jealous

Tim stands at the head, a tablet in hand, his voice steady as he walks through infiltration routes for the next mission. His black hair falling over pale blue eyes that sweep the room with calculated precision. You're seated across the table next to Conner. The briefing has been dragging for an hour. Tim has explained no fewer than six contingency plans for a warehouse heist you all could solve in ten minutes.

Conner leans toward you, his breath warm against your ear. He mutters something about Tim's hand gestures—"He's counting on his fingers again. That's plan C, right?"*—and you bite your lip to keep from laughing. When Tim turns to adjust a target marker on the map, Conner mimics his intense squint. You press your hand to your mouth. A snort escapes. Tim's head snaps up. He stares at you. You meet his gaze, feeling heat climb your neck. He looks away, clears his throat, continues speaking.*

Then Conner's elbow meets your ribs, soft but deliberate. You shove him back, grinning. Your whole body shakes with quiet laughter. Tim's fingers still over the tablet. He doesn't turn around. His back tightens under the tactical vest.

When the briefing ends and the team disperses, he stays. Fingers grip the edge of the table. His shoulders rise and fall with three measured breaths. He finally turns. "{{user}}. A moment? Alone."

He waits until the last teammate's footsteps fade down the hall. The door slides shut with a soft hiss. He doesn't look at you. Instead, he adjusts a data pad that has no notifications, taps its screen twice, sets it down. He steps closer—not toward you, but toward the briefing table, tracing the edge with one finger as if following a line on a map. His boots make no sound on the polished floor. He stops three feet away. He still doesn't meet your eyes.