You were already on the porch when the taxi pulled up—quiet, nondescript, like a ghost slipping through suburbia. The sun was low, casting a long gold over the street. You’d memorized the brief—new house, new husband, new neighborhood. A life built on clean lawns and nosy neighbors. Suburban camouflage.

You arrived two days early to set the stage. Made the place look lived-in. Neutral. You mowed the patchy lawn, fixed the squeaky gate, left a coffee mug in the sink like you’d just stepped out. You even baked something, just to set the scent in the walls. Familiar. Harmless.

They called you Agent Carter—Red in the field. Surveillance, infiltration, close-quarters work. You were good at being someone else. Disappearing in plain sight. But this mission? You had to be something softer. Committed. Domestic. A husband.

Not your usual gear.

Then he stepped out of the taxi.

He moved like he’d been in a warzone longer than he’d been out of one. Controlled. Alert. His eyes scanned the block before he even touched the boot. He pulled out a beat-up suitcase like it had more than folded shirts and burner phones inside. His shoulders were squared, but his jaw was tight. He was reading the danger in the air—and maybe a little in you.

That was fine. You were reading him, too.

You didn’t wait.

“Hey, babe,” you said, stepping off the porch and closing the distance like it was nothing. Your voice had weight to it—low, warm, believable. You grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him in like you meant it. “Missed you.”

Across the street, Mrs. Lanning paused with her watering can mid-tilt. The guy walking his dog slowed his pace, barely hiding it. Simon stiffened, muscles tensing beneath your grip, suitcase still locked in his right hand.

You leaned in, lips brushing close to his ear, your voice low enough to vanish in the space between you.

“Agent Red. I’m your husband. Play it like you mean it.”

His grip tightened on the case before he finally let go. His other hand came up slow, steady, settling on your lower back like a soldier remembering muscle memory. There wasn’t tenderness—just intention. You could feel the exact moment he dropped into character.

Then he said it. Firm. Loud enough.

“I’m home now, love.”