#night agent

Peter doesn’t have time to second-guess himself because you’ve swung open the door and look pissed.

You don’t say anything but that’s fine. Peter is so well-versed in the language of eyes that he knows you don’t not want him here, but you also don’t want to see his face at the moment.

His soft eyes plead with your vexed ones, trying to do what he should’ve done all those months ago.

“Please.” Is all he says and you stand there, debating whether or not you should let him in when your heart overrides your mind.

He walks past you and you close the door, not quite ready to turn around and face him yet.

Peter can wait, he’s prepared to.

“What are you doing here?” You say, your back still to him.

“I’m here to see you.” The tenderness in his longing is sweet, it threatens to melt you.

You begrudgingly turn around and lean back on the door, letting him have a look of your face.

His eyes have grown desperate for that look, like a once plush green field now in drought, but this one look has brought the rain to end it.

He watches you stand uncomfortably and considers leaving, but he knows deep down in your heart that you miss him just as much he does you.

Peter takes slow steps towards you, giving you the opportunity to deny him of the closeness if you so choose. But you don’t.

“Are you gonna say anything?” You look anywhere else but at him, eyes darting from the floor to the shoes lined up by the door.

He’s thought about the answer to your question many, many times. Went through every scenario and still never quite figured out how he’d speak his mind, just what he would say.

So he does just that.

“I missed you.” He murmurs, standing directly in front of you now.

The audacity. “Yeah, okay.” You scoff with a shake of your head.

He expected this and isn’t mad at all. “I deserve that.”

“You deserve a lot less.” You look at him now, despite the warnings from your mind telling you not to.

You just have to. You haven’t seen this man in months, you just had to.

He nods. “I know. And I do, but just,” He sighs heavily. “Hear me out.”

Peter looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in some time. His eyes don’t hold the same weight as they would when he’s awake. The determination makes them look different.

He keeps his eyes on you, like he’s looking at you for the last time and wants to really commit you to his memory.

“…I should have talked to you.” Peter’s voice is heavy with regret. “I should have told you what was going on with me, and I should have fought for you.”

You hate being so affected by his words. You were fully ready to dismiss him and get him out of your sight but you don’t want to anymore.

You gave up on closure a long time ago, but seeing him here and now opens up that space again.

“I shouldn’t have let you go.”

Your misty-eyed face hits him right in the heart.

Peter hesitantly brings his hands up to touch you, finger brushing away some hair from your face and you duck down.

“Don’t.” You sniffle, not finding it in yourself to see your reflection in his eyes.

He presses on, committed to earning a second chance. One hand comes to rest on the door beside your face and the other comes under your chin to lift your gaze.

You close your eyes and the tears slip down. He wipes them with his thumb.

“Look at me, please?”

You deeply inhale through your nose, opening your eyes for him to see and he almost drops to his knees right there.

Your lashes cling to the rims of your eyes and he wipes at them with his thumb so gently, you almost cry again.

He holds your face. “I hurt you and there’s no going back from that. I did what I thought was the best thing for us but it wasn’t, and I was wrong.”

You blink at him, trying to read his face through your blurry eyes.

“I hurt you and I’m so, so fucking sorry.” Peter rests his forehead against yours and you bite back a sob.

“I’ll say it as many times as you want me to, but don’t turn me away.”

“…You really hurt me, Peter.” You say. “You didn’t just break my heart, you broke our dreams and left me behind to pick up the pieces.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, shame twisting into him like a knife, angrily.

“For better or worse, remember?”

He nods. “…Yeah.”

You push his head back a bit, making some room between your noses. “You can’t just show up and apologize to me and expect me to forgive you.”

He gulps when he sees that look in your eyes. One that isn’t so forgiving but is beyond giving retribution.

“I have to prove myself and I will.” He says. “But will you give me that chance?”

When you look at him, you don’t see a deceitful, dishonest, manipulative person. You see a brave, loyal, kind-hearted man who was the first and only one you’ve showed every part of you to and didn’t use it to hurt you.

He was your fiancé, that means something.

“I never stopped loving you.” You admit softly. “I still love you… but I can’t hurt like that again.”

Peter nods, knowing full well that you won’t go easy on him but he doesn’t want it any other way. “I know.”

And reality didn’t care how much she tried to deny it.

Nothing was ever going to be the same.

