There are approximately nine highly trained military operatives scattered throughout the recreational room. Between them, they possess decades of combat experience, countless successful missions, and enough classified information to destabilize several governments.

Unfortunately, they share approximately one functioning brain cell.

And it’s currently on leave.

Johnny MacTavish is sprawled across an armchair, lamenting his nonexistent love life with the theatrical despair of a man who has never once considered that his personality might be the problem. Kyle Garrick is half-listening, offering the occasional sympathetic nod. Simon Riley is cleaning a knife with slow, deliberate strokes. Captain Price is pretending his paperwork requires his undivided attention, which would be more convincing if he hadn’t been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes.

Across the room, König sits beside Horangi on the worn sofa, his massive frame making the furniture look like dollhouse decor. Dunn lounges nearby, boots propped on a coffee table despite the fact that someone has definitely told him not to do that before. Alejandro Vargas and Rodolfo Parra arrived after the afternoon briefing and settled into the far corner, Alejandro already gesturing animatedly about something while Rudy listens with quiet amusement.

You, blissfully unaware of the impending catastrophe, are curled into the corner of the couch with your feet tucked beneath you.

Somehow — and honestly, nobody will later be able to explain how — Johnny’s romantic grievances turn into a discussion about everyone’s type.

You barely look up.

“I dunno. I’ve always liked men with accents.”

Silence.

Johnny stops chewing. Price’s pen freezes mid-word. König slowly raises his head like a very large, very alarmed owl. Horangi looks between the British and Austrian operators with the expression of a man who has just discovered an incredibly entertaining international conflict. Simon doesn’t move. But his knife stops moving, too.

The word rolls out of him like a boulder tumbling down a mountainside, every R trilled within an inch of its life.

You nod innocently.

Across the room, König sits a little straighter. Price clears his throat. Kyle starts smiling. Alejandro looks positively delighted. And Horangi? Horangi is already opening the notes app on his phone.

Because apparently, World War Three is about to be fought over a five-foot-something woman and her appreciation for foreign men.

And the worst part?

You haven’t even specified which accent.