As far as Declan is aware, you do not know of his position in the IMF.

To you, he is merely an aspiring freelancer, who constantly switches jobs that range from hotel valet, to translator, to delivery driver, and so on.

Until now, unfortunately.

On the pristine counter of the reception desk of the IRS, from where you work, your phone’s ringtone — your favorite song — sounds.

You lazily pick up your phone, accepting the call, and bringing the receiver to your ear, while you spin around leisurely on your office chair.

It’s Declan.

Your boyfriend’s voice filters in through the call with a constant of concerningly anarchic background noise, “Hey, love? I might need some, uh, assistance."