Besides, she was still under watch. It was not a holiday, it was not a (much needed) escape from reality.

3 am.

In a few hours she’ll have to report to FBI’s headquarters for another part of interrogation. Well, maybe if he showed up pale with dark circles under her eyes, she’d at least make an impression of a deeply traumatized victim of a crime.

Bet that would at least get her on the FBI's psychological help reimbursement payroll.

“Peter?”

The name was familiar, safe, comforting.

Two syllables, five letters, one bittersweet warmth forming somewhere in her chest.

“Still here.”

“Can’t sleep either?”

“You know I’m not supposed to –“

“Thank you.” She cut him off in the middle of the sentence.

“For what? I’m doing my job, don’t read too much into it.”

“Of course. Because you accidentally happened to be in a completely different part of town on the night of my attempted murder.”

“I’m keeping a tag on you.” He muttered, and for a moment she wasn’t sure If he meant it or his twisted sense of humor (or lack thereof) awakened again.

“GPS?”

“Triangulation.”

“Wise. Effective.”

“Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“What really happened there?” (Translation: I’m here, you can tell me, let me take care of you)

“You really want to do this at 3 am?”

“Neither of us is going to sleep anyway. Why waste time?”

They both knew what he really meant was much closer to : fuck, let’s talk about anything to numb those words coming onto our mouths.

Because this?

Having her here, at his apartment, after all the history?

That in itself was a straight way to suspension and/or disciplinary action and Peter was on a roll with those of late.

“I do not know.”

“Focus.”

“I do not know.”

“You’re way smarter than that. Who could have—”

“Do you really expect me to give you names, Peter?!” She jumped off the bed, kicking off the blanket, starting to pace the room like a nervous deer caught in the headlights. “I. Do. Not. Know. Haven’t had high-profile cases of late—"

“Something from the past then?”

“For god’s sake, this is not a John Grisham book! It’s not like someone is just going to come back to get his revenge for me putting him behind bars ages ago—”

“If you don’t collaborate next time you’ll end up six feet under!” (translation: let me help you, I care, please…)

“So what, you’re calling me a liar now?!”

The emotions were too high, too volatile, too unpredictable.

Count to five, take an inhale and exhale.

“I don’t know.” She said again, stubbornly, but as honestly as possible. He’d believe her eventually.

“Fine.”

“Fine? That’s it? No intimidation? No – I don’t know, flashlight in the eyes?”

“A second ago you were the one to claim it was not a crime novel.”

“Movie, in this case.”

“Y/N.”

“Sorry.”

Suddenly the air in the apartment felt suffocating, but not because they felt like doing something stupid and reckless.

They knew better how to control themselves and the thin line dividing past and present was not going to be crossed (or at least not that night).

It was more like a weight of circumstances finally getting into her stress preserved brain, blocking everything else.  

She could have died.

She really could have ended six feet under and that realization made her head spin, forcing her to sit back down.

“You good? For real this time.” He sat next to her in the closest form of comfort and warmth he could give her now.

“No.”

Finally an honest answer.

“It’s normal.”

“God, I hope I’ll never have to get used to that.”

“You don’t even know how many times before—” he stopped abruptly, regretting the sudden slip of a tongue.

Freeze.

“The hell, Peter?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? What did you do? What – what have you done?!What have you been doing!?”

“This is not-“

“Holy fuck, you were shadowing me, weren’t you? For three years?! Did they give you nothing better to do?! Was it going on while we were together as well?!”

It was like someone lit up a sun under her head.

“Y/N—”

“Shut up, Peter!”

“Stop – stop yelling!” He grabbed her wrists in a firm yet protective grip before she could start wriggling. “Just stop. You’re not thinking clearly – “

“ Damn right, I am not! I just found out that – you were my agent, weren’t you?“

“This is not what this is about. We need to focus on—”

“Answer me!”

“Yes. Fine, all right. Fuck, I was assigned to you. From the beginning. But you were never supposed to know. It was –”

“Classified?” she scoffed bitterly breaking free from his grasp, not that he was really trying to keep it on. “Fucking great! I was a case file on the shelf. Because of my line of work. So what, there was some fucked up witness protection program going behind my back?! How many –” she paled. “How many incidents were there in the past years?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Eleven.”

She gasped.

ELEVEN.

