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IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO | Kim Woonhak

EPISODE THREE OF MISSION: SAVE THE WORLD

IN WHICH your missions with Superboy always ended in biting words and rolled eyes, so being sent to Fort Marshall as a newlywed couple felt less like co-ops and more like a cruel joke set up by Batman and the rest of the Young Justice for a quick laugh. The charade forces you into close quarters where every glance and every touch has to look convincing under scrutinizing eyes. What begins as another battle of stubborn pride shifts when the mission unravels around you, and the rivalry you’ve always clung to no longer feels like the whole truth. Disabling the satellite should be simple, but between the staged dances, the tightrope of secrecy, and the way every touch lingers longer than it should, you both begin to realize that it takes two to tango—and somewhere in the act, you may have stopped pretending.

FEATURING boynextdoor's woonhak as superboy and reader as seraphim, protégé of saturn girl ft. uncle kibong as alfred

GENRE frenemies to lovers, golden retriever x black cat, fake marriage au, action, humor, mutual pining, and the one bed trope (WC. 16.8k)

WARNINGS cursing, mentions of violence, injuries and bleeding, and mentions of weapons

NOTES FINALLY !! ik i haven't been the most active recently and i apologize for that T^T uni has been totally kicking my butt . BUT ALAS i managed to find some time to write and participate in this wonderful wonderful collab ! thank you soso much to gill for hosting and thank you so much to the rest of the members of the collab for the constant support, talks, and laughs even tho i went m.i.a halfway thru 💔 also plz forgive me and my insane wc i actually don't know what happened... i just blacked out and there was 16k words,, anyway hope you enjoy !! <3 not proofread we ball lolz

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist | spotify!playlist

The sun bled across the horizon, a molten spill of oranges and deep crimsons that clung to the sky like fire on water. Long shadows stretched over the empty desert highway when you and Woonhak finally pulled over. The engines of your motorbikes ticked faintly as they cooled, the only sound in the vast silence of Nevada’s nothingness.

The gas station looked like a forgotten relic—its neon buzz barely audible over the cicadas, its convenience store glowing faintly against the dusk. Inside, it smelled of bleach and old coffee. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bathing the empty aisles in a sterile glow. You wandered slowly, basketless, arms gradually filling with garish snack bags and neon-colored energy drinks until it felt like you were carrying a mountain of sugar and sodium.

The automatic door sighed open as you pushed through, a bell chiming weakly overhead. “Thanks,” you mumbled to the lone, half-asleep cashier before stepping back into the desert air.

Outside, Woonhak leaned against his motorbike as if he belonged in a glossy magazine spread—though with his chin drooping to his chest and arms crossed, he looked more like a kid dozing in detention than a poster boy. His hair shifted slightly with the wind, and for a fleeting moment, the painted sky behind him made the scene look almost cinematic.

“So,” you called, dropping your spoils onto your bike’s seat with a clatter of crinkling wrappers, “got any bright ideas about how we’re sneaking in?”

His head lifted slowly, eyes hazy, and then sharpened just in time to catch the energy drink you offered. He cracked it open like it was second nature, downing the first sip before answering.

“Nope. Figured you’d think of something. You’re the brains.”

You rolled your eyes, the faintest smirk tugging at your lips. “Which is why I already called Alfred. He’s got something lined up.”

Woonhak tilted his head, brow furrowed. “Then why ask me at all?”

“Wanted you to pretend you were helping,” you said, shrugging with a playful grin. His frown softened into a pout.

“You’re so mean.”

“You’re just a big ol’ baby,” you teased.

He opened his mouth for a comeback, but the sharp beep-beep of your wristwatch silenced him. You glanced down, smirking at his aborted protest, and tapped the display. A soft blue glow unfolded in the dry evening air as Alfred’s hologram materialized—tall, steady, and comfortingly familiar, though tinted with flickers of static.

“You’re in luck,” he began, voice carrying the crisp precision of someone who had been through a hundred such briefings. “Fort Marshall is hosting a two-day military ball for its seventy-fifth anniversary.”

Woonhak slid closer, his shadow overlapping yours on the cracked asphalt. He leaned just enough to peer over your shoulder. “And that means…?”

“It means you’ll infiltrate as a military couple. Superboy as a decorated officer, Seraphim as his wife.”

Heat shot to your cheeks so fast it startled you. “His wife?!” The words cracked out too loud against the quiet desert. You fumbled, voice lowering. “That’s absurd. Isn’t there another way? We’ve snuck into tighter places than this.”

