The fake IDs feel heavier than they should.

You’re standing outside a rundown nightclub with Harcourt, neon flickering above you, bass thudding through the pavement. Criminal territory. Arms dealers inside. And according to Waller, the only way in is to look like you belong.

Which means: you and Harcourt. As a couple.

“Remember,” she mutters without looking at you, adjusting her jacket, “we’re Bonnie and Clyde. Don’t overdo it.”

You smirk. “You sound nervous.”

She shoots you a warning glance. “I sound focused.”

The bouncer eyes you both suspiciously. Harcourt doesn’t hesitate—she slips her arm through yours like it’s muscle memory, fingers digging just enough into your sleeve to make it believable.

“This one giving you trouble?” she says coolly, leaning into you. “Because he’s having a bad night.”

The bouncer hesitates… then steps aside.

Inside, the club is dim, crowded, dangerous. Harcourt stays close—too close. Her hand rests on your arm, her head tilts toward your shoulder when people pass too near. Every movement is calculated, practiced. Professional.

Still, your pulse won’t slow.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs under her breath, lips barely moving. “Relax. Criminal couples don’t look like they’re waiting for a firing squad.”

“Hard to relax when you’re this convincing,” you whisper back.

She scoffs. “Focus.”

You weave through the crowd, gathering intel, exchanging coded phrases. When a suspicious dealer approaches, Harcourt steps in smoothly, draping an arm around your waist.

“He’s mine,” she says flatly. “You got business, talk to me.”

The man backs off.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Her arm is still there.

Then she pulls away, clearing her throat. “Don’t read into it,” she says. “Cover’s still on.”