You can feel the weight of the room — the music, the murmurs, the sharp eyes scanning for anything suspicious. You’re both undercover, dressed like people who belong in luxury instead of chaos.

Four’s beside you, hand at the small of your back, his usual grin replaced by something tighter — calculating.

“We’ve got a tail,” he murmurs. “Two o’clock.”

You don’t dare turn.

“Options?”

“Just one,” he says, already moving closer. “Don’t slap me for it.”

Before you can ask, he’s kissing you.

It’s supposed to be a distraction — quick, believable. But it isn’t quick. And it’s too believable.

His hand finds your jaw, steady and warm, his breath mixing with yours. The noise of the gala fades; the world shrinks to just that — the press of his lips, the faint taste of danger, the rush that feels nothing like fear.

When he finally pulls back, the tension lingers, electric. The tail’s gone, the act is done — but neither of you moves right away.

“They bought it,” you whisper.

He smirks, eyes flicking down to your lips once more.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Not sure I did, though.”

And with that, he turns back toward the crowd — leaving you breathless, pulse still caught between the mission… and him.