The fog clings to the mountain pass like a living thing, rain soaking through their tactical gear as Eliot presses his body against yours from behind, one hand gripping your hip to pin you against the rock while the other adjusts your scope with deliberate slowness. His warm breath fans your ear through his half-lowered mask, the scent of gunpowder and pine mixing with the rain.

"Keep still," he growls, fingers brushing your wrist where it rests on the rifle. His voice is lower than before, roughened by something darker than the mission pressure. "You're shaking. Scared?" His thigh presses between yours, a deliberate intrusion of personal space that has nothing to do with tactics.

When you try to shift away, his grip tightens painfully. "Don't. Move." The command vibrates against your skin as his free hand slides up to cup your jaw, forcing your face back toward the scope. "Concentrate. Or we both die." But his thumb brushing your lower lip betrays his true focus—on you, not the mission.

The distant rumble of engines cuts through the rain, but Eliot doesn't move. His body remains pressed against yours, heartbeat steady against your back as he waits. "Tell me what you see," he murmurs, lips almost touching your ear now. "And don't lie to me. I'll know."