone.
The third-floor supply closet was a cave of shadows. Crates of gear were stacked haphazardly, their worn surfaces catching the dim light in dull glints. Tactical suits hung like specters from hooks, draped and waiting for their next mission. The metal door hissed shut behind Five with a finality that made his chest tighten.
Lila was already there, leaning against the wall with arms crossed—her posture tense, a fortress of barely contained energy. The narrow space between them felt charged, thick with something neither dared speak aloud.
She didn’t look surprised to see him, but her voice cut the silence like a blade.
“Didn’t think you’d show.”
Five’s reply was quieter, softer, but no less real. “Didn’t think you would.”
They stood like that for a long moment, heat crackling in the cramped room, neither one moving. The seconds stretched heavy and electric, like thunder waiting to break.
Finally, Lila’s voice dropped low, almost hesitant. “We could still call it off.”
“We could,” he agreed, his tone flat but steady.
She shrugged, the motion small but heavy with meaning. “It’d be smart.”
Five’s deadpan answer was sharp, like a challenge. “I’ve done dumber things than not fuck you.”
Lila let out a dry, short laugh—fractured and unsure. She slid down the wall, suddenly less sure of her stance. “This is a bad idea.”
“The worst,” Five said, stepping closer. Their breaths mingled, the space between them shrinking like a collapsing star.
“You’re my fiancé’s brother,” she whispered, the words hanging between them, brittle and dangerous.
“And you’re my biggest mistake waiting to happen,” he replied without hesitation.
They were closer now. Closer than they’d ever been. She could reach out, touch him, feel the hard plane of his chest beneath the fabric. But she didn’t. Not yet.
“I don’t even like you most of the time,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Five didn’t blink. “I think about fucking you constantly.”
Her breath hitched. Her eyes flared with heat—burning in her cheeks, her chest—but her mouth stayed stubbornly firm.
“This changes nothing.”
“I don’t want it to.”
“No guilt.”
“No attachment.”
“No one ever knows.”
“No one ever.”
His voice was low now, right beside her ear, a breath against her skin that made her fingers twitch involuntarily. His jaw clenched as he fought the same battle she was—trying not to move, trying not to give in.
Then, everything shattered.
Her hand shot out, grabbing his tie, pulling him forward like a magnet. He slammed the door lock with a sharp clang behind him.
Their mouths collided—crashing together like lightning, fierce and raw. Neither soft nor sweet, just hungry and desperate, years of denial exploding into desperate need.
Between ragged kisses, she gasped, “Tell me this is wrong—”
He broke the kiss just long enough to growl, “It’s fucking disastrous—”
Then he lifted her against the wall, and she wrapped her legs instinctively around his waist. Lips bruising, hands clawing, all restraint shattered like glass underfoot.
There was no going back now.
Her back hit the wall with a soft thud, legs cinched tightly around his waist, and Five was already kissing her like he meant to undo every moment they’d spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable. His mouth moved with fierce purpose—angry, hungry, deliberate—and her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, dragging him down to bare the sensitive skin of her neck. His teeth grazed her collarbone, and she gasped, breath catching between surrender and disbelief.
“God, Five,” she whispered, the name falling from her lips half as a curse, half as a surrender.
“You shouldn’t say my name like that,” he growled, voice low and rough against her skin.
“Why? Scared I’ll make it a habit?”
His laugh was a breath, dark and low, tickling her throat. “Terrified.”
They were already half undone—clothes tugged and unzipped, shoved just enough aside to feel the searing press of skin on skin. His fingers found her thigh, tracing a slow, possessive path higher and higher, slipping beneath the waistband of her underwear with a delicate, testing touch. Her eyes fluttered closed; her head fell back against the cold wall, vulnerable and open.
Five watched her—really watched. Her pupils dilated, her mouth parted in a silent plea, her breath trembling like a fragile flame.
“You don’t get this with him, do you?” His voice dropped to a murmur, fingers curling, knuckles brushing the fabric gently. “He doesn’t touch you like I will.”
She said nothing. Couldn’t—not while his hands moved with the precision of someone who’d imagined this moment for years and knew exactly how to unravel her defenses.
“Fuck,” she hissed, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other twisting into his hair. “You’re such an asshole.”
His grin was crooked, wicked. “But a generous one.”
Before she could protest, he sank to his knees. She braced herself against the shelves behind her, chest rising and falling rapidly, breath catching as his hands slid higher, pulling her forward. Then—warmth. Mouth. Tongue. Her knees nearly buckled under the rush.
