The surveillance dinner was another trap, sugarcoated in champagne and white linen napkins. Government officials. Crime lords in suits. And you, in a navy silk blouse he could barely look at without losing grip on the mission. The suite’s warm light hit your skin as you stood in front of the mirror, fastening the last button. Your earrings shimmered. Leon was silent behind you, adjusting his cufflinks with shaking hands. He moved before he could think, closing the space between you then grazed his fingers against your collar.

“It’s crooked, He said, but his voice gave him away. He smoothed it out, careful, deliberate. His knuckles brushed your throat. You didn’t breathe. Neither did he. “They’ll expect a kiss. Maybe more.” A flicker of something behind his eyes. “We can fake that too. Right? This isn’t real. It’s a mission. We’re just pretending. Hell, we’ve been playing house for months.” Then softer, almost a whisper. “…right?”