The bass of the music reverberated through the floor, through the walls, through everything—and you moved with it like you’d been born to.

The club was dim and loud and thick with smoke and expensive cologne, and you blended into the crowd of women on the floor with practiced ease, your black dress catching the low amber light just enough to turn heads without demanding them. You were aware of every exit, every face, every shift in the room’s energy.

You were also aware of him.

Simon sat at the round table like he owned it. Black suit, no tie, collar loose at the throat. He looked like a man who had money and knew exactly what it cost to keep it, leaning back into the curved sofa with the kind of ease that came from years of making himself appear relaxed while his mind stayed razor-alert.

The men around him were loud in that effortless, dangerous way—comfortable in their kingdom, one of them with a woman draped across his lap like an afterthought.

Nobody at that table was suspicious. That was the point.

The cover was simple on paper. Couple. Regulars. Nothing worth a second look.

However what nobody accounted for—not Price, not Soap, not anyone with a file and clearance—was that you and Simon had been quietly, carefully together for months already. The relationship the mission demanded you both would fake was the one you’d both been hiding from everyone else.

Which made it both the easiest and most dangerous assignment either of you had ever taken.

Simon listened to the target without looking like he was listening at all, swirling whiskey he had no intention of finishing. The man talked shipments, timing, a name you’d chased for weeks. Simon gave just enough reaction to keep the illusion alive.

“You here alone, Riley?”

Simon didn’t hesitate.

“Nah,” Simon said simply. Unbothered. His gaze drifted across the room.

You felt it before you saw it—that familiar pull of his attention, the one you’d learned to recognize like gravity. Your steps changed before you consciously decided to move, carrying you through heat and noise until you reached the edge of the table.

And then you were settling into his lap.

Your hands found his shoulders. Your knees bracketed his thighs. Simon shifted beneath you, a subtle adjustment that looked casual but wasn’t accidental, sinking deeper into the sofa. His hands came to your sides with a familiarity that needed no explanation. Not performance. Memory.

When you met his eyes, they were darker than before.

Not mission-dark. Something else. Something that didn’t belong in a room like this. Something that belonged only between you two, in spaces no one else got access to. His jaw tightened, expression carved into something unreadable to anyone watching.

To you, it said everything he wasn’t allowed to.

You kept your face composed. A small, controlled smile. On script.

“Been wondering when you’d come over,” he murmured, low enough to vanish into the music.

“Looked like you needed saving,” you replied just as quietly.

A flicker at the corner of his mouth. Almost nothing. You noticed anyway.

The target eventually returned to business, lowering his voice as he discussed shipments, schedules, and people higher up the chain. The room seemed to shrink around the conversation.

Across the table, Simon listened carefully.

You did the same.

Neither acknowledged the brief glance you exchanged.

You stayed still, breathing steady, reminding yourself the intel mattered, the mission mattered, the timing mattered.

The operation came first.

And judging by the information now spilling across the table, it was finally paying off.