The door to the archives didn't click shut. It thudded, a heavy, hermetic seal engaging with a sound like a lung collapsing. Jeff didn't look up. He stayed crouched between stack 42 and 43, knees pulled to his chest, forehead resting on the cool, painted metal of the shelving unit. The air in here was recycled, scrubbed clean of the city outside, but it still carried the faint, persistent scent of heated copper and old paper. It smelled like secrets. It smelled like failure.
He pressed a hand to his ribs. The ache there was a dull throb, a souvenir from the locker room floor. It wasn't broken, probably. Just bruised. Like his ego. Like everything else in his life since he’d been accepted into the program. He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the servers in the next room, a low, vibrating drone that usually helped him focus. Today, it just felt like a headache waiting to happen.
Footsteps. Not the patrolling guard’s rhythmic stomp. These were lighter, deliberate. The sound of expensive tactical boots moving with predatory grace across the anti-static flooring. Jeff stopped breathing. He knew that walk. He’d studied it during field drills, watched it from the back of the lecture hall, tracked it through the mess hall crowds.
Sam.
Jeff curled tighter, making himself small. Maybe if he was pathetic enough, he’d turn invisible. It was a stupid thought—basic camouflage theory stated that stillness drew the eye if the background was dynamic, but here, everything was still. He was the only anomaly.
The footsteps stopped at the end of the aisle. A shadow stretched long and thin across the linoleum, bisecting the pool of artificial light.
"You’re bleeding," Sam said. His voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm. It wasn't a question.
Jeff wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, wincing as the fabric scraped raw skin. He kept his head down. "I'm fine."
"Field Report protocol states that any injury sustaining blood loss requires immediate medical attention," Sam recited. The words were stiff, formal, the way they were all taught to speak, but there was an edge to it. A tightness.
"It’s a nosebleed, Sam. Not a gunshot wound. Go away."
Sam didn't go away. The shadow moved. The fabric of tactical trousers rustled, a soft, friction-heavy sound, and then Sam was there, crouching down. He didn't sit. He rested on the balls of his feet, balanced, ready to move, ready to strike. The Seme archetype in flesh and blood—contained power wrapped in a standard-issue grey uniform.
"Look at me," Sam said.
"No."
"Jeff."
The name hit him harder than the shove in the locker room had. It was the way Sam said it. Low. possessive. Like he had rights to the syllables. Jeff swallowed, the taste of iron heavy in his throat. He looked up.
Sam was too close. That was the first thing Jeff’s brain registered—a frantic, red-alert warning from his amygdala. Proximity breach. Sam had sharp features, the kind of face that looked like it had been cut from glass, beautiful and dangerous. His eyes were dark, scanning Jeff’s face with the clinical precision of an analyst decrypting a corrupted file.
"Who?" Sam asked. One word.
Jeff looked away, focusing on the rivet in the shelving unit. "Doesn't matter."
"It matters to the integrity of the unit," Sam said, shifting slightly. His knee brushed against Jeff’s. The contact was electric—a sudden, sharp jolt that made Jeff’s breath hitch. He pulled back, pressing his spine into the hard metal of the shelf behind him.
"The unit," Jeff let out a wet, humorless laugh. "Right. The unit. That's why you're here. Assessing the weak link."
Sam reached out. He didn't grab. He moved with agonizing slowness, giving Jeff every second in the world to flinch or run. When Jeff didn't move, Sam’s fingers brushed his jaw. His skin was cool, dry. He tilted Jeff’s head back, inspecting the split lip, the bruising starting to bloom along the cheekbone.
"You didn't fight back," Sam observed. It wasn't an accusation. It sounded almost… disappointed. Not in Jeff, but in the situation.
"Three on one," Jeff muttered, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The scent of Sam—rainwater, soap, and that specific, unnameable sharpness of the high-end coffee he drank—was overwhelming. It drowned out the copper smell. "And I'm... I'm not you, Sam. I don't break arms for fun."
"I don't do it for fun," Sam murmured, his thumb grazing the corner of Jeff’s mouth. He wiped away a smear of blood with a tenderness that felt violent in its contrast to the setting. "I do it for efficiency."
