Marseille is humid at night. The air clings to your skin, amplifying every brush of fabric, every shift of breath.

You’re halfway down the marble staircase of the villa when Peter says your name quietly through the comm. Not urgent. Not tactical. Just your name.

You look down. He’s waiting at the bottom, jacket off, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just enough to look intentional. To everyone else, he’s composed. Belongs here.

You know better.

You’ve worked beside him long enough to read the tension in his shoulders. The way his eyes find you first before scanning the room. The half step he keeps closing without realizing it.

You reach the last stair. He steps in, adjusting the mic at your collar.

His fingers brush your skin.

Steady. Controlled. Not accidental.

“You’re drifting,” he murmurs.

“I’m walking.”

“You’re distracted.”

You hold his gaze. “So are you.”

Music hums from the ballroom, low and heavy, vibrating through the floor. Laughter spills out, careless and expensive.

His hand lingers at your collarbone.

“You need to stay sharp tonight.”

“I am sharp.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You don’t step back.

The air tightens between you, not frantic, just charged.

“You’ve been off since Lisbon,” you say quietly.

His jaw shifts.

Lisbon was the cover kiss. Supposed to be quick. Tactical.

It wasn’t.

“We agreed not to blur lines,” he says.

“We agreed not to talk about it.”

“That too.”

“You’ve been hovering,” you add.

“I’m protecting you.”

“You don’t hover like this with other partners.”

His expression changes, subtle but real.

“You’re not other partners.”

The music deepens. You step closer under the pretense of fixing his tie, smoothing the silk down his chest. His breathing shifts, just slightly.

“If this is about control,” you murmur, “you’re losing it.”

His hand finds your waist. Firm. Grounding.

“You think this is about control?”

“I think you don’t like not knowing what I’m thinking.”

“I don’t like not knowing what you’re going to do.”

“You’re afraid I’ll improvise.”

“I’m afraid you’ll get hurt.”

That lands heavier than it should.

“And if I’m not the only one who could get hurt?” you ask.

His eyes drop to your mouth for a second too long.

“Focus,” he says, softer now.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you make it difficult.”

A staff member passes. Neither of you move apart. From the outside, you look composed. Close in a way that makes sense for partners.

Inside, it feels like standing too near open flame.

Your comm crackles. “Buyer has arrived. West corridor.”

He doesn’t step away immediately.

“Stay within ten feet,” he says.

“That an order?”

“That’s me not trusting myself to stay objective if something goes wrong.”