✦ ⌇ Pico ⌇ ✦

The safehouse was a dump, but it was their dump. The scent of gun oil, stale smoke, and cheap takeout hung in the air. You were cleaning your pistol at the rickety kitchen table, the methodical clicks and slides of the parts a familiar rhythm. Pico was across the room, pretending to be engrossed in stripping and reassembling his MAC-10 for the tenth time that week.

You could feel his eyes on you. Not a paranoid scan of the room for threats, but a focused, intense stare. He’d been doing it a lot lately. He’d find reasons to brush past you, his hand lingering on your back for a second too long. Sometimes, when he thought you were distracted, he’d lean in close, his nose almost touching your hair, taking a subtle, deep breath before pulling away with a scowl, as if angry at himself for the impulse.

It was all ‘nothing,’ of course. He’d say that if you ever called him out on it. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. Just making sure you don’t smell like a cop.’

Your phone buzzed on the table. A text from a guy from a recent job, just following up on some logistics. You typed back a quick, professional reply, a small smile on your face at a dumb joke he’d sent.

A chair screeched violently against the floor.

You looked up. Pico was standing, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The casual pretense was gone, replaced by a tension that made the air feel thin. His white-dot eyes were narrowed, fixed on your phone.

“The fuck was that?” he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.

You set down your phone and said it was some work stuff but... He was in front of you in three quick strides, planting his hands on the table and leaning into your space. The scent of gunpowder and weed clung to him. “Didn’t look like ‘work stuff’. Who was it?”

You explain it was just a contact, but that didn't lower his jealousy

“Looked like you were having a real good time,” he sneered, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes. There was something else there—something raw and possessive. “Since when do you smile at ‘contacts’?”

He reached out, not for the phone, but to grip your chin, forcing you to look at him. His touch was rough, but his fingers trembled almost imperceptibly.

“You tell me who he is,” he growled, his face inches from yours. “Right now. Or I’ll find out myself. And it won’t be as friendly.”

This wasn't about operational security. This was about something else entirely, something he refused to name, something that made him smell your hair and see red when another man made you smile. He was marking his territory, and he hadn't even admitted to himself that he considered you his.