ELEVEN possible case scenarios in which she could have ended up dead or mutilated or traumatized. ELEVEN accidents he stopped.

ELEVEN people she brought to trial, prosecuted and motioned to punish that came after her.  

ELEVEN night actions he ---

ELEVEN.

And a single failed one that shattered her world and beliefs, breaking down every memory she held dear.

Twisting reality in the same way funfair’s house of mirrors does.

“And before that--? When we were still—”

“Y/N. Don’t.” he half-begged as if her finding out the truth and getting all those doubts and regrets was killing him too.

“How many?” she shook her head avoiding those pleading eyes. “HOW MANY, PETER?”

He closed his eyes.

Too many then.

Too many to count, name and admit out loud.

She was his job. Just that.

Y/N could have asked him so many things, voiced so many doubts, but the thing was – it was too much.

Because how would it sound to say : did you ever really love me? Pathetic, exposing. And whatever answer he’ll give – would she believe it? Accept it? Swallow it?

“Y/N –“

“No. no, no. stop. It’s on me. It’s on me, isn’t it? It’s because three years ago I figured out your line of job, is it not? That’s why they made you step back and that’s why you left, right?”

“Yes.”

Of course, she was too smart and the words ignorance is bliss have never been more true.

“Tomorrow – I mean – today –“ a brief glance at the clock. “I want you to take me to Mosley.”

“No.” The protective instincts kicked in, taking the form of a stubborn one-word response. “I – “

“I’m not asking.” She gave him an ice-cold look, matching his own stubbornness. “He’ll see me. And at this point, he might be the only person I’ll trust to talk to.”

Oh, the pain she inflicted on him with that.

But the lies, the sneaking, keeping her in the dark?

Peter dug his own grave she had just uncovered and probably deserved the kick in the balls.

But a kick in the heart that still beat for her?

“Fine. Get to bed, I’ll drag you out at 8.00 sharp. You’ll get your witness treatment with the busiest person in the FBI.”

Peter was running faster than he ever had before.

Five minutes ago, his phone had lit up with your name, your nervous, frantic whisper immediately setting his pulse racing.

"Peter," you sniffled, the sound distorted over the line. "There's someone outside the safe house."

He clutched the phone tighter, his voice firm but calming as he broke into a sprint. "I'm on my way. Stay calm. Don’t hang up."

"Please hurry," you breathed, the fear in your voice driving a knife into his chest.

He forced his tone to stay steady, even as panic clawed at him. "It's going to be okay, Y/N. Take a deep breath for me."

You obeyed, the shaky sound of your inhale making his heart ache.

"Good," he said, reaching his car and yanking the door open. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turned the ignition with a snap and peeled out of the grocery store parking lot. "Do you still have eyes on them?"

"Yes," you swallowed audibly. "They - I think they’re going door to door."

His mind raced, recalling your room number and the motel’s layout. "Listen carefully. Lock the doors to the bathrooms and closets from the inside. Just like we practiced."

"Okay." He heard the faint sound of doors clicking shut.

"Good. Now, do you remember where I hid the handgun?"

"Behind the mini-fridge," you answered quickly.

"Go take it."

A pause. "Okay… I have it."

"Remember the safety-"

"Right. Safety off."

"No—no." Peter spoke carefully. "Turn it off only if you need to use it."

"Right. Sorry."

"You’re okay. You’re doing great." His tone softened, an edge of warmth cutting through the tension. "I’m almost there, sweetheart."

You sighed, a tremor of relief washing through you. "Okay."

He pressed harder on the accelerator. "Now, the windows are big enough to fit through. There’s a small drop down to the back of the motel. You remember the route?"

You moved to the window, your breath hitching as you looked down. "Oh my God."

"Listen to me," Peter said firmly, his voice anchoring you. "You need to be brave for me, okay? I know you can do it."

"Okay, okay. I can do it," you whispered, steadying yourself.

A crash echoed from somewhere in the building, and you jumped, gasping. "Peter!"

"You have to jump. I’m almost there."

The urgency in his voice pushed you forward. Bracing yourself, you stepped out, the ground rushing up to meet you. The impact was harsher than you expected, pain shooting through your knee as it scraped against the gravel. "Ah!" Your hand shot to cover your mouth as you pressed yourself against the wall, holding your breath and scanning the shadows.

No one followed.

