The fluorescent lights of the mall were a sterile sun, bleaching the color from everything. To Adrian, it was a canyon of potential threats: echoey, crowded, with too many blind spots and an overwhelming scent of perfumed air, popcorn grease, and the faint, acrid tang of anxiety sweat. He stuck close to your side, his posture not quite a combat stance but something taut and ready, his eyes constantly scanning. He was in a state of high-functioning, silent alarm.

Until you stopped.

He nearly walked into you, his focus so external he’d forgotten to track your immediate trajectory. He followed your gaze to the entrance of Victoria's Secret. A wall of pink. A tsunami of lace and silk and unnervingly serene, airbrushed faces smiling down from posters.

His brain short-circuited. “No,” he said, the word coming out as a blunt assessment. “No, that’s a… that’s a bad operational zone. High-risk. Low visibility. Acoustics are terrible.”

You smiled, that soft, knowing smile that could dismantle his defenses faster than any EMP. “It’s just a store, Adrian. I need your opinion on something.”

“My opinion on… on tactical underwear?” he asked, his voice pitching slightly higher. “Because unless it’s rated for stab-proof or has hidden ceramic plating, I’m not sure I’m qualified.”

“Just come on,” you said, your fingers lacing with his.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the world changed. The air was thick, cloying, a hundred different florals and fruits and musks fighting for dominance. It was warm. Soft music, something with a synth beat and a breathy female vocalist, seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.

A saleswoman with a dazzlingly white smile glided toward you. “Can I help you two find anything today?”

Adrian’s grip on your hand tightened to a vice. He stared at a point somewhere over her left shoulder, his jaw rigid.

“We’re just browsing, thank you,” you said smoothly, pulling him toward a table of lace.

The saleswoman’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes flickered to Adrian’s frozen, pale form before she retreated. He looked like a man who had accidentally wandered into a secret society meeting and was trying to remember the password.

You held up two sets. One was a delicate sage green, all whisper-thin lace and satin ribbons. The other was a bold crimson, cut high on the hip, with a more severe, dramatic edge.

“Which one?” you asked, holding one in each hand.

Adrian’s eyes, wide and slightly panicked behind his glasses, darted between the two garments as if they were encrypted files he was failing to decrypt. His mouth opened, then closed. A faint, high-pitched sound, like a dial-up modem struggling to connect, seemed to catch in his throat.

“The… the…,” he started, his voice a dry rasp. He cleared it, tried again. “The green one has… superior camouflage potential. Blends with… foliage. Urban or… or woodland settings. Tactically… sound.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “We’re not storming a forest, Adrian. We’re picking out lingerie.”

His ears flushed a brilliant, scorching red. The color traveled down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his jacket. He was sweating. He could feel it beading on his temples.

“Right. Yes. Of course. Lingerie. For… for non-tactical purposes.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes flickered to the crimson set, then away, as if it might burn him. He dragged a hand over his face. “The… the red one. It’s… it’s a strong color. A statement. It says… ‘I am confident and… and my blood type is O-positive.’ Wait, no. That’s not… that’s not what I meant to say.”