She bit down a moan hard enough to taste blood, but she didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. His hands anchored her, his mouth worshipped her, and when his long fingers joined the rhythm—expert and devastating—her entire body arched into him, the only honest thing she’d done in years.
When she came, it was a stifled cry pressed into the crook of her arm, every nerve alight with fire. He didn’t stop until she gently pushed his shoulder away, breathless and trembling.
He rose slowly, lips glistening, face flushed and smug. She barely had the strength to glare.
“You bastard,” she breathed.
He tilted his head with mock innocence. “Your turn?”
Without hesitation, she dropped to her knees, still shaking and undone but grinning ferally. “Take your pants off. Quietly.”
Five smirked. “I’d like to see you try that.”
Her fingers moved fast—belt, button, zipper—each motion precise, controlled, maddening. Five’s breath hitched as his cock sprang free, hard and unapologetic, the cool air kissing heated skin.
He saw her eyes flick down, felt the burn of her gaze as it lingered on the tip. He’d never given much thought to size—never needed to. But more than one past partner had commented, surprised by how much he carried for someone so lean, so deceptively compact.
Lila looked up at him, chin tilted, eyes blazing with defiance—a warning and a promise wrapped in fire.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she said huskily. “This is payback.”
“Then I owe you forever,” he muttered, gripping the edge of the shelf behind him for balance.
She didn’t tease. Didn’t hesitate. Taking him into her mouth with heat and hunger that left Five’s jaw slack and head falling back in a quiet curse, her hands braced on his hips, fingers pressing bruises into his skin as she set a slow, filthy rhythm.
It wasn’t just good. It was devastating.
She was wrecking him on purpose—one flick of her tongue at a time, a controlled demolition.
“Christ, Lila—” he gritted out, eyes screwed shut. “You want me to lose it in your mouth, is that it?”
She pulled back with a wicked smile, lips swollen, eyes dark. “Is that a request?”
No words came from Five. Instead, he hauled her up by the waist, spun her around, and pinned her against the wall—this time face-first. Her breath hitched sharply as she braced her palms against the cold metal, looking back at him over her shoulder.
“This—” he rasped, pressing close, mouth warm against her ear, “—isn’t about feelings.”
“God, no,” she bit out, rocking her hips back against him. “Just frustration.”
“And stress relief.”
“And bad decisions.”
“The best kind,” he growled—and pushed inside her.
She gasped, sharp and loud, one hand slamming the wall, the other curling into a fist. The stretch, the fullness, the raw heat—it knocked the air from her lungs.
Five didn’t hold back. Couldn’t. His pace was punishing, hands steady on her hips, forehead pressed to her shoulder, breath ragged.
Every thrust was a vow they weren’t supposed to make.
Every sound she made was a truth they weren’t ready to face.
“You feel—” he began but couldn’t finish, already lost in the moment.
“So do you,” she whispered, hips meeting his with desperate need—deeper, closer, harder.
The supply closet grew thick with heat, the air humid with skin against skin, breathless moans, cursed gasps, and the faint rattling of the shelves behind them.
They were too far gone to pretend this meant nothing.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s what made it so dangerous.
Five had thought that after that first time together—fucking like two wild animals in the cramped supply closet—the tension between them would finally ease. That one explosive night was supposed to be enough to smother years of buried desire, to settle the restless fire that had been burning just beneath the surface. But he was dead wrong. If anything, it only made him want her more, crave her deeper. And from the way she showed up at his apartment, unannounced and unapologetic, it was clear she felt the same.
They fucked with an electric hunger—sometimes hard and fast, like a storm ready to break, other times slow and teasing, savoring every inch of each other’s skin. But never boring. Lila was fearless in her appetite, always daring him to indulge her whims, to explore new edges of pleasure, and he relished every second.
They still worked like a well-oiled machine, their mission success rates untouched by the chaos that simmered just beneath the surface. But pushing away the memory of her crumpled face, lip caught between teeth in the throes of passion, was a constant struggle—especially when they were surrounded by the team. The need to reach for her, to brush a hand against hers in public, was unbearable.
Sometimes, when Five leaned over the computer screen to explain their next move, Lila stood close beside him, her hand resting on the table just inches from his. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to close the distance—to let his skin graze hers, to hook her delicate finger with his. The silent electricity humming between their fingertips was a force of its own, and even the slightest touch felt like a promise, a confession.
The craving to touch her—to break the unspoken rules—drove him to the edge of reckless. And he knew she felt it too. Lila liked it. Liked the danger in their stolen moments.
They were playing with fire, and neither of them wanted to stop.
And on a day like this—when the room was supposed to demand their full attention—Five’s mind was elsewhere.