Jeff trembled. He couldn't help it. The adrenaline from the fight had faded, leaving him cold and shaky, and now Sam was touching him, and it was too much. It was sensory overload. The bright fluorescent lights, the hum of the servers, the heat of Sam’s hand.
"Why are you here?" Jeff whispered. His voice cracked. Humiliating.
Sam didn't pull his hand away. He let his fingers trail down to Jeff’s neck, resting there, right over the pulse point. He must have felt it—the erratic, panicked rabbit-kick of Jeff’s heart.
"I couldn't find you," Sam said simply. "You weren't at the debrief."
"I was busy bleeding."
"You were hiding."
"Strategic retreat."
Sam’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You let them think they won."
"They did win," Jeff snapped, pushing Sam’s hand away. The loss of contact made him feel instantly colder. "Look at me, Sam. I'm a mess. I'm bottom of the class in combat, I can't hold a cover to save my life, and everyone knows it. I don't belong here."
He waited for Sam to agree. To nod and say, 'Yes, the data supports this conclusion.' To offer him a transfer form to the logistics division.
Sam didn't move. He just watched Jeff, his gaze heavy, unblinking. "Is that what you think?"
"It’s the truth."
"Truth is subjective to the available intelligence," Sam said. "You have incomplete data."
"Oh my god," Jeff groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "Stop talking like a textbook. We aren't being graded right now."
"Then stop acting like a victim," Sam’s voice dropped an octave. It wasn't loud, but it resonated in the small space, vibrating through the floorboards. He leaned in, invading Jeff’s personal space again, forcing Jeff to look up.
"They target you," Sam said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, "because they are threatened."
Jeff stared at him. "Threatened? By me? Sam, I tripped over my own shoelaces during the infiltration sim last week."
"You noticed the secondary encryption key on the target server before the instructor even finished the briefing," Sam countered. "You have the highest aptitude for pattern recognition in the cohort. They see that. They know that once you learn to hit back, you will surpass them."
Jeff blinked. The words didn't make sense. Sam—perfect, untouchable Sam—noticed that? Sam noticed *him*?
"I... I didn't think you were paying attention," Jeff mumbled.
Sam let out a short breath through his nose. A sigh? Or something closer to frustration. "I am always paying attention to you."
The silence that followed was heavy, pressurized. The air felt thick, like the moments before a thunderstorm breaks. Jeff’s mouth went dry. He stared at Sam, trying to parse the meaning behind the words, trying to find the trap. In this world—in the agency, in the academy—everything was a trap. Information was currency, and feelings were leverage.
"Why?" Jeff asked. The word was barely a whisper.
Sam shifted his weight. For the first time, the mask slipped. Just a fraction. A flicker of uncertainty in those dark eyes. He looked down at his own hands, then back at Jeff. "Because you are the only variable I cannot calculate."
Jeff’s heart skipped a beat. "I don't understand."
"I know," Sam said. He sounded almost angry. "You are oblivious. It is... inefficient."
"Inefficient?" Jeff felt a spark of indignation. "Sorry my existence is messing up your spreadsheets."
"That is not what I meant."
Sam moved then, sudden and fluid. He braced one hand on the shelving unit beside Jeff’s head, boxing him in. The smell of rain and coffee was suffocatingly good. Sam leaned closer, his face inches from Jeff’s. Jeff could see the tiny flecks of gold in Sam’s irises, the slight tension in his jaw.
"I watch you," Sam said, the words tumbling out faster now, less calculated. "I watch you because when you are in the room, I cannot focus on anything else. I watch you because when Miller shoved you today, I had to physically restrain myself from breaking protocol and his jaw."
Jeff stopped breathing. The world narrowed down to the space between them. "You... you saw that?"
"I see everything," Sam whispered. "I see the way you bite your pen when you're thinking. I see the way you drag your feet when you're tired. I see you, Jeff."
It was too much. It was everything Jeff had wanted to hear and everything he was terrified of. Because if this was true, if Sam felt... *this*... then the stakes were impossibly high. If he messed this up, he wouldn't just lose a classmate. He’d lose the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.
