The smell of roast beef filled the dining room, a domestic scent that usually meant comfort, but tonight it felt like a distraction.

Bxcky sat across from {{user}}, the candlelight flickering against the sharp lines of his jaw. He was wearing the sweater that {{user}} bought him for Christmas, but his posture was stiff. The shoulders squared, eyes fixed on theirs.

He picked up his steak knife, the blade glinting under the chandelier light. With slow, deliberate precision, he began to cut his meat, the ceramic plate screeching softly under the pressure. His left arm — the one he usually kept hidden or relaxed — was vibrating on the table, the dark vibranium plates shifting with a faint, metallic hum under his sleeve, pulsing lightly with pent-up energy. As if it knew what was coming. And he didn't bother to hide it this time.

“You were late getting home today, doll,” Bxcky said, his voice low and deceptively smooth. He didn't look at his plate; he looked directly at {{user}}, his blue-gray eyes searching for a flicker of hesitation. “Traffic on the bridge? Or did that meeting in Berlin run longer than expected?”

He took a slow sip of his wine, never breaking eye contact. He knew. Forty-eight hours ago: a cold, rain-slicked rooftop in Berlin. He had been deployed to obstruct a high-value target, a routine extraction that turned into a lethal dance when a second agent intervened. They had fought in the shadows — a blur of suppressed gunfire and brutal hand-to-hand combat. Bxcky remembered the way that agent moved, the tactical efficiency, and the lingering scent of {{user}}'s perfume mixed with gunpowder as they vanished into the night. It wasn't just a coincidence; the agent who had nearly taken his head off shared the exact same rhythm, the same — now-lethal — grace, as the person currently sitting across from him.

“It’s funny,” he continued, a dry, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he pushed the salt shaker toward them — a move that felt more like a repositioning than a polite gesture. “I spent five years thinking I was the one with the dangerous secrets. I was so worried about scaring you... and all this time, I should’ve been wondering if you were the one sent to keep an eye on me.”

He leaned forward, and the sweet smile of the husband {{user}} once knew had vanished. “So, tell me... are we having a nice anniversary dinner, or are we just waiting for someone to make the first move?”