Reggie’s voice sliced through the low hum of the briefing, laying out the stakes for their next mission: a high-level joint op requiring absolute precision and flawless teamwork. Everyone else was locked in, eyes fixed on the tactical maps, absorbing every detail.
But Five?
He wasn’t listening. He could skim the files later and memorize everything in minutes, like he always did. He wasn’t worried about making mistakes.
His attention was magnetized to something else entirely.
Diego.
Specifically, the way Diego moved beside Lila—so casual, so effortless. His hand brushed hers in a way that should’ve been innocent, but wasn’t. Not to Five. Not after what they’d done.
That was all it took. A spark flared in his chest—hot, sharp, and ugly. Possessive.
Could Diego make her growl in frustration, mewl with need, moan out his name like Five could? Could he make her come again and again, clutching him with that wild abandon that Five alone had unlocked? Could he do what Five could do—with just his fingers, just a touch—leave her trembling, dripping, utterly undone?
Could Diego do that?
The thought twisted inside him, acid and glass.
God, this woman was the death of him.
His fists curled beneath the table, knuckles white, jaw clenched to keep everything contained—the rage, the ache, the sheer want. The room blurred. He couldn’t see the mission board anymore, or the team, or even Reginald. All he saw was Lila—lips slightly parted, skin glowing—and Diego, so damn close.
And then she looked at him. Just a flick of her eyes across the table—cool, deliberate, devastating. It lasted no more than a second, but it cleaved straight through him. The kind of look that said: I remember. You remember. And we both know what comes next.
Five wanted to drag her into the shadows. Pin her against the wall. Remind her who made her lose control. Who owned every shattered breath she’d ever given in the dark.
Because no one else touched her like he did.
No one else could.
When the meeting ended, she exited first. Not in a rush, but fast enough to avoid lingering with the others. Her boots echoed down the hallway, steady and unhurried. Deliberate.
He waited exactly thirty seconds before slipping out behind her. Not too close. Not too far.
She didn’t look back, but she knew.
They always knew.
Instead of heading to the main hallway, she turned left—through the heavy metal door that led to the stairwell no one ever used. Concrete walls. Harsh industrial lights. The kind of place sound got swallowed and secrets stayed buried.
She didn’t stop walking until she reached the third landing. Then she turned, slowly, and leaned her back against the wall. Her hands were in her coat pockets, like she was just waiting.
He pushed the door open and let it close softly behind him.
Silence stretched between them.
Her eyes dragged over him. Calm. Knowing.
"That was a long thirty seconds," she said quietly.
He didn’t answer. Just stepped forward—slow, measured—until he was standing right in front of her.
“You’re playing with fire,” he said lowly, voice rougher than he meant it to be.
She smiled, slow and unbothered. “You’re the one who followed me.”
He leaned in, close enough that her breath caught. One hand landed on the wall beside her head, the other hovered near her hip—but he didn’t touch her. Not yet.
“Because you knew I would.”
She didn’t deny it. She tilted her chin up, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes.
“Then what are you waiting for?” she whispered.
That was all it took.
He crushed his mouth against hers in one swift movement, all restraint disintegrating in the heat of her lips. Her hands were already at his collar, tugging him closer, pressing into him like she couldn’t get close enough fast enough.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.
It was desperate. Hungry. Familiar. His hands finally found her waist, pulling her body flush to his, pinning her against the wall with just enough pressure to make her gasp. She bit down on his bottom lip and he groaned—quiet but deep—into her mouth.
Fingers slid under jackets. Teeth scraped skin.
No names. No words.
Only the shared urgency of two people who knew they should stop, but never did.
Because they never could.
His mouth moved down her neck, slow but messy, like he didn’t have the patience to be careful. She tilted her head, giving him more, her fingers already slipping beneath the hem of his shirt to touch warm skin.
Her nails scraped lightly up his spine and he hissed into her throat.
“Quiet,” she whispered, breathless.
“You started it,” he muttered back, dragging her leg up around his waist.
Her back hit the wall with a soft thud, and her hand covered her mouth to stifle a moan when he rocked into her, fully clothed but not subtle. Not anymore.
His hands were everywhere—pushing aside her coat, dragging up her shirt, fingers ghosting under the waistband of her pants but stopping just short.
Teasing.
Torturing.
Exactly the way she liked it.
Lila’s lips found his jaw, then his ear, voice barely audible as she murmured, “Take it off.”
He didn’t ask what.
He didn’t have to.