Alfred’s holographic head shook. “Not this time. The fort is locked down. Security is layered thick, especially with the high-profile guests in attendance. Disguises are your only option.”

You sighed, fingers twitching against your thigh. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint fizz of Woonhak’s half-finished drink.

Then, warm and close, his voice slid into the space between. “What’s the fuss, honey?” he drawled, each word dripping with mock sweetness. “Sounds perfect to me.”

Your teeth clenched. You wanted to elbow him square in the ribs. “Don’t start.”

Turning back, you exhaled slowly. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

Dawn rose pale and merciless, the desert sky already bleached toward white by the coming heat. The Nevada air clung like sandpaper to your skin, seeping into every seam of your dress. You tugged at the thin navy strap digging into your shoulder, irritation building with the humidity that wasn’t supposed to exist in the desert.

Behind you, Woonhak wrestled with his bowtie, the crisp fabric of his ceremonial uniform at odds with his restless hands. His chest gleamed with pins and medals whose significance you couldn’t name, though they caught the sunlight with each frustrated movement.

Beyond the lot, sleek limousines glided up the paved road toward the fort, pausing beneath the scrutiny of armed guards before being waved through the towering gates. The glint of sunlight on rifles was impossible to ignore.

You bent slightly, checking the straps hidden beneath your skirt. The cool press of knives against your thigh grounded you, the last piece of you beneath layers of someone else’s costume. The hem of your dress brushed against your knees, swishing like something foreign and delicate.

“Goddamn it!” Woonhak exploded suddenly, fists dropping in defeat. His bowtie dangled crooked and useless.

You let out a scoff, heels wobbling as you crossed to him. “Come here.”

He obeyed instantly, bottom lip jutted like a child caught misbehaving. He held the tie out to you, big hands clumsy in their frustration.

You took it with deft fingers, standing close enough to smell the clean starch of his uniform, the faint trace of motor oil still lingering on his skin. He averted his gaze, eyes fixed on the horizon as if the rising sun was more interesting than your concentration.

“There,” you said, tightening the last loop and stepping away quickly. “Done. Now let’s go.”

The trunk of the black sports car Alfred had provided shut with a satisfying slam. Inside, the leather smelled faintly of soap, the polished interior almost too pristine for the dust of the desert. You slipped into the passenger seat, sighing in relief as the cushioned leather cooled your overheated skin.

“You’re driving,” you declared.

His brows arched. “Why?”

“Because we’re a traditional couple now. The wife doesn’t drive.”

He barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he slid into the driver’s seat with smooth ease. “If you say so. For the record? I think women are terrifyingly good drivers.”

“Careful. If this weren’t an op, I’d strap you to the roof.”

“Awh, you flatter me, darling.”

His hand brushed over yours in mock affection, and your powers jolted before you could stop them. The telepathic sting bit sharply enough that he winced, clutching his temple.

“Jesus—that hurt! What was that for?”

“Don’t just grab my hand like that!” you hissed, heart still racing. “You scared me.”

He gritted his teeth, wincing. “Scared you? You nearly fried my brain.”

“…Sorry.” The word slipped out too quietly. You fixed your gaze on the tinted window, cheeks burning hotter than the rising desert sun.

He shot you a sideways glance, surprise flickering across his features. “Did you just apologize?”

You smirked faintly. “I do when I’m wrong.”

“Correction: you’ve never apologized to me before.”

“Maybe I’ve just never been wrong when it comes to you.”

Woonhak knew there was no point in retorting.

The car purred down the desert road, its engine smooth as silk, a stark contrast to the gravel-throated roar of your bikes. Ahead, Fort Marshall loomed like a jagged shadow against the pale morning sky. Its walls of concrete and steel fencing rose high, barbed wire glinting with cruel sharpness in the sun. Guard towers dotted the perimeter, rifles angled down, watchful and unblinking. Even from here, the weight of scrutiny pressed against the windshield, making the air inside feel thinner.

The closer you got, the more your pulse quickened. Lines of glossy cars inched forward at the checkpoint, their polished chrome flashing in the light. Security moved briskly from vehicle to vehicle, their clipped voices muffled but authoritative, their eyes darting with the practiced sharpness of hawks. The air reeked faintly of gasoline, hot asphalt, and the unmistakable tang of military-grade tension.

Beside you, Woonhak drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Not nervous—never nervous—but restless, like a predator forced to crawl instead of sprint.

By the time you rolled up to the gate, silence had fallen between you.

