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The safehouse smelled of damp concrete and regret. It was a fitting aroma for the current situation, which, Ben Ripley reflected as he was slammed against a wall, was rapidly spiraling into the category of "things he was not paid enough for."
His back hit the cinderblocks with a jarring thud, knocking the wind out of him. His primary assailant, one Murray Hill—former classmate, former friend, current SPYDER operative—had him pinned, which was impressive considering Murray's usual combat strategy involved tripping over his own feet and hoping the enemy died of laughter.
"Just hand it over, Ben," Murray grunted, his face a mask of strained concentration. His grip on Ben's collar was clumsy but persistent. "This doesn't have to get ugly."
"You have the advantage of surprise and a solid ten pounds," Ben wheezed, his hands scrambling. "That's not the same thing."
It was supposed to be a simple retrieval. A flash drive. A dead drop. SPYDER had gotten there first, and now he and Murray—his former best friend turned enemy, which was a cliché Ben had always hated until it became his actual life—were brawling in a derelict building over the damn thing. The flash drive was currently in Ben's inside jacket pocket, a fact Murray was clearly determined to rectify through aggressive, unskilled cuddling.
Ben's training kicked in—the sleek, efficient moves they practiced in the classroom at spy school. He tried to execute a basic hip throw. What actually happened was he hooked his leg around Murray's, lost his own balance, and they both went crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
"Yep, that's on me," Murray muttered. "Should've seen that coming."
"Then get off my rib!" Ben snapped, trying to squirm out from under him.
They rolled. It was less a martial arts display and more two angry cats in a sack. They knocked over a rickety wooden chair, sent a cloud of dust billowing into the air, and somehow ended up with Ben on top.
He fumbled for the utility knife he'd palmed earlier. He managed to get it open and, in a moment of pure, desperate instinct, pressed the blade against the side of Murray's neck. The steel was cold and dull, a pathetic prop for the high-stakes drama they were failing to perform.
"Okay," Ben panted, his forearm across Murray's collarbone, his weight pinning him down. The dust motes danced in the sliver of grey light coming through the boarded window. "Okay. Stop. I've got the knife. I win."
Murray froze, his chest heaving. His dark, perpetually messy hair was sticking up in every direction, and there was a smear of grime across his cheekbone. His eyes, wide and brown, were locked on Ben's. For a moment, there was just the sound of their ragged, mingled breathing.
Then, Murray's expression shifted. The panic faded, replaced by something Ben couldn't name—a flicker of calculation, a spark of desperate, insane mischief.
"Alright," Murray whispered, his voice low. "Knife to the throat. Bold move."
"It's a standard control tactic," Ben said, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering against his ribs. "Don't move."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Murray said. His lips twitched. "But you know what they don't teach you at that fancy spy school of yours?"
Ben's brow furrowed. "What?"
"This."
In one swift move, Murray didn't go for the knife. He didn't try to punch Ben or throw him off. Instead, he surged upward and pressed his mouth firmly against Ben's.
Ben's brain short-circuited.
The kiss was clumsy, off-center at first—more of a collision than a caress. Murray's lips were dry and tasted faintly of the cheap coffee they'd had that morning. The knife in Ben's hand went utterly slack. Every tactical thought, every scrap of spy-craft training, evaporated from his mind like morning mist. There was only the impossible, overwhelming fact that Murray Hill—SPYDER operative, his enemy—was kissing him.
A strangled sound escaped Ben's throat—a protest that died before it was born. His free hand, which had been braced on the floor, moved of its own accord, his fingers curling into the damp fabric of Murray's jacket to keep from falling. He didn't know if he was trying to push him away or pull him closer.
Murray, apparently taking the lack of immediate stabbing as encouragement, tilted his head, his nose bumping awkwardly against Ben's cheek before he found a better angle. The kiss softened, deepened just a fraction, becoming something more deliberate. It was still messy, still inexpert, but there was a warmth behind it that made Ben's stomach do a slow, terrifying flip.
Then, Murray's hand came up, not to disarm him, but to cup the back of Ben's neck, his fingers threading into the short hairs there. It was such a surprisingly gentle gesture, so at odds with the grimy floor and the knife and the entire absurd situation, that Ben's eyes fluttered shut.
When they finally broke apart, it was only by an inch. They were both breathing hard, their foreheads nearly touching. Ben's hand was still on the knife, but the blade was now pressed harmlessly against the dusty floor by Murray's ear.
Murray's eyes were wide, a little dazed. A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face. "See?" he murmured, his voice a little hoarse. "Told you I had a plan."
Ben stared at him, his mind a complete and total blank. He blinked once. Twice. The flash drive was a hard, forgotten lump against his chest.
"You… you kissed me," Ben finally managed, his voice barely a whisper. He sounded accusatory, but his brain was too scrambled to find a better tone.
"I improvised," Murray corrected, the grin widening. "You're the one who went to spy school and wants to be a spy. Maybe write that one down for later."
Ben looked down at the knife, then at the awkward position they were tangled in, then back at Murray's face, which was now flushing a deep, undeniable red beneath the grime.
He should be furious. He should complete the mission, and report that Murray Hill had tried to—what? Seduce him? Distract him? He was a SPYDER agent. This was probably some kind of tactic.
Instead, a laugh bubbled up in his chest—a disbelieving, slightly hysterical laugh that he couldn't suppress.
"You," Ben said, shaking his head slowly, the laughter still trembling on his lips. "You are the worst spy I have ever met."
Murray's eyes sparkled. "Yeah, but I'm cute."
His hand was still on the back of Ben's neck, and he made no move to remove it. Ben realized he hadn't moved either. His thumb was tracing small, unconscious circles on Murray's collarbone through his jacket.
The mission, the flash drive, the fact that Murray was technically the enemy—all of it had shrunk to a distant, unimportant hum. The only thing that seemed real was the dusty light, the cold floor, and the warmth of Murray Hill beneath him, looking at him like he'd just pulled off the greatest heist of his career.
Ben let out a slow breath. "If you ever tell anyone about this…"
"What?" Murray's grin looked more like a smirk. "You'll tell Joshua? Ashley?"
"No," Ben said, leaning down again, his voice dropping to a murmur against Murray's lips. "I'll just have to make sure you never win another fight. Against me, anyway."
The second kiss was less of a surprise. It was also less of a fight. And as the knife clattered forgotten to the floor, Ben had to admit—it was a far more effective strategy than anything they'd ever taught him in spy school.