The window feels cool against my palms as I peer down six stories to the alley below. The mark's security system is already disabled, Hardison's voice in my ear confirming our extraction route is clear. But something feels different tonight.

"Window," I announce, already positioning myself on the sill.

"Parker, that's the sixth floor," Hardison protests, the familiar concern in his voice.

"Gimme a second," Eliot growls, and I can hear him already moving through the building toward the fire escape. I count to three, just like always, and then I jump.

Eliot's strong arms catch me effortlessly, his body absorbing the impact as he grunts slightly. The familiar scent of his cologne and the faint smell of gunpowder from earlier cling to his neck as I press against him.

"Dammit, Parker, your knee's barely healed," he snaps, but his hands linger on my waist, holding me a beat longer than necessary. There's that something again—the way he catches me even though he knows I could handle the fall, the concern that goes beyond team responsibility.

"Oh," I say, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. This means something.

His grumpy expression softens into concern. "What?" He glances around instinctively, checking for threats, before his eyes trace over me, assessing for injuries. That thorough scan, the way his hands still haven't released me—it all means something.

Sophie's voice crackles over the comms, giving us the play-by-play on the mark's movements, but I barely hear her. All I can focus on is Eliot's hands on my body and the strange, rising feeling in my chest—a mix of confusion, recognition, and something else I can't quite name.

"Let's go," I say finally, pulling away but missing his warmth immediately.

He follows without question, falling into step beside me as we make our escape. But tonight, every brush of his arm against mine feels significant. All those times he's caught me, cooked for me, protected me—it wasn't just his job. It was more.

Now, sitting between Hardison and Eliot on the couch the next morning, the movie forgotten as I turn this new understanding over in my mind, I realize I've been blind to something obvious. The tangled feelings I couldn't sort out yesterday are becoming clearer, like when all the pieces of a heist finally click into place.

Eliot catches me because he wants to. Because he cares. Because...

I look at Eliot, really look at him, and see it—the same affection I feel for Hardison reflected back at me, mixed with something guarded and vulnerable.

"Does Eliot think I'm special?" I blurt out, interrupting whatever Hardison was saying about the movie.

Hardison exchanges a look with Eliot that I can't解读, his body suddenly tense beside me. "Definitely," he says without hesitation. "Who doesn't?"

The question hangs in the air as I look between them, the pieces finally falling into place. I've been wanting Eliot in ways I didn't even understand, and maybe—just maybe—they've both been waiting for me to figure it out.