#bosco

“Darling,” he drawled, slinging an arm around your shoulders with a theatrical sigh as you both entered the glittering charity gala. “Try to look less like you’re planning to stab me in the kidney. We’re in love, remember? Blissfully, nauseatingly in love.”

You smiled up at him, a razor-sharp, glittering thing. “The only thing nauseating here is your cologne, sweetheart. Did you bathe in it, or just use it to extinguish a small fire?”

He squeezed your shoulder, his grin never slipping even as his eyes promised retribution. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, pet. I save my finest scents for the most important illusions.”

This was the dance. The Horsemen’s latest mark was a paranoid tech mogul with a vault full of incriminating data, and his weakness was public displays of perfect, romantic normalcy. Enter Bosco and you, the bickering, love-struck newlyweds providing the perfect, noisy diversion while Jack and Merritt worked the crowd, and Henley flirted her way into the security hub.

It was June’s idea. “You two already snipe at each other like an old married couple,” she’d said, feigning innocence as a dove. “Just turn the volume up. Sell it.”

Charlie, catching up on June’s agenda, had just nodded sagely. “You guys are actors, illusionists. It’ll be convincing.”

The mission was going smoothly. Almost too smoothly. You’d “argued” loudly about interior design by the west hall, drawing guards away. You’d fed each other disgustingly sweet canapés by the main vault door, giggling like idiots. The tension between you wasn’t just for show—it was a live wire of mutual respect, annoyance, and something else you both expertly buried under layers of sarcasm.

Then the comms crackled in your ear. Jack’s voice, tight. “We’ve got a snag. Two hostiles heading your way, southeast corridor. You’re in their sightline. Need a hard diversion. Now.”

A hard diversion. Horseman code for something big, loud, and attention-grabbing.

Bosco’s eyes met yours. The cocky smirk didn’t vanish, but it shifted, intensified. He saw the understanding in your gaze. There was only one thing that would work.

Without a word, he backed you into the shadowy alcove behind a towering ice sculpture of a swan. His hands came up to frame your face, but they hovered, a question in his touch.

“For the show,” he muttered, his voice uncharacteristically devoid of its usual taunting lilt.

“Just don’t enjoy it too much, Leroy,” you whispered back, the sarcasm a flimsy shield for the sudden hammering of your heart.

Then his lips were on yours.

It was not a gentle, performative peck. It was a consummate act of misdirection. His mouth moved with a desperate, convincing fervour, one hand tangling in your hair, the other pressing firmly against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. You responded in kind, fingers clutching the lapels of his ridiculously expensive suit, kissing him back with a feigned passion that, somewhere in the first two seconds, stopped being feigned at all.

The world dissolved into the scent of his (admittedly overwhelming) cologne, the taste of champagne and him, the solid warmth of his body against yours. The sarcastic remarks died, the brooding silence shattered. This was all heat and startling, genuine need. It felt less like a diversion and more like a revelation.

“Okay, clear. They’re gone. You can… uh… stand down.”

You broke apart, breathless. Not from the act, but from the impact. His eyes, usually so full of arrogant gleam, were dark, wide, looking at you like he’d just seen his own greatest trick and had no idea how he’d done it.

The mask snapped back into place, but it was cracked. He cleared his throat, adjusting his cuffs with exaggerated care. “Well. That should earn us an Oscar. Or at least a daytime Emmy.”

“Your technique is… adequate,” you managed, your voice slightly unsteady. You smoothed your dress, avoiding his gaze. “A little predictable, but it got the job done.”

He let out a short, sharp laugh that held no real humor. “Predictable. Right.”

The rest of the mission passed in a blur. The data was acquired, the mark was left baffled, the Horsemen vanished into the night as they always did. Back at the loft, celebrations ensued. June poured drinks, Charlie clapped Bosco on the back.

“The loving couple!” Merritt boomed, waggling his eyebrows. “Heard you two really sold it. Had to practically peel yourselves apart in that alcove!”

You forced a laugh, taking a long sip of whiskey. “Desperate times.”

Bosco was uncharacteristically quiet, leaning against the far wall, swirling his drink. His eyes followed you around the room with a new, unnerving intensity. The cocky banter was gone, replaced by a simmering, brooding focus that made your skin prickle.

Later, as people drifted off to sleep, you found yourself on the balcony. The city lights shimmered below.

You heard the door slide open behind you. You didn’t need to turn.

“Adequate, was it?” Bosco’s voice was low, close. He came to stand beside you, not touching.

“I’ve had worse.”

“Liar.” He turned to face you, his expression serious in the neon glow. “That wasn’t part of the trick.”

Your breath caught. “Everything’s part of the trick with you, Bosco.”

“Not that.” He shook his head, a rare glimpse of raw honesty breaking through. “I’ve been in love with you for six months. That kiss… that wasn’t me pretending. That was me.”

The air left your lungs. All your prepared sarcasm, your deflections, evaporated. You stared at him, at the vulnerable, earnest man beneath the master illusionist.

A slow smile, genuine and not cocky at all, touched his lips. “Cat got your tongue? That’s a first.”

You found your voice, laced with its usual edge but softer now. “Six months? And you waited for a fake dating mission and a forced kiss to say something? Your timing is as dramatic as your ways, Leroy.”

He stepped closer, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face, a mirror of the alcove, but tender, real. “The best illusions,” he whispered, his breath warm against your lips, “are the ones where you stop pretending. So how about we drop the act?”