"You shouldn't," Jeff stammered, his eyes darting to Sam’s lips, then away. Panic and desire warring in his chest. "I'm... I'm a liability. You’re the top recruit. You have a career. I’m just..."
"If you say 'liability' again," Sam growled low in his throat, "I will write you up for insubordination."
"You can't write me up," Jeff argued weaky. "We're the same rank."
"Try me."
Sam leaned in further. His forehead rested against Jeff’s. The contact was grounding, solid. Heat radiated from him, soaking into Jeff’s cold skin. Jeff’s hands hovered in the air, unsure, before slowly, tentatively, settling on Sam’s waist. The fabric of the uniform was rough under his fingertips. He could feel the tension in Sam’s muscles, tight as a coiled spring.
"I was scared," Jeff admitted. The secret he’d been guarding with level-five clearance encryption. "To tell you."
"Tell me what?" Sam breathed. He wasn't moving away. He was waiting.
Jeff closed his eyes. "That I look at you too. That I... that I hate it here, but I stay because you're here. That every time we have sparring practice, I'm terrified I'm going to hurt you, even though I know I can't."
"You could," Sam murmured. His hand moved from Jeff’s neck to cup the back of his head, fingers tangling in Jeff’s damp hair. "You could hurt me very easily, Jeff."
The vulnerability in the admission was shocking. Sam, the fortress. Sam, the machine. Admitting he had a weak point. And the weak point was Jeff.
"I don't want to," Jeff whispered.
"Then don't," Sam said. "Just... stay."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good."
Sam pulled back just enough to look Jeff in the eye. The intensity was gone, replaced by something warmer, something that looked terrifyingly like hope. "Who did this to you? specifically?"
Jeff blinked, the mood shifting whiplash-fast back to the present danger. "Sam..."
"Names, Jeff. I require names."
"You said you saw it."
"I want you to tell me," Sam said firmly. "I want you to trust me with it. Let me handle the variables you cannot."
It was an offer of protection. A contract. *I will be your shield, if you let me.*
"Miller," Jeff said softly. "And Kowlan."
Sam nodded once. A sharp, decisive movement. "Noted."
He stood up then, offering a hand to Jeff. Jeff took it. Sam’s grip was firm, hauling him up effortlessly. Jeff stumbled slightly as his legs protested the movement, and Sam was there instantly, an arm around his waist, steadying him.
"Can you walk?"
"Yes. I'm okay."
"We are going to the medical bay," Sam stated. "Then we are going to get food. You haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
"Incorrect. You missed lunch."
Jeff let out a breathy laugh, leaning into Sam’s side. It felt natural. It felt right. "You're bossy."
"I am efficient," Sam corrected, but there was no bite to it. He led Jeff toward the door, his body angled to shield Jeff from the open corridor, a physical barrier between Jeff and the rest of the world.
At the door, Sam paused. He didn't open it immediately. He turned to look at Jeff one last time, his gaze dropping to Jeff’s mouth, then back up to his eyes.
"You said you look at me," Sam said quietly.
Jeff felt the heat rise in his cheeks. "Yeah."
"Say it again," Sam commanded. Softly. Desperately.
Jeff swallowed. He stepped closer, closing the last inch of distance. He could feel Sam’s breath on his face. He reached up, his hand trembling slightly, and touched the collar of Sam’s uniform.
"I look at you," Jeff whispered. "All the time."
Sam didn't smile, but the tension in his shoulders finally broke. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jeff’s forehead. It wasn't the movie kiss Jeff had imagined a thousand times. It was better. It was a promise.
"Keep looking," Sam whispered against his skin. "I'm not going anywhere either."
He opened the heavy steel door, and they stepped out into the hallway together. The fluorescent lights were too bright, and the air was too cold, and somewhere down the hall, Miller and Kowlan were probably laughing about the kid they’d shoved into the lockers.
But Jeff didn't care. He could feel the warmth of Sam’s arm against his own. He could feel the solid, undeniable reality of his presence. He wasn't just a variable anymore. He was a partner.