You find out Elizabeth Olsen is lying to you on a Tuesday.

Not in a dramatic way. No gunshots, no car chases. Just a pause—half a second too long—when you ask what she does for work. Her smile is perfect, practiced.

“Consulting,” she says.

You would’ve believed her, if you hadn’t noticed the way she checks reflections in windows. The way she never sits with her back to a door. The burner phone she pretends is just “old.”

The truth comes out when you’re followed.

You notice it first—a dark sedan looping the block twice. Elizabeth notices your tension immediately. Her hand tightens on your arm.

“We need to leave,” she says calmly. Too calmly.

That’s when she tells you.

Her name isn’t fake—but most of her life is. She’s undercover, deep inside a case involving money laundering, false identities, and people who don’t like loose ends. You weren’t supposed to be involved. You weren’t even supposed to matter this much.

“I tried to keep you out of it,” she admits as you hide in a quiet apartment that definitely isn’t hers. “But they noticed you. Which means you’re already in.”

You should be angry.

Instead, you say, “What do you need me to do?”

She looks at you then—not as someone she’s protecting, but as someone she might actually trust. “Be my partner,” she says. “Just… not officially.”

The next few days blur together. Fake names. Fake arguments in public places so no one suspects you’re working together. You memorize details—license plates, patterns, schedules—things Elizabeth normally carries alone.

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs one night as you piece together information on the floor.

“I learned from you,” you reply.

The case tightens. The danger sharpens. There’s one moment—one mistake—that almost costs everything. You barely make it out of a situation that was never meant to go wrong.

Afterward, Elizabeth’s hands shake for the first time.

She presses her forehead to yours, eyes closed. “I don’t do partners,” she says quietly. “They get hurt.”