“Good morning,” the soldier barked, his face obscured by aviators. His posture was ramrod straight, voice rehearsed down to its syllables. “Name?”

“Kim, Woonhak,” your partner replied smoothly. His voice carried the easy weight of someone who belonged here. He tilted his head toward you, lips curving faintly. “And my wife, Y/N L/N.”

The soldier typed rapidly into his terminal. Seconds stretched. His frown deepened. “There is no such name in the system.”

A cold current slid through your veins. For the first time, Woonhak faltered. “There must be a mistake—”

You leaned forward before he could unravel the illusion. The seatbelt tugged tight across your chest as you slid across the console, angling yourself so your eyes locked with the soldier’s.

“Officer,” you began, your voice low, steady, a hum beneath the desert’s dry air. “There must’ve been a mix-up. We declined the invitation at first—my husband was still overseas, on assignment. But then the situation changed.”

You let the words pour slower, dripping into the cracks of his focus. Your power brushed against his mind like fingertips smoothing fabric. His thoughts were taut, ordered, rigid—and you pulled delicately at the threads.

“He couldn’t bear the thought of missing the seventy-fifth anniversary of the first ever base he called home,” you continued, your voice laced with warmth. You tilted your head toward Woonhak, who blinked but caught on.

“Right,” he said quickly, leaning into the act.

“And surely,” you murmured, your eyes still locked on the soldier’s, “you wouldn’t turn away Colonel Kim. Second cousin to the Minister of Defense.”

The name fell like a pebble into water, rippling through the soldier’s composure. His gaze faltered, shoulders loosening by imperceptible degrees. You felt the exact moment his mind began to bend, the rigid walls softening, making space for the version of truth you painted.

“Yes… yes, of course,” he stammered. “Colonel Kim. And his wife. Please, forgive me. You may enter.”

The gate arm lifted with a hydraulic groan.

You slumped back against your seat, pulse thrumming, your body heavy with the aftertaste of the exertion. Woonhak’s lips parted in a silent whistle.

“You’re terrifying when you do that,” he muttered, easing the car forward.

“You’re just noticing now?”

The car rolled beneath the looming arch of the fort. Barbed wire blurred past the windows, replaced by the ordered sprawl of the base—barracks lined with precision, parade grounds trimmed within an inch of perfection, the air carrying the faint metallic scent of oil and gunpowder.

An attendant in a starched uniform opened your door with mechanical courtesy. The moment your heels hit the asphalt, the world around you shifted. Soldiers moved like gears in a clock, their steps sharp and synchronized. A few cast glances your way—polite, but assessing, as though weighing your worth against the medals stitched to Woonhak’s chest.

He stepped forward, offering his arm with a gravitas so uncharacteristic you almost laughed. “Shall we?”

The fabric of his uniform pulled taut against the swell of his bicep. You bit your lip before slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow.

“We shall,” you answered softly.

Together, you walked into the lion’s den.

The parade grounds smelled of fresh-cut grass. Morning sunlight bounced off rows of brass buttons and polished boots, the air vibrating with ceremony. Flags snapped crisply overhead, their colors vivid against the pale sky.

You stood beside Woonhak, who looked every inch the decorated officer—even if you knew his bowtie had nearly defeated him an hour earlier. His posture was stiff, chest broad, medals gleaming like they’d always belonged to him.

“Quit fidgeting,” you whispered, noticing his fingers twitching against his sleeve.

“I can’t help it,” he muttered back, his voice pitched low. “This shit is so boring.”

The remark nearly pulled a laugh out of you, but someone a few rows back hissed, shushing sharply. You pressed your knuckles against your mouth, shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles.

The commander’s voice droned on, carrying tales of legacy and sacrifice. Words blurred together in the heavy heat, but the 21-gun salute that followed cracked through the monotony like thunder. Each shot rolled through your bones, echoed by the roar of fighter jets slicing across the sky. The crowd stiffened in awe, while you fought the urge to jump at each booming report.

Beside you, Woonhak stifled a yawn, his eyes glazed with impatience. And despite the danger surrounding you, you almost wanted to laugh again.

The commander’s speech finally faded into polite applause, and the crowd slowly dispersed into smaller knots of people. Sunlight spilled over the parade grounds, catching on medals and polished heels, painting the morning in hard, unforgiving brightness.

You barely had a moment to breathe before an officer in a starched white uniform clapped his hands sharply. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll follow me, we’ll begin a brief tour of the fort before refreshments are served.”

