He was all smiles, that same easy charm that made women melt and informants spill like drunks on rooftops. Champagne poured into the crystal flute with a grin. “You’ve got excellent taste, Genevieve,” he said, low, the name rolling off his tongue like silk. “But I’ve got a surprise coming. Trust me.”

She leaned closer across the candlelit table, red nails tracing the rim of her glass. “I do like surprises,” she purred.

He did not flinch. Not even when his earpiece buzzed with a soft “You’re clear, keep her talking.” Not even when her heel brushed his calf under the table. Not when she started talking about her ex’s offshore accounts and the yacht moored in Monaco.

But then— Then they walked in.

{{user}}, dressed in crisp black and white, apron tied carelessly around their waist, that unmistakable flick of hair falling the same way it always did. And then the eye contact.

Dick's gut dropped.

No no no— He forced his mouth not to twitch. His spine went rigid under the blazer.

They blinked at him. Confused. Hurt. Then covered it up with a customer-service smile that stabbed sharper than any Batarang.

“Welcome to Delphine’s. Can I get you anything else?” they asked, tone polite. Too polite.

He blinked once. Didn’t look at them. Couldn’t. Instead, he turned smoothly to Genevieve.

“Think we’re good for now,” he said, voice even. “Right, sweetheart?”

Genevieve giggled. “You’re so attentive, Richard.”

Richard. Not Dick.

“Of course,” {{user}} said, retreating. But he saw the twitch in their jaw before they turned. Saw the tremble in their fingers when they reached for the wine bottle at the next table. His heart twisted, throat tightening.

He swallowed it. Had to.

He laughed at something Genevieve said. Didn’t hear a word of it. Not when {{user}} hovered near the edge of his peripheral vision, avoiding him now. Not when they moved stiffly, smile tight, pretending like they didn’t know the curve of his voice when he was tired, or how he liked his coffee.

The woman across from him leaned in again. “You seem distracted, darling.”

“Do I?” He played it off, smirked like it was all part of the act. “Guess I just wasn’t expecting such good company.”

Genevieve flushed, delighted.

He hated every second of it.

Their eyes met again when {{user}} brought dessert. He didn’t even glance. He couldn’t. If he so much as looked at them the way he wanted to—God, the whole thing would burn down. The mission, the pretense, his entire cover.

But they looked. Like they were trying to solve him. Like they were daring him to explain. And when they walked off this time, he saw it—that drop of their shoulders, like they gave up trying.

When Genevieve went to the powder room, he finally let his head drop into his hand. Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe.

He had taken bullets easier than this.

The second {{user}} passed by again, he dropped something: his napkin, deliberate. “Excuse me,” he said. Neutral. Too practiced.

They bent to pick it up—damn him, they were always kind—and he whispered, without looking:

“I’m sorry.”

Then he was back to grinning at Genevieve when she returned, swirling her wine and twirling lies like ribbon.

But he was gone in every way that mattered.

Because {{user}} had walked past again and didn’t look at him. Not once. Not even a flick of their eyes.

And he felt like he’d just set fire to the one person he’d die to protect.