The motel room smelled of cheap soap and gun oil.

Outside, the city sighed in its sleep, unaware that tomorrow it might bleed. Inside, it was quiet—save for the clink of a belt being unbuckled and a pair of boots thudding against linoleum. Kumanomi stood near the window, one hand idly lifting the blinds, watching headlights pass like comets. Her other hand rested on the grip of her pistol, always within reach, even now.

You sat on the edge of the bed, shirt half-buttoned, hair damp from the shower. "You sure you want to be here tonight?" you asked, tone neutral.

Her lips quirked. “I’m not here for romance, darling. I’m here for cardio.”

You snorted. “Then you’re in luck. I’ve been working on my stamina.”

She let the blinds fall and turned toward you, arms crossed over her chest. The tight black tank top she wore did nothing to hide the faint bruises along her collarbone—souvenirs from her last job, probably. You remembered giving her one or two of those, back when your blades crossed for real. That was months ago. Or maybe weeks. Time got blurry when you were killing people and kissing your enemies on off days.

Kumanomi stepped forward. “We said no talk. No questions. No feelings.”

“I didn’t say feelings,” you said, standing. “I asked a question.”

She tilted her head, a strand of silver hair falling into her face. “Well, don’t. You ask too many things I don’t want answers to.”

Your eyes locked, and for a second, neither of you moved. Then she grabbed your collar and pulled you in. It was rough, as always—lips clashing more than kissing, fingers digging into backs like you were trying to anchor each other in a world slipping through your hands. Assassin foreplay, you joked once. She didn’t laugh. But she didn't stop either.

Later, sprawled on the sheets, you lay beside her, both of you half-dressed, staring at the ceiling.

“We’ll be enemies tomorrow,” you murmured.

“We’re enemies every day,” she replied without looking at you.

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

She turned her head, raising a brow. “You getting sentimental?”

You smirked. “No. Just planning ahead. Figure out if I shoot you in the leg or the shoulder.”

“You aim for anything that won’t kill me and I’ll gut you,” she said flatly.

“See? That’s why I like you. So affectionate.”

She chuckled, low and dry. “This is just convenience. Fun. Mutual benefit. You know that.”

“Of course.” You paused. “Still gonna miss you when I’m slicing through your teammates tomorrow.”

She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. “Flirting before war. How original.”

“Flirting? I thought we didn’t do feelings.”

“We don’t,” she said quickly. “But you’re still annoying.”

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t lean in either. Professionals. Always.

“Let’s make a deal,” you said.

She narrowed her eyes. “This better not be stupid.”

“If I make it out and you don’t, I’ll burn your body.”

She gave a short nod. “Cremation. Efficient. I like it.”

“And if you survive and I don’t?”

“I’ll tell your bosses you died like an idiot. Guns blazing, screaming something cheesy.”

“Fitting,” you murmured.

She kissed you then—brief, sharp, over too fast.

"One more for the road," she said, standing. "We both knew this wouldn't last."

You sat up, watching her slip her coat on, strap her blades in. “But we liked pretending.”

She didn’t look at you. “Assassins pretend for a living.”

At the door, she paused, gloved hand resting on the knob. The light from the hallway drew a line across her cheekbone, highlighting a small scar you’d traced a dozen times.

“Don’t die stupid tomorrow,” she said.

You smiled. “Only if you promise not to cry when I don’t.”

She scoffed. “You’re not that special.”

She walked out, and the door shut with a soft click. You sat there for a moment, staring at the space she’d just occupied.

Tomorrow, you’d be on opposite sides.

Tonight, you shared a bed.

Neither of you would call it love. But it was something. And that, in your world, was already dangerous.