Groups of couples formed almost instinctively, clustering in neat rows like chess pieces on a board. You and Woonhak fell into step with half a dozen others, your arm still looped through his, the heat of his body radiating against your side.

The officer guiding your group had the voice of a seasoned lecturer—dry but practiced, his words rolling out like bullets chambered one after another. He gestured with sharp precision toward each landmark you passed: the barracks, the old mess hall, the training grounds where the dirt was pitted from years of drills.

“This fort was founded in 1950,” he said proudly, his boots clicking in time with his cadence. “It has stood as a cornerstone of American defense for seventy-five years. Over twenty thousand soldiers have trained here, including our own colonel, who is with us today.”

Heads turned toward Woonhak. For one awful second, you felt his hand tense against yours. His smile froze on his face like a photograph, bright but brittle.

You jumped in before the silence had teeth. “Yes, darling, you’ve told me so many stories about this place.”

“Have I?” he said blankly.

A ripple of polite laughter rolled through the group, the other couples exchanging knowing looks. One woman in pearls leaned closer, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear: “Newlyweds. They’re still figuring each other out.”

Your cheeks flushed hot. You forced a brittle laugh. “Ah, yes, newlyweds. Of course.”

Woonhak tilted his head at you with infuriating amusement, eyes glinting. He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “Guess that makes you my blushing bride.”

“Play along or I’ll fry your brain where you stand,” you muttered through clenched teeth, your lips stretched in what you hoped passed as a smile.

Another round of chuckles rippled behind you. One man nudged his wife knowingly. “Ah, young love. Always bickering, aren’t they?”

You wanted to sink into the asphalt.

The officer droned on, oblivious to your unraveling cover. “This section of the fort was used during the Cold War as a missile command center…” His words blurred at the edges of your focus, drowned beneath the steady hum of your telepathy.

Keeping two hundred minds bent around the same illusion was like holding your breath while running uphill. Every second stretched your focus thin, every slip of concentration threatening to expose you. Already you could feel cracks forming—some soldiers’ thoughts leaned toward suspicion, while others softened into a hazy certainty that you and Woonhak had been married only weeks, still caught in the glow of honeymoon fever.

A woman in a bright red dress beamed at you, her voice dripping with delight. “How long has it been since the wedding?”

Your stomach flipped. Before you could answer, Woonhak chimed in with a grin too wide. “Five years.”

“Six months,” you corrected instantly.

The group burst into laughter again. One of the men clapped Woonhak on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Colonel. They always remember the dates better than we do.”

Your jaw ached from forcing your smile.

As the officer led you deeper into the fort—past armories that smelled of oil and steel, past memorial walls carved with names—the hypnosis stretched tighter in your mind. Threads of thought tangled, dozens of voices weaving their disbelief into questions you had to smother before they reached their lips.

You caught Woonhak sneaking a glance at you. For once, there was no teasing in his expression—just a flicker of unease. He could sense it too: the fragile balance of your illusion, the razor-thin line between success and exposure.

You squeezed his arm lightly, both a warning and a reassurance. “Smile,” you whispered, lips unmoving.

He did, and to anyone watching, you looked like nothing more than a bickering couple, caught between irritation and affection. But beneath the smiles, both of you knew the truth: one wrong word, one slip of concentration, and two hundred people would remember that you weren’t supposed to be here.

The officer’s voice marched on, steady as a drumbeat: statistics, dates, names of generals who had once walked these same grounds. But the sound blurred in your ears, like words underwater. The sun was too bright, the air too thick. Every breath you took was tangled in the threads of two hundred minds, their thoughts a relentless tide pulling you in every direction at once.

It wasn’t just bending one soldier’s suspicion. It was bending them all—officers, spouses, aides, every pair of eyes and ears in this place. Their disbelief rose like weeds, and every time you pulled one out, another sprouted. You felt it in your bones, the sheer drag of maintaining the illusion.

Your legs wobbled.

“Y/N?” Woonhak’s whisper was sharp at your ear, but his voice came from far away, muffled by the buzzing swarm in your head.

You blinked, tried to focus, but the ground shifted beneath your feet. The officer’s white uniform blurred into the bright blue sky, and then—darkness.

The world tipped.

Strong arms caught you before the gravel did.

“Y/N!” This time his voice was raw, stripped of its usual playfulness. Gasps rippled through the cluster of couples, the weight of their stares pressing down like heat.

Woonhak cradled you tight against his chest, one hand cupping the back of your head. Your hair brushed his cheek as he looked wildly at the officer leading the tour. “She’s overheated,” he barked. “Where are our quarters?”

