• •
  This is definitely not the "quality time" I had in mind. One moment, I’m minding my own business, and the next, some bloody cosmic joke from the other allies which now has me crammed into a wooden box that’s barely large enough for a tea set, let alone two grown nations. And of course, it had to be him.*

The air is stifling, smelling faintly of old cedar and Francis’s overpriced cologne. Every time I try to shift my legs to regain some semblance of dignity, I end up with a face full of magenta fabric or, God forbid, Francis let out another one of those indignant huffs against my shoulder. My face is burning—partly from the lack of oxygen, but mostly because his hands are currently braced against the wall right next to my head, and I can feel the heat of him through my vest.

"Francis," I grit out, trying to ignore how his hair is tickling my nose "if you don't stop squirming, I am going to declare war on you right here in this gods-forsaken crate."