"I’m outside, Peter," you whispered into the phone.

"Yes!" His relief was palpable. "I told you you could do it. Now, you need to get away from there. Head west. I’m turning into the neighborhood."

Nodding, you hobbled forward, careful to keep your steps quiet despite the strain on your injured knee. Blood soaked through your jeans, and you bit back a wince.

You’d made it a safe distance from the motel when a hand grabbed you, yanking you behind a tree. A scream bubbled in your throat, but then you saw him - Peter, his index finger pressed to his lips.

Relief crashed over you, your knees threatening to buckle as you slumped into his arms.

"Are you hurt?" he whispered, his worried eyes scanning you before locking onto your bloodied knee. His jaw tightened. "Shit."

"It’s fine -" you said quickly. "It’s just a scratch."

His lips pressed into a thin line. "I’ll check it later. Let’s go."

Before you could protest, he scooped you into his arms, carrying you toward the SUV.

"You don’t have to carry me - "

"It’s swollen. You shouldn’t walk on it," Peter cut you off, his tone brooking no argument.

Gently, he lowered you into the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt with care before rushing to the driver’s side.

The car roared to life as he drove out of the woods with practiced ease, his focus unwavering. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, a testament to his frustration and concern.

"I shouldn’t have left you alone," he said, his voice tight with regret. “I’m sorry."

"It’s alright, Peter. I’m fine."

But the tension in his jaw said otherwise.

After nearly an hour of driving, he pulled onto a narrow road, parking in front of a modest apartment building.

"This is my friend’s place," he explained, turning off the engine. "She’s working abroad, but I have a key."

You nodded, ignoring the unexpected pang of jealousy that flared in your chest. A friend? Close enough to lend him a key? You immediately chastised yourself. It was ridiculous to feel this way. You’d known him for only a few days. So what if he was strong, protective, and impossibly kind? He was just doing his job.

Still, the thought lingered as you reached for the door handle.

"Stay here," he said, already stepping out and shutting the door behind him.

Your pulse spiked at the sudden isolation, but before you could dwell on it, your door opened again, and Peter leaned in, scooping you into his arms.

"Peter - "

"Don’t argue," he said firmly, carrying you up the stairs.

Inside, the apartment was small but tidy, the kind of space meant for someone always on the move. It lacked personal touches - no photos or decorations - but it was clean and functional.

Peter’s first move was to sweep the place, gun drawn, checking every room before closing the curtains. When he shut the main window, you caught a glimpse of the National Mall in the distance.

"We’re in the city…" you muttered.

"Hiding in plain sight," he confirmed.

You tried to take a step but winced as pain flared through your knee, a sharp gasp escaping your lips.

Instantly, Peter was at your side, his hands cupping your face. His worried blue eyes searched yours, his thumb gently brushing your cheek.

"It’s… it’s my leg," you stammered, heat rushing to your face. "It hurts more than I thought."

"We need to disinfect it," he said, his voice low and steady as he lifted you again, carrying you into the bathroom. He set you down carefully on the edge of the tub, his touch never wavering.

"If it hurts to move it, I’ll need to cut your jeans. Is that okay?"

You nodded, biting your lip against the pain. "Do it."

From the first aid kit, he pulled out a pair of scissors and began to cut, careful not to jostle you. He peeled back the fabric, revealing the swollen, bloodied mess of your knee.

"This might sting," he warned, turning on the showerhead. Warm water cascaded over the wound, and the sharp sting made you inhale sharply through gritted teeth.

"I know," he murmured, his focus unwavering. "Be patient for me, sweetheart."

His voice was soothing, grounding you as he worked. You closed your eyes, forcing yourself to breathe through the burn.

When the wound was clean, he knelt in front of you, examining your knee with meticulous care. His hands were steady, his touch firm yet gentle as he tested your mobility.

"It’s not broken," he finally declared, relief in his voice. "But you’ll need a few stitches and plenty of ice."

"Stitches?" you echoed, dread lacing your tone.

His eyes met yours, steady and reassuring. "Just a few."

"Please tell me there’s morphine in that kit," you half-joked, half-pleaded.

For the first time, Peter’s lips quirked into a small smile, a rare crack in his stoic demeanor. "It’s a gateway drug, you know?"

You groaned. "Thats fine. I’d still prefer to stop feeling what I’m feeling right now."

