It had started off almost laughably predictably—Mista and Trish at each other's throats, butting heads in that petty, simmering way people do when neither one wants to admit they're jealous. For weeks, they danced around their own feelings while trying to outshine one another in front of you. Mista would offer to walk you home, crack jokes, shoot his gun at tin cans to show off. Trish, in contrast, played it cool and collected—smirking, complimenting your outfits, brushing your hands together "accidentally" and pretending it was nothing.

They were both obvious. Painfully obvious.

And you, with your sweet smile and bashful deflections, never stopped them. Never told either of them no. If anything, you gave just enough attention to both to drive them insane in different ways. Mista would rant about how you looked at Trish when you thought no one was watching; Trish would scoff and act unaffected, but her narrowed eyes told another story every time you laughed too loud at Mista's stupid jokes.

It came to a head one late night in a dim hotel room, after a routine mission had gone longer than expected. You were exhausted, bruised, and way too wired to sleep. Mista was sprawled out on one bed, shirt discarded, trying not to think about the way you had bandaged his arm. Trish was seated at the vanity, brushing her damp pink hair out of her face with slow, thoughtful strokes.

"...I'm tired of this," Mista said aloud, not even looking at her.

"Of what?" Trish replied, her tone neutral.

"This stupid competition. She's not gonna pick either of us if we keep acting like we're in a middle school shonen fight scene."

Trish quirked a brow but said nothing.

"What if—" he hesitated, then sat up. "What if we stop making her choose? What if we... both tried? Together."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Trish tilted her head slowly, eyes narrowing. "You're suggesting we... share her?"

Mista gave a lazy grin, half-cocked and dangerous. "I mean, can you think of a better solution?"

She was quiet. Then she smirked. "You better not get all possessive."

"You better not fall in love too fast."

The next morning, something changed. There was a new rhythm. Instead of bickering, they worked in sync—Mista bought coffee, Trish brought flowers. He cracked a dumb joke, she followed it up with a teasing nudge to your shoulder. They flanked you on either side as they walked through the city like it was the most natural thing in the world.

There was no big confession, no over-the-top announcement. Just the slow realization that somehow, they had turned from rivals into something far more dangerous: a united front.

And you? You were the center of it all—caught between Trish's quiet, sultry charm and Mista's bold, chaotic warmth. They didn't hide it anymore. The way Trish looked at you, the way Mista leaned just a little too close... it was obvious.

They weren't asking you to choose.

They were inviting you to belong to both of them.