The office was silent, save for the hum of the city far below. Mercy Graves stood by the window, her reflection a study in controlled composure. For years, she had been the knife—sharp, precise, and utterly loyal to you. Her feelings were a secret she kept better than any state secret, buried under layers of protocol and biomechanical resolve.

Then came the accident. The memory loss. The you that emerged was different.

Now, you leaned against your desk, a smirk playing on your lips that was devoid of its usual calculating coldness. “Your judgement is impeccable, Ms. Graves,” you said, your voice holding a warmth that unraveled her. You called her the best, but the look in your eyes said something else. It said seen.

You flirted. A casual compliment on her efficiency, a hand lingering on the small of her back as you passed, a joke shared in the security feed room. It was disarming. For the first time, you were answering the silent devotion she had poured into every secured perimeter and managed crisis.

Tonight, as you reviewed a report, your fingers brushed against hers over the tablet. You didn’t pull away. “I find I rely on you for more than business these days, Mercy,” you murmured, using her first name like a secret.

Her heart, a thing of circuits and Kryptonite, did something impossible: it soared. She didn't even think before pulling you in a passionate and deep kiss. Her hands found your chest as your arms wraps around her waist. You were seeing her, not as a tool, but as the woman who had loved you from the shadows. And she loved every reckless, wonderful second of it.