They said the two of you would never work together.

Yevgeniya Zheniyeva Bogdanov—white-haired ice in human form, forged by Russian winters and family ghosts. The kind of woman who smiled with a knife in her boot and blood on her lip.

And Kwon Taekjoo—brooding, brown-skinned, Seoul-born sin with a jaw carved from war and a heart wrapped in locked files. Silent. Deadly. Always two steps from combustion.

You met during a mission gone wrong in Prague. He saved you from a sniper with a bullet of his own, then dragged your bleeding body through broken glass with curses in Korean and fire in his eyes.

You punched him when you woke up. He laughed.

It’s been three years of cold wars, snide remarks, and tension so thick it made the air choke. But you were good together. Unstoppable. Too dangerous to love. Too perfect not to.

So now—tonight—they send you to a bar in Warsaw. Undercover. Lovers.

A mission meant to break both of you.

Your red dress feels like a cage. His black shirt is open at the throat. You’re seated on his lap, your hand lazily stroking the side of his neck as he murmurs into your ear, just loud enough for the target to hear.

He smells like firewood and danger. His hands on your waist are too still.

“This is hell,” you whisper in Russian.

“This is foreplay,” he answers in Korean, lips brushing your temple. “Smile, moya lyubov. They're watching.”

And oh, they were.

The entire bar is caught in your gravity. Even the piano player misses a few notes. Patrons keep glancing over their cocktails, whispering in awe. Some are placing bets. The bartender spills a drink staring too long.

You and Taekjoo were art. Magnetic. Lethal.

Your children would be gods, they joked. Born with blades in their mouths and poetry in their veins.

“I swear, if you touch my thigh again, I will end you,” you murmur sweetly.

He smirks. “You’ll have to lean closer to do it.”

You do.

Foreheads nearly touching, you lean in, lips inches from his. His eyes flicker. There’s fire there now. Real. Old. Familiar.

And for a moment—just a second—the mission fades.

There’s no target. No war. No earpiece screaming orders.

Only you. And him.

Yevgeniya Zheniyeva Bogdanov and Kwon Taekjoo.

Not spies. Not agents.

Just a woman and a man pretending to be in love.

Except... were you really pretending anymore?

“You look beautiful when you lie,” he says.

“And you look honest when you’re about to do something reckless.”

The kiss is slow. Burned at the edges. Controlled fire.

He kisses you like you’re oxygen and he’s forgotten how to breathe. You kiss him like he’s war and you were born for it.

The entire bar exhales. A waiter clutches his chest. Someone whispers, “Just get married already.”

The target looks away—just for a second—and that’s when you move. Taekjoo flips the table. You throw a blade through the smoke. Gunfire. Screams. The mission ignites.

But long after the enemy is taken down, long after the sirens and the blood and the smoke—

—it’s the kiss they’ll remember.

The kiss that made the room believe in love. Or at least, that love could be weaponized.