The morphine worked quickly, leaving you dazed and floating by the time he tied the final stitch. He wrapped your knee in gauze with practiced precision, helping you stand.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his blue eyes scanning your face.

"Better," you murmured, though the painkillers made you feel pleasantly drowsy.

"I’ll get you something to change into," he said, disappearing briefly before returning with a pair of shorts and a T-shirt - both his.

The sight of his clothes in his hands made your brow lift. He cleared his throat, avoiding your gaze.

"I figured you might be tired of wearing strangers’ clothes," he muttered.

You smiled softly. "I am. Thanks."

You didn’t hesitate to strip off your borrowed flannel, leaving it in a heap on the floor. His T-shirt was warm and soft, and you all but drowned in its oversized fabric. The gym shorts hung low on your hips, and you had to tie them tight to keep them up. They smelled faintly of him - clean, woodsy, and safe.

Exhaustion hit hard as you limped to the living room, collapsing onto the couch. The cushions were soft and inviting, and within moments, you drifted into a dreamless sleep.

When you woke, the room was dark, illuminated only by the warm glow of the kitchen light. The air smelled delicious - sweet and comforting.

Peter stood at the stove, his hair was wet, falling in messy wrinkles across his forehead, his sleeves rolled up, a spatula in hand.

"I’m no chef," he said, glancing at you with a small smile. "But I figured you can’t go wrong with French toast." he shrugged, bringing you a plate.

You moved, noticing the icepack on your knee. He must had placed it while you were sleeping.

Peter brought over a plate of golden-brown French toast, the faint smell of cinnamon and sugar filling the air. He set it on the coffee table in front of you, but his eyes lingered as you shifted to sit up. The warmth of the gesture made something stir in your chest - and you reverted to your favorite defense mechanism - humor.

"You didn’t have to cook for me," you said in an exaggerated tone.

He chuckled, shaking his head, biting his tongue. "Just shut up and eat your toast." His tone quiet as usual. His eyes flicked briefly to your bandaged knee, but the weight of his gaze on you lingered.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward, though - it felt charged, heavy with unsaid words. You couldn’t help but notice the way the dim kitchen light played across his features, sharpening the curve of his jaw, highlighting the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.

"You’re staring," he murmured, a flicker of amusement tugging at his lips.

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you dropped your gaze. "No im not."

"Whatever you say," he said, leaning back against the couch.

There was something in the way he said it - soft but deliberate. You glanced up at him again, and this time, he was the one staring. His eyes held yours, steady and unflinching, and you swore the space between you felt smaller than it had moments ago.

"Peter…" you started, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I was just messing with you," he said, cutting you off gently. "Trying to lighten the mood."

"You dont have to." The words slipped out before you could stop them. "I mean, I feel safe with you."

His expression softened. "Good. You should."

The air between you grew heavy. You couldn’t look away. Cursing yourself. It was just like you to develop a crush on a guy you had just met.

Your breath hitched as he reached up, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

Fuck it, You thought. If you'd learned anything in the past couple of days is that you don't live forever.

"Peter…" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Yeah?"

You hesitated for only a moment before leaning toward him, your hand brushing against his arm. His breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly as you closed the distance between you.

"Uhmm," your voice trembled. "Can I...?"

God, yes. He swallowed hard, comflict evident in his eyes.

If you only knew how he wanted to kiss you. He got a total of four hours of sleep in the last week working for people he didn't even know he could trust. Hell, for all he knew, you were the only person he could trust. And even then-

You closed the gap, pressing your lips to his. "I can hear you overthinking."

For a moment, he didn’t move, as though the weight of his internal battle had frozen him in place. But then his hand found your waist, hesitant at first, before pulling you closer onto his lap, careful around your injury.

It wasn’t the desperate, frantic kiss you’d imagined in your head. It was slow, careful, like he was afraid to break you. Yet there was an intensity beneath it, a heat that built with every second as his resolve crumbled.

When he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing was unsteady.

"This…" he started, his voice rough. "This isn’t what I should be doing."

You murrmered, planted soft kisses along his jaw, down his throat, he gasped in your ear. "You can tell me to stop, and I will."

The wind whispered a warning through the leafless trees as we approached the pond. It was a cold, moonless night, the stars above shivering in the inky sky. Peter and I, two agents of the night, were tailing a target that had led us on a merry chase through the quiet suburban park.

