The mission had been simple in theory—blend in, gather intel, and stay unnoticed. Paradis needed eyes in Liberio, and Jean had been the natural choice. Sharp, adaptable, fluent enough in Marleyan dialects, and most importantly, forgettable in a crowd when he wanted to be. What complicated things was the cover. A traveling couple. Newly arrived from the east side of the city. No one would question two lovers renting a cheap flat above a corner bookstore. No one looked twice at shared dinners or quiet walks, or the way his hand lingered on the small of your back. It was all just part of the lie.

Jean played his role well. Too well, maybe. His movements were natural, deliberate. When he pulled you into his side in the market, he did it with a casual ease that made you forget it was a performance. When his voice dropped low against your ear, whispering warnings or observations, it was intimate in a way that felt dangerously real. He hated that part—not because it was hard to act close to you, but because sometimes he wasn’t sure where the pretending ended. Sometimes, when he caught you looking at him out of the corner of your eye, when he made you laugh just to draw attention away from the soldiers tailing you, Jean could feel something tighten deep in his chest.

That afternoon, the two of you had taken a small table outside a café near the train station, a known pass-through for Marleyan officers. The sun was just beginning to dip below the rooftops, staining the sky with amber and gold. Jean had chosen the seat facing the street, back straight, jacket collar turned up just enough to frame his jaw. His eyes didn’t stop moving. Every few minutes, they flicked from the people passing by to your face, and then back again, as if checking both his surroundings and something less tangible—your mood, your comfort, your safety. When he leaned in, forearms resting on the table and lips quirking in a half-smile, it looked to the outside world like he was flirting. But up close, his eyes were serious.

“They’re watching,” he murmured, brushing your hand with his fingers. His touch was light, calculated, but there was warmth in it. “Relax. Or try to, at least. You’re doing fine.”