𝐒𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The docks were quiet at six a.m., the air damp with salt and morning chill. A thin fog clung to the water, blurring the lines between boats and shoreline. You moved quickly, jacket pulled close, sneakers barely scuffing the planks as you left Brian’s place, walking as fast as you could to the meetup spot. Fifteen minutes of rapid-fire debriefing with your handler—fifteen minutes to dump everything you’d gathered over the week. Who bet heavy, who collected, which names floated around in whispers. A whole week’s worth of carefully observed chaos delivered to your boss.

But even as you spoke, even as your boss wrote down all the information you gave, you felt the weight of the clock. Every second you spent gone was a second Brian might wake up and notice you weren’t there. And Brian noticing… that was a complication you couldn’t afford.

Not officially.

You made it back just as the first slice of sun cut across the water, painting the surface in gold. The houseboat looked still, untouched, like the world had frozen while you were gone. Relief slipped through you when slipped inside and saw Brian still asleep on the bed in the middle of the room.

The air smelled like him—coffee and motor oil, with a hint of detergent clinging to the sweatshirt he’d tossed on the floor last night. The bed was a comfy mess, sheets twisted around his long frame, his arm slung carelessly over the side. His chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.

You stood there a moment too long, caught by something you didn’t want to name. He wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a cover, a way in. But months of brushing teeth beside each other, of hearing him laugh at some dumb joke you made, of seeing the soft look in his eyes when he looks at you, feeling his warm skin against yours—it was changing things. Or maybe it was changing you.

You shook it off, forced your steps quiet and casual. Jacket on the counter. Shoes by the door. Everything neat, everything normal. Then you slipped into the bathroom.

The faucet squealed faintly when you turned it on, water rushing into the sink. You splashed your face, letting the cold sting your skin, washing away the traces of fog, the traces of guilt. You looked in the mirror and tried to see the cop, the undercover, the professional. But the reflection staring back was tired, softer than it should’ve been. Softer than you had any right to be.

A floorboard creaked behind you.

“Where have you been?”