"Remember, Y/n," Peter had said earlier that evening, his breath frosting in the frigid air, "the ice isn't thick enough to hold us. We stick to the path."

I nodded, my eyes gleaming with the thrill of the pursuit. Peter's words echoed in my mind, but the path was longer, and every second counted. The target was slipping away. We had to move fast.

Crunching through the snow, I spotted a shortcut—a frozen pond, glistening under the distant street lamps. It was a risk, but one I was willing to take. I knew Peter would follow.

Without a second thought, I bolted onto the ice. It groaned under my boots, but held firm. The cold bite of the wind stung my cheeks as I gained ground. The target's footsteps grew clearer in my mind, the thrum of my heart drowning out the creaks of the ice beneath me.

But the universe has a cruel sense of humor. Just as I reached the pond's center, the ice let out an ominous crack. I felt the world tilt, and suddenly, I was plunging into the icy abyss.

The cold water slapped me like a giant's hand, stealing the air from my lungs. Panic swirled through me, thick and paralyzing, as the freezing water closed over my head. I thrashed, my legs kicking uselessly, searching for a foothold that wasn't there. The world was muffled, my thoughts racing like a rabbit in a snare.

Then, a hand—warm, strong, and reassuring—closed around my arm. Peter. His face was a blur through the water's surface, but the fierce determination in his eyes was clear. He'd seen me fall, had rushed to my side without hesitation. The ice creaked and groaned, but he didn't care. He was going to pull me out.

My teeth chattered as he hoisted me onto the unsteady ice. It took everything I had to roll away from the treacherous edge. The cold seeped into my bones, turning them to lead. I gasped for air, my breath coming in ragged puffs that painted the night air white. Peter knelt beside me, his own breathing heavy, his eyes searching my face for any sign of injury.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice tight with concern.

I nodded, my voice lost to the cold. My body trembled violently, and my teeth chattered so hard they hurt. Peter peeled off his own winter coat, wrapping it around my shivering frame. His warmth seeped into me, bringing a semblance of comfort.

"We need to get you warm," he said, his voice gruff. "We can't risk hypothermia."

He helped me to my feet, and we stumbled back to the path, leaving the pond and its treacherous embrace behind us. The chase was forgotten for the moment, overshadowed by the stark reality of survival. We had to find shelter—and fast.

As Peter scooped me into his arms, the warmth from his body was like a beacon of hope in the frigid night. He began to sprint, his long legs eating up the ground as he carried me away from the icy trap. Each step felt like a small victory, a defiance against the biting cold that threatened to claim me.

My eyes fell shut as the world spun, the only thing anchoring me to reality was Peter's steady breathing and the rhythmic thump of his heart against my chest. I could feel the heat of him seeping into my frozen bones, a gentle warmth that spread through me like a balm.

The jolting motion stopped, and I heard the crunch of snow underfoot followed by the sound of a door opening. The sudden influx of warm air was like a warm embrace, and I was vaguely aware of Peter carrying me into a dimly lit cabin. The scent of pine and woodsmoke filled my nose, a stark contrast to the icy pond.

He laid me down on something soft—a couch, I realized as it creaked beneath my weight. The heat from a nearby fireplace wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I couldn't feel my hands or feet, and my teeth chattered so badly it hurt to breathe. Peter's eyes searched my face, a mix of fear and concern.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice gruff and low. "I've got to get these wet clothes off you."

With trembling hands, he began to unbutton my shirt. I tried to help, but my fingers felt like they were made of ice. He peeled the soaking fabric away, revealing my shivering skin. He worked with a gentle urgency, his movements precise and efficient. His eyes never left mine, seeking silent permission.

As my clothes came off, the warmth of the room began to seep into me, but it was a battle against the icy grip of the water. Peter's touch was firm, yet tender, as he stripped me of the sodden layers. Each piece of clothing that fell away was a victory against the cold, but the process was painfully slow.

"Thank you," I managed to murmur through chattering teeth.

"We’ve got to warm you up," he said, his own teeth clicking together.

Without a moment's hesitation, Peter removed his own shirt and wrapped it around me. It smelled faintly of gunpowder and mint—his scent—and was surprisingly warm. He hovered over me, his own breathing ragged, his eyes searching my face for signs of improvement.