The officer froze, startled. “C-Colonel—”

“Now.” His tone cut like steel.

That did it. The man snapped to attention, motioning frantically toward the nearest building. “This way, sir!”

Woonhak didn’t wait. He shifted you in his arms and strode forward with long, unhesitating steps. The murmurs behind you swelled—concerned voices, sympathetic whispers, amused chuckles. Newlyweds. Poor thing. Such a devoted husband.

He ignored them all. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed, each stride radiating command. The image of the protective officer with his delicate wife played perfectly for the crowd, but you could feel the anger simmering beneath his skin.

Inside the quarters, the door slammed shut behind him, the echo rattling in the plain, sterile room. He lowered you onto the bed as if setting down something fragile, then crouched low, searching your face.

“Y/N. Hey.” His hand hovered near your cheek, not quite touching, uncertain. “Look at me. What the hell was that?”

Your throat burned, but you forced the words out. “Too many… too many at once.”

His brow furrowed, shadows cutting across his face. “You didn’t tell me it would do this to you.”

You swallowed, the taste of copper on your tongue. “I didn’t know. I’ve never… stretched it this far.”

For a moment, his silence was heavier than any words. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles pale. Then, in a voice quieter but no less sharp, he said, “Two hundred people, Y/N. You’re tearing yourself apart just to make them believe we belong here.”

You managed a thin, wry smile, though it trembled at the edges. “You’re upset.”

“Of course I’m upset,” he snapped, then bit back the volume. His voice dropped, softer, raw. “Do you have any idea what it felt like to watch you fall? To feel you go limp in my arms?”

That silenced you. For a second, you thought you saw fear flicker across his features, too quick for him to hide.

You shifted slightly, wincing at the ache in your head. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, frustration clear. “You scared the shit out of me.”

The words lingered in the sterile air, heavy and unguarded.

Your gaze slid past him—and landed squarely on the bed. A single bed, centered in the middle of the room. The crisp white sheets were tucked too tightly, military corners sharp enough to cut. There was no sofa, no cot, nothing else. Just the bed.

You laughed weakly, though it came out more like a rasp. Woonhak followed your gaze, then froze. “Wait.” His voice went flat. “No.”

“Yes,” you said, a flicker of mischief curling in your tone despite the exhaustion. “We’re married, remember? Newlyweds, apparently. Wouldn’t it look suspicious if we asked for separate rooms?”

His face twisted, half disbelief, half exasperation. “This is insane.”

“Convincing,” you countered softly, easing back against the pillows. The sheets were cool beneath your skin, a faint comfort against the pounding in your skull. “But insane, yes.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”

“And you pout too much,” you shot back, even as your eyelids grew heavier.

For a long moment, he stared at the bed like it was a battlefield he wasn’t prepared to fight on. Then, with a resigned exhale, he toed off his polished shoes and sat at the edge of the mattress. The springs dipped beneath his weight, the movement rolling gently toward you.

He stayed there for a moment, hands clasped loosely, his back hunched forward. Then, tentatively, he reached out and brushed the back of his fingers against your temple. The touch was fleeting, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

“I’ll keep watch,” he murmured, more to himself than you.

Your lips curved faintly. “That’s supposed to be my line.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, though it carried no real amusement. When your eyes finally slipped closed, the last thing you felt was the warmth of his hand still lingering near yours, as if he was anchoring himself to the proof that you were still there.

The first thing you registered was the texture of the sheets—coarse, scratchy against your fingertips, not the kind of softness anyone would choose for themselves. The second was the light: dim and slanted, filtering through the blinds in thin golden stripes that painted across the floor. The third was the weight in your skull. Not sharp, not blinding, but heavy—like you’d been carrying the world on your shoulders and only just set it down.

You stirred, groaning as you forced your eyes open.

“Careful,” came a voice, low but steady.

You blinked, vision blurring until it steadied on Woonhak. He sat by the small desk lamp, slouched in a chair pulled close to the bed. His jacket and bowtie hung carelessly over the backrest. Without the stiff uniform, he looked less like a decorated officer and more like himself—broad-shouldered but tired, shadows carved beneath his eyes.

“How long?” you croaked.

He tilted his head, studying you with something like relief. “A couple hours. Long enough for them to finish the tours.” His gaze softened, though his voice stayed clipped. “You scared me.”

You pushed yourself upright, wincing as your head swam. “Didn’t mean to. I thought I could handle it.”

“You shouldn’t have had to handle it,” he snