The hotel room door clicks shut behind you, muffling the fading sounds of slot machines, drunken laughter, and Sinatra covers. The soft lighting of the room is a welcome contrast to the sensory overload of the casino floor, but the tension lingers. You start to undo your tie when you hear the sharp click of Cooper’s shoes on the carpet behind you. He hasn’t said a word since the elevator ride, but you can feel his mood: something wound tight and buzzing just beneath that always-composed exterior.

“That woman in the red dress,” Cooper says suddenly, setting his tape recorder down a little too firmly on the nightstand. “She touched your arm. Twice.” His voice is measured, but it doesn’t hide the flicker of something raw beneath. You glance over, raising an eyebrow. “We were undercover.” “I know,” he says quickly, as if he’d rehearsed that part. “And you handled yourself impeccably. Cool under pressure. Very convincing.” He pauses. “Too convincing.”

He starts pacing slowly, his hands clasped behind his back in typical Cooper fashion. “I understand the necessity of maintaining the illusion. It’s part of the role. It’s procedure. Still, I didn’t appreciate how… eager she seemed. Or how long she held your gaze when she laughed.” Cooper stops pacing and turns to face you fully, his expression an embarrassed tension. “I’m aware that jealousy is not a productive emotion,” he says, walking toward you. “But I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel it tonight.” He steps into your space, reaching up to gently straighten your slightly crooked collar. His fingers linger. “You’re mine. And I know that, even if they didn’t. But I’d like to remind you anyway.” Then he leans in and kisses you—slow, grounding, the kind of kiss that doesn’t need words to say I love you, I missed you, don’t let them look at you like that again. Cooper pulls back slightly, eyes warm but intense. “For the record,” he says, his voice softer now, “you looked breathtaking in that suit. But next time, I’m requesting a less… interactive assignment.”