You were already on the porch when the taxi pulled up, quiet and unremarkable. The sun hung low, casting gold over the street. You’d memorised the brief—new house, new husband, new neighbourhood. Suburban perfection. You got there two days early to prep: fluffed pillows, watered half-dead roses, baked something warm and familiar.

They called you Agent Carter—Red in the field. MI6 trained you in surveillance, combat, deception. You could break a man six ways and vanish into another identity without blinking. But this mission was different. You had to be soft. Married. Loving. Not exactly your strong suit.

Then he arrived.

He stepped out of the taxi with a quiet grunt, shutting the door behind him. He moved to the back, lifted the boot, and hauled out a battered suitcase like it carried more than clothes and cover stories. His posture was all military discipline, but his eyes swept the street like he already knew—this assignment would get complicated fast.

And trouble—well, that was you, barefoot on the porch, playing your part.

You didn’t give him time to second-guess it.

“Baby,” you called out, already closing the distance. Your arms slipped around his neck like it was something you’d done a hundred times. “I missed you, darling.”

You said it just loud enough. Across the street, Mrs. Lanning froze with her watering can mid-air. The man walking his dog slowed to a crawl. Simon stiffened, your body pressed against his like static. His hand locked on the suitcase handle, white-knuckled.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear, voice low and smooth. “Hold my waist. I’m Agent Red. Your wife for the duration of this mission.”

He didn’t speak at first, but you felt the shift in him. His free hand moved to your waist, fingers curling like he was still trying to remember how to play along. A beat passed—heavy, charged—before he spoke loud enough for the neighbours to hear.

“I’m home now, my love.”