𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The gala was built to impress—chandeliers dripping gold, champagne flowing as freely as the lies between strangers. You entered on Brian O’Conner’s arm, silk clinging to your body like it had been poured there. His hand rested at your waist with the kind of ease that came from practice, from too many nights pretending to be someone else’s husband. He wore his disguise better than anyone you’d ever met.

That’s why the Bureau trusted him. Brian could walk into a den of wolves and convince them he was one of their own. He had the instincts most agents only dreamed of—and that made him dangerous, even to his partners.

You were the opposite. Where Brian relied on instinct, you relied on rules. Where he slipped past walls, you built them. That balance was why they’d partnered you: the Bureau’s golden boy and their iron spine. On paper, flawless.

You moved as though you belonged, gold rings flashing under the lights. Your backstory was seamless, practiced until it felt like second nature. Still, underneath was the truth—two people bound by duty, not desire.

Until you found him.

The gangster sat at the bar exactly as the file described: broad, sharp, waiting. When you and Brian approached, his attention slid over you with the suspicion of a man who trusted no one. He asked for your names, his voice smooth but edged, and Brian gave them with practiced charm. His words fit your story seamlessly, every lie laced with just enough detail to taste like truth.

You played your part, smiling where you should, nodding in all the right places, but it felt like standing on the edge of a blade. The questions came faster, sharper, until your instinct was to retreat. You excused yourself lightly, a casual smile painted on, but Brian caught you before you could step away. His hand on yours was firm, commanding, and then he kissed you.

It should’ve been routine. Married couples kissed; that was the point of the rings, the charade. But his lips lingered—warm, insistent—until you forgot where the act ended and something else began. Too long. Too much. For a heartbeat, you weren’t an agent anymore.

He pulled back and whispered something low, words drowned out by the rush in your ears. You nodded anyway, smiled, and walked away with steadier steps than your heart could manage.

By the time he found you again, the gangsters suspicion was gone. Brian had smoothed it over effortlessly, as always. That was his gift, and it infuriated you that he made it look so easy.

You didn’t lead him to the bathroom when you pulled him aside. You led him upstairs, into a corridor lined with velvet carpet and mirrors. The first empty room was enough—you shoved him inside, shut the door, and pushed him back onto the bed. His composure faltered, just for a second.

Your voice came sharp, whisper-thin. “What the hell was that, Brian?!”

He looked up with calm that cut deeper than anger, blue eyes steady, mouth curving with the faintest shrug.

“What the hell was what?”