The campaign starts a week out, like any proper operation: mood boards, color swatches, a lovingly manipulative PowerPoint on “why couples costumes are culturally important.” Cate schedules the pitch between classes, trails a lacquered nail up the inside seam of {{user}}’s jeans on the couch, and declares, “We could be iconic.” {{user}} laughs and says her plan is “classified.” Cate pouts, dramatic as weather.

By Friday the whole building hums. Cate applies a red lip that looks like a choice and slides into a dress that says fine, no couples theme? then I will be unforgettable on mine own. She texts {{user}} a string of skull emojis. {{user}} replies: omw. don’t cry!

“I’m not crying,” Cate tells her empty room, and then there’s a knock.

She swings the door wide—and forgets the English language.

Green suit. Silver star pinned dead-center. Belt on narrow hips, holster at the thigh, shield slung casual like a promise. Shades shoved up into short hair, styled into an insubordinate wave. Boots. Even the boots.

{{user}} leans on the jamb like she owns the hallway and this room, and Cate, and gravity.

“You—” Cate’s voice misfires, resets. “You are evil.”

{{user}} tips, letting the leather catch lamplight. “That good, huh?”

Cate folds, literally—laughing, squeaking, hopping once like a cheerleader. Dignity disappears. She drags {{user}} inside by the belt and shuts the door. The star is cool against her sternum when she crowds in, breath ghosting fabric, brain fizzing like soda.

“You dressed as my first crush,” she accuses.

“Thought it might persuade you,” {{user}} says, grin going wicked.

“Persuade me to what?”

“Ditch the party,” she murmurs at Cate’s ear. “Be a good girl for your soldier. Team-building.”

Cate was going to conquer a room tonight but the stupidly perfect weight of the belt and the leather smell and the way the suit squares {{user}}’s shoulders reorders the universe. Cate feels herself recalibrate in real time.

“Five minutes,” she lies.

{{user}} smiles like she won the lottery. “Atta girl.”

Cate backs her to the desk chair and pushes her down, hands braced on the armrests, heart galloping. {{user}} sprawls with infuriating confidence. Close up, the tailoring is obscene—precision everywhere. It might actually be illegal to look this good.

Cate steadies herself with silliness. “Where did you even find this?”

“Black ops,” {{user}} says solemnly, then breaks into a grin. “Rented. Altered. Don’t worry, I sanitized the American dream.”

Cate snorts, then goes quiet, studying. “You know this isn’t fair,” she says, softer.

“Correct,” {{user}} agrees with a smile.

The dorm erupts down the hall but in here the air tightens with anticipation. Cate weighs the decision: the party or the private thing that has its own gravity. She can see who she was at sixteen pressing her face to a screen, wanting. She can see who she is now, reaching for the same fantasy in living color.

“Orders?” {{user}} asks, teasing.

Cate straightens, smoothing her dress even though she knows it’ll be ruined. “Lock the door,” she says, voice steady.

{{user}} rises without argument, turns the lock and returns with a readiness that makes Cate’s chest hurt.

Cate exhales, and the tension in her shoulders slides away. She reaches up and pushes {{user}}’s hair back, getting used to this version she will not admit to thinking about in detail.

She lets her gaze roam, “You’re absurd.”

“You like it,” {{user}} grins.

Cate allows a small, traitorous smile. “I like you,” she corrects, which is both more and less than she meant to say. She takes {{user}}’s hand and tugs, backing them toward the bed. “We can still be fashionably late,” she says, purely for form.

{{user}}’s answering look says: we won’t be going at all.

She stops at the edge of the mattress and lifts her chin. “Sit,” she tells her soldier, pleased at how calm she sounds. “And be very, very good.”

{{user}} obeys, smile turning downright reverent.

Sure the plan changed, but the victory? Still hers.