In seconds, her coat was on the floor, followed by his. He kissed her like he was starving, like it had been too long even though it was just days ago. Maybe hours. He didn’t know anymore.
He pulled her sweater over her head and her bra followed fast—no ceremony. No pause. Just skin on skin, warm and wanting, her breath catching when he pressed his mouth to her chest and dragged his tongue slowly across her.
She gripped his hair, tugging him back up to her mouth, kissing him deep, filthy, like she meant to leave marks on his lungs.
“Fuck,” he muttered into her lips, pushing her pants down, letting them fall halfway before she stepped out of them, bare under. Always bare.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he said.
Her mouth curled into a smirk against his. “Good.”
He didn’t even bother with his belt. She shoved it open herself, the click of metal echoing off the stairwell walls as she freed him and wrapped her hand around him, slow and tight, watching the way his jaw tensed and his eyes fluttered shut.
"Now," she said simply.
And he obeyed.
He hooked both hands under her thighs and lifted her, pressing her hard into the wall, the rough concrete biting into her back. Her breath hitched when he slid into her, a quiet gasp muffled by his shoulder as she bit down.
They moved together like they always did—like a secret rhythm only they knew. Sharp and smooth. Hard and quiet. Her nails dug into his shoulders, his forehead pressed to hers, their mouths barely apart, breathing each other in.
No names. No promises.
Just heat. Just need.
He held her like he owned her.
She clung to him like he was already gone.
The end came fast and silent, their bodies shuddering against each other, mouths open but wordless. She bit down on his shoulder. He buried his face in her neck.
And when it was over, he didn’t move.
Didn’t pull away.
Just stayed there—still inside her, forehead against hers, catching his breath in the dark.
The silence crept back in. He felt her fingers slide into his hair again. Gentle this time. Thoughtful. Too tender.
Too dangerous.
He finally let her down slowly, hands still on her thighs as her feet touched the ground. Neither of them spoke.
She reached for her clothes with practiced ease, slipping her sweater back on, brushing her fingers through her hair. Her face was blank again. Smooth. Masked.
But her hands were shaking—just slightly.
He adjusted himself, zipped up, ran a hand down his face. Still breathless. Still burning.
Still too full of her.
Lila leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, one foot tapping lazily against the concrete, like they hadn’t just undone each other in a dark stairwell between classified briefings and betrayal.
Like she didn’t taste like the only thing that ever made him lose control.
He finally looked at her. Really looked.
And something in his chest ached.
She caught it. Whatever flicker passed over his face—whatever weakness or truth tried to sneak out before he could shut it down—she saw it.
Her eyes softened. Just barely.
And then hardened again.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she said, voice low. Controlled. The kind of voice you use when you’re pretending nothing hurts.
He nodded once. Too fast. Too sharp.
“Of course not.”
She pushed off the wall and stepped past him, brushing his arm with hers. Just like earlier. That same electric pull. Only now it hurt more than it thrilled.
She paused with her hand on the stairwell door.
“I’ll see you inside,” she said, and didn’t wait for an answer.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And he stood there, staring at the place where she’d just been, pulse still hammering like he hadn’t just lost her again.
It wasn’t supposed to be this.
It was supposed to be easy. Physical. Clean.
No ties.
No binds.
No strings.
But the truth was a bitter thing, sinking into his throat like iron:
He didn’t want to be just a secret anymore.
They were getting more reckless, and it terrified Five—almost as much as it thrilled him. He’d never thought of either of them as particularly moral to begin with. But if morality meant not having her, then he wanted no part of it. The rush, the heat, the sheer chaos of taking her anywhere—on any surface, in any room—obliterated what little guilt or loyalty he was supposed to feel.
They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. It wasn’t just after missions anymore. It was during. Even in the middle of a job, when they were supposed to be watching enemy towers or staying sharp during recon, they found ways to steal moments—to touch, to devour, to fall apart together.
Like the time their teams were meant to split and cover opposite flanks. Instead of keeping their eyes on the target, Five and Lila used the break to get physical—again. No hesitation, no shame. Just need.
“Surveillance says we’ve got twenty minutes before rotation shift.” Lila’s voice crackled over the comms, smooth and unfazed.
Five’s eyes flicked toward her. She was leaning against the exposed concrete wall of the unfinished room, legs crossed at the ankles, chewing gum like they weren’t about to do something illegal. Like she wasn’t slowly driving him insane.
The skeletal structure of the building around them was cold and silent—no drywall, no power, just bare beams and broken scaffolding. A thin veil of dust hung in the air, catching slivers of light that spilled through a grimy, floor-length window. Below, their target’s compound came into partial view—steel gates, roving guards, and a narrow opening of opportunity.