The warmth began to spread through my body, chasing the cold back into the shadows. I felt a surge of gratitude for his quick thinking, his selflessness. Peter had always been like that—reliable, strong, and unyielding. But now, in this moment of vulnerability, I saw a different side of him. A tenderness that made my heart ache in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

The cabin was small, but it was a haven. Peter had lit a fire that roared in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the wooden walls. He crouched beside me, peeling away my frozen boots and socks, his eyes never leaving mine. He rubbed my icy feet with his calloused hands, trying to bring the feeling back.

He pulled me closer to him, his bare chest pressed against my icy skin. His warmth was like a beacon, a lifeline that I clung to desperately. His heart thudded against my ear, a reassuring rhythm that echoed the promise of survival. His arms were a warm cocoon around me, his chest a furnace that chased away the cold.

"Your core temperature is dropping too fast," Peter said, his voice tight with worry.

He began to rub my arms and legs vigorously, trying to generate heat. His skin was like a warm embrace, and I could feel the chill retreating from my body inch by inch. The warmth grew, spreading through me like a wildfire. The tremors in my body began to subside, the cold receding from the fiery warmth of his touch.

As the cold loosened its grip, a new sensation began to creep in—pain. It was a dull ache at first, a distant whisper that grew louder as the blood returned to my extremities. I winced, but Peter didn't miss a beat. He simply tightened his grip and continued rubbing, his eyes never leaving mine.

The pain grew, but so did the warmth. I focused on Peter's eyes, the way they crinkled at the corners when he was worried, the way the firelight danced across his features. His touch was a promise, a silent vow that he'd never let go. And in that moment, I knew I could trust him with more than just my life—I could trust him with the secrets of my heart.

The chill of the night was forgotten, replaced by the warmth of Peter's arms. His skin was a lifeline, a bridge between life and the cold embrace of the pond. Each rub, each press of his hand brought me back to the world of the living. I could feel my heart slowing, the panic of the fall receding like the tide.

The tremors in my body slowly faded away. The cold had been vanquished by his warmth, his care. We sat there, wrapped in the warmth of the cabin and each other, the fire crackling a comforting lullaby.

For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only Peter, his warmth, and the fierce beat of his heart—a rhythm that matched my own. And in that moment, I knew that no matter what the night had in store for us, together, we could face it.

The chase was on hold, the mission forgotten. Our priority was simple: stay alive and warm. And as Peter's hands continued their tireless work, as the warmth of the fire wrapped around us like a comforting blanket, I couldn't help but feel that for the first time in a long while, we were truly alive.

"I'm sorry," Peter said again, his voice thick with apology. "I know this isn't the time for it, but I had to get you out of the cold."

He was apologizing for invading my space, for the intimacy of his actions. But all I felt was a profound sense of gratitude. Without him, I'd be lost in that icy embrace, my life snuffed out like a candle in the wind.

"Don't be," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I'd do the same for you."

His eyes searched mine, looking for the truth behind my words. I held his gaze, willing him to understand. The bond between agents was unbreakable, a silent vow to have each other's backs. And in that moment, as I sat there shivering in his arms, it was clear that Peter took that vow to heart.

He nodded slowly, the tension in his jaw easing slightly. "If anything had happened to you..." His voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air.

The fire crackled and spit, casting flickering shadows across the cabin. The warmth was finally reaching my core, and with it, the realization of just how close I'd come to the edge. Peter had saved my life. He'd risked his own to pull me out of the water, to warm me up, to keep me alive.

"Nothing happened," I said, my voice a little stronger now. "You're here, and so am I."

He offered a small, tight smile, his eyes never leaving mine. The room was quiet except for the hiss of the fire and the sound of our breathing—his steady and warm, mine still ragged from the cold. The weight of the night's events began to settle over us, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

We sat there, wrapped in the warmth of the cabin and each other's presence, until my shivering had ceased and the color had returned to my cheeks. The fire had turned from a ravenous beast to a gentle companion, licking at the wood with lazy tongues of flame.

"We should get you some dry clothes," Peter said finally, his voice still low.

He rose, the movement sending a shiver down my spine despite the warmth of the room. He moved to a closet in the corner and rummaged through the contents, his back to me. He returned with a pile of clothes—sweatpants and a thick sweatshirt that looked like they'd swallow me whole.

