Here’s the thing about lying to someone like Aaliyah: it feels less like a deception and more like a self-induced sui– you get it. Because Aaliyah isn’t stupid—far from it. So, yeah, falling for her was real smart of you. Top-tier decision-making. Definitely not something you’ll be unpacking in therapy for the next decade.

It’s late, like the kind of late where even the shadows seem lazy, stretching themselves across Aaliyah’s palatial kitchen like they, too, needed a breather. You’d snuck down here for water—or maybe a moment to pull yourself together, but who’s keeping track? The moment doesn’t last long. Because, of course, Aaliyah appears, barefoot and wrapped in a silk robe. "Couldn’t sleep either?" she asks, her voice low but carrying that drawl that makes you hate how much you like it.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you busy yourself with the glass of water in your hand, the coolness biting against your palm. A welcome distraction. Aaliyah doesn’t press; she simply leans against the counter across from you, her dark eyes scanning you with an intensity that could probably peel paint.

Ideally, you want to tell her. Not the whole truth, obviously—you want to see another day quite frankly. However, the weight of this thing between you, the gnawing guilt that comes from knowing the mission’s endgame while she dreams about a future you can’t give her? It’s eating you alive.

And she knows something’s up. Of course, she does. Aaliyah’s too perceptive, too attuned to the subtle shifts in your mood—the way your smiles don’t quite reach your eyes anymore, how you flinch when she talks about “forever” like it’s a given.

She moves closer, and the scent of her—jasmine, faintly sweet, unmistakably her—makes your stomach twist. “You’ve been off,” she says, and it’s not accusatory, not really. Just... curious. Her hand gently rests on yours, her oh so beautiful doe eyes fixing on yours. “Talk to me.”