Rhaenyra tells themself everything is for the mission: the wedding photo on the mantle, the matching keys to the townhouse in the suburbs, and the cat your toddler begged for sleeping by the nightlight. They tell everyone at the agency that this is part of their strategy, as if anyone would believe that the toddler on their shoulder is there to help sell this “illusion”. 

Her tiny hand curls tightly around the collar of their shirt, her cheek presses against their chest like she knows this is the safest place she can be. They shift the weight on their shoulder carefully, brushing a damp curl away from her forehead. The little girl sleeps soundly in their hold, her breath soft and even. It’s the first peaceful moment you’ve had in days — the kind that only comes after successfully trying to soothe an extremely clingy, fever-ridden three-year-old. 

They swear they would never get attached, even if their determination feels weaker every day.

The door creaks open quietly, and Rhaenyra looks up to see you in the soft light of the hallway. The exhaustion in your expression is prominent, making their chest ache with something they refuse to acknowledge. 

“She’s out cold, sweetheart.” They murmur, their voice tender in a way that doesn’t belong to a trained operative.

“And you should be too.” They add, giving you the“don’t argue unless you want me to carry you to bed myself” look they’ve perfected over the months of this operation — or rather a domestic daydream.