With shaking hands, I took the clothes from him, our fingers brushing in a way that sent a jolt through me. He turned away, giving me privacy, as I slowly changed, each movement sending a fresh wave of pain through my frozen limbs. The clothes were too big, but they were warm, and that was all that mattered.

When I was dressed, I looked up to find Peter watching me, his expression unreadable. He handed me a mug of steaming tea, the warmth of it seeping into my cold hands.

"Thank you," I said, my voice a little stronger now.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. We sat in silence for a while, sipping our tea and watching the fire. The night outside was still and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the cabin. But we were safe, at least for now.

As the warmth of the tea spread through me, I felt the last of the chill retreat. The tremors in my limbs subsided, and the ache of the cold was replaced by a gentle glow. I leaned into Peter, my head finding a natural resting place on his shoulder.

He tensed for a moment before relaxing, his arm slipping around my shoulders. "You scared me," he murmured.

I knew he meant more than just the fall into the pond. He'd seen the recklessness in my eyes, the thrill of the chase that had led me to ignore his warnings. But I had trusted him to save me, and he had come through without a second thought.

"I know," I said softly. "I'm sorry."

He didn't respond, just held me tighter. And in that moment, I knew that our friendship had shifted, had grown stronger in the face of the cold.

Then, without warning, Peter's hand cupped my cheek, turning my face towards his. His eyes searched mine for a second, looking for permission, for reassurance. And when he found it, he leaned in and kissed me.

It was gentle, a soft press of his warm lips against mine. The kiss was filled with all the unspoken words of the night—his fear for me, his relief at finding me alive, his concern as he warmed me up. It was a declaration of more than friendship, a promise of protection that went beyond our job descriptions.

I leaned into the kiss, the warmth of his mouth a stark contrast to the icy water that had tried to claim me. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer, and suddenly, the cold was forgotten. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as if we were trying to banish the chill that still clung to my skin.

Our breaths mingled, hot and desperate, as we broke apart. Peter's eyes searched my face, looking for any sign of doubt or regret. But all I felt was the warmth of his kiss spreading through me, thawing the last of the ice that had lodged in my heart.

"Y/n," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "What are we doing?"

"We're alive," I replied, my voice just as shaky. "And I'm not going to let this moment pass without telling you how I feel."

His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a tear that had escaped my eye. "I've felt it too," he confessed. "But we can't let it interfere with the mission."

I nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. Our job was dangerous, and distraction could mean the difference between life and death. But in the quiet of the cabin, with the fire whispering to us in a language of warmth and comfort, it was hard to remember the world outside.

"I know," I said, my voice a little steadier. "But we're not on the job right now. We're just Peter and y/n."

He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling against me. Then, with a nod, he leaned in for another kiss. This one was slower, more deliberate. Our tongues danced together, exploring each other as if for the first time. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, until it was all I could feel.

The world outside the cabin walls faded away, and all that remained was the warmth of Peter's body, the scent of mint and pine, and the steady rhythm of his heart. His hands roamed my back, tracing the curves of my spine, sending shivers down my body that had nothing to do with the cold.

We pulled back, both panting, our eyes locked. The tension in the room was palpable, a living thing that crackled in the air like static. Peter reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from my forehead. His touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt of electricity through me.

"We can't," he said, his voice strained. "We have to focus."

I nodded, reluctantly breaking the spell. The mission was important, and we couldn't afford to let our emotions cloud our judgment. With a deep sigh, I leaned back into the couch, the warmth of the tea and Peter's body a comfort against the cold that still lingered in my bones.

"You're right," I said, taking another sip of the tea. "But for now, let's just be Peter and y/n."

He nodded, his arm still around me, and we sat in silence, watching the fire. The flames danced and played, casting shadows that painted our faces in a warm glow. It was a brief reprieve from the world of espionage and danger that we both knew was waiting for us outside.

As the warmth of the cabin seeped into me, I felt the weight of the night's events begin to lift. The chase, the fall, the kiss—it all felt like a dream, a moment out of time. But Peter's arm around me was real, his heartbeat a steady reminder that we were in this together.

We had survived the pond, and we would survive whatever the night had in store for us. The mission would go on, and we would be stronger for it. But for now, we were just two people, finding warmth in the cold embrace of the night.