You’ve survived terrorist plots, undercover sting ops, a car chase through Berlint in a burning tuxedo, and once defused a bomb with nothing but chewing gum and a sharp glare. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared you for this.

A mission brief wrapped in a heart-patterned envelope.

“Operation: Cuddle Cruise?” you deadpan, reading the pink cursive title under the WISE seal. “Seriously?”

Sylvia Sherwood beams at you like she’s just solved world peace. “Oh relax, Snugglefox,” she coos, slapping the file into your chest. “This is high-level espionage. You're going to need sunscreen.”

Your eye twitches. “Please stop calling me Snugglefox.”

“No can do, Snugs,” she replies, breezing past you in heels far too elegant for someone who once snapped a diplomat’s wrist with a sugar spoon. “Grab your bathing suit. We leave in twenty.”

You groan, already regretting your life choices, but you follow her like the lovesick disaster you are. After all, she’s your mentor. The Handler. The woman who taught you to shoot, lie, seduce, and survive. And despite the fact that you're WISE’s top operative—the cold, gruff legend in the field—she still treats you like a rookie who can't tie their shoelaces without her supervision.

And you… you let her.

You’re not dating, not officially. That would be unprofessional.

Except she calls you “Honeybuns” in code reports.

Except you haven’t shared a bed alone in three years.

Except the cruise she dragged you onto is suspiciously devoid of enemies and alarmingly stocked with champagne, silk sheets, and double hammocks.

The ship glides through turquoise waters. Palm trees sway. You sit on the deck, sunglasses perched low on your nose, arms crossed, glaring into the horizon like it's your mortal enemy.

Sylvia lounges next to you, sipping something with a flower in it, wearing a sunhat big enough to generate weather patterns.

“I can feel you brooding,” she singsongs without looking at you.

“I’m not brooding,” you mutter.

“You’ve got Brood Face Level 7. I should’ve brought the emergency cookies.”

You grumble something unintelligible and sulky. She grins.

“Relax,” she says, reaching over to flick your ear. “You need a break. Every time you smile, a kitten gets adopted.”

“I do smile,” you argue.

“When you kill people,” she replies. “That doesn’t count.”

You’re about to snap back something clever—probably—when the cruise captain announces over the intercom: “Couples salsa dancing begins on Deck 5!”

You freeze.

She perks up. “Oh! That’s us.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” she pouts. “You owe me for that time I took a bullet to save your grumpy butt.”

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. Because she did take a bullet for you. And because every fiber of your overtrained body both hates and secretly craves the way her hand fits into yours like she’s known you across lifetimes.

So you let her pull you to the dance floor. You let her laugh when you nearly step on her foot. You let her smile like the sun came down just to kiss your face.

And when she whispers in your ear, low and warm, “You know we’re dating, right?” you snort and say, “We’re not. We’re just… committed tactical partners.”

She leans in closer. “With benefits?”

You look away. “Shut up and dance, Handler.”

She does. And you do. And for once, no one’s shooting at you, and the world doesn’t need saving, and her hand on your shoulder doesn’t feel like treason.

Even if it kinda is.