“Plenty of time,” he replied, voice even, though his pulse had already started to climb.
He looked away, tried to focus on the mission, on the sweep patterns through the broken window, on anything but the way her mouth moved. But her gaze stayed on him, heavy, unreadable. It wasn’t fair—how she could unravel him without even trying.
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” he said lowly, unable to help himself.
Lila smirked, eyes dark with mischief. “Like what?”
He turned before she could blink, pinning her back against the wall beside the window. Their bodies were almost flush, noses nearly touching, tension thick between them.
“Like you want me to ruin you.”
Her gum dropped from her lips without a sound. In the next second, she yanked him down by the collar and kissed him like she was starving, like she’d been waiting for this all day. Maybe longer. Five didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her thighs and lifted her easily, her back scraping the unfinished concrete as her legs locked around his waist.
Her hands were already on his belt, fumbling, urgent.
“We don’t have time,” she panted against his mouth.
“Then don’t waste it.”
They crashed into each other with zero finesse, all heat and desperation. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t careful. It was need—pure and volatile. Her moan spilled out against his shoulder, muffled as his hand clamped over her mouth, grounding her.
“Team Two, status check?” Diego’s voice burst through the comms.
Five didn’t even flinch. He pressed the button on his earpiece, still buried in the crook of Lila’s neck.
“In position. Holding cover until next rotation,” he said flatly.
And God, was he ever.
The cold wall of the abandoned room pressed into Lila’s back, but she hardly felt it. Her spine arched off the concrete as Five thrust into her—hard and unrelenting—one hand gripping the inside of her thigh to spread her open, the other clamped tight over her mouth. Her moan vibrated against his palm—raw, helpless, and utterly wrecked.
“Lila? Five? You still tracking the target?” Diego’s voice again—more insistent this time.
Lila’s eyes flew open, wild and glazed with lust. She bucked against Five, her hips moving with his, frantic and reckless. The danger of being caught only made it worse—more urgent, more intoxicating. Five’s face hovered inches from hers, flushed and gleaming with sweat.
“Don’t you dare make a sound,” he whispered, breathless but commanding.
She nodded furiously, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she clung to him, nails digging beneath the collar of his shirt. Her whole body quaked with the effort of keeping quiet.
“Still can’t get a clean visual from your angle,” Diego muttered over the line, clearly growing frustrated. “We’ve got a window opening in sixty seconds—I need eyes on that gate. If you’re not in position, I swear to God—”
Without breaking rhythm, Five slid one hand up between their bodies, knuckles brushing the comm button.
“Visual’s obstructed. We’re staying in cover until the sweep clears,” he said smoothly, tone calm despite the raggedness of his breath.
He let go of the button and leaned down, mouth brushing the shell of Lila’s ear as his hips kept slamming into her.
“You love this, don’t you?” he hissed. “Being fucked with your fiancé’s voice in your ear?”
Lila bit down—hard—on his shoulder, a stifled whimper caught in her throat. His body was fire against her, relentless and unforgiving. He fucked like he was trying to ruin her for anyone else—and God, maybe he already had.
“Shut up and don’t stop,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
The room was dim, half-finished, dust dancing in shafts of light that filtered through the boarded window. Their bodies radiated heat like a live wire. Each thrust drove her back into the concrete, her legs locked tighter, her fingers clawing at his bare skin beneath his shirt. She felt herself unraveling fast, every nerve stretched to its breaking point.
“Jesus. If you're compromised, say so,” Diego snapped. “Otherwise I’m rerouting Team Four to your position.”
Panic flared in Lila’s eyes, but Five only smirked, his grip tightening on her thigh.
“Then let’s make it quick,” he muttered darkly.
His pace turned brutal—ruthless. Lila’s head thudded back against the wall as her orgasm tore through her like a lightning strike. It hit fast, fierce, almost painful in its intensity. Her body clamped around him, and Five growled low in her ear, his rhythm stuttering before he followed with a deep groan buried in her shoulder.
They froze—both of them breathless, trembling.
“Fuck,” Lila gasped, voice barely a whisper.
“Exactly,” Five muttered into her neck.
She slapped his chest—weak, spent—but he caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. His lips lingered there longer than they should have.
“Still just physical, right?” he asked, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
Lila swallowed, her heart thudding.
“Right,” she said softly.
They scrambled to dress, fumbling with zippers and buttons, breath still ragged and adrenaline thrumming. Five smoothed his hair, straightened his jacket, then looked at her with a crooked grin.
“Let’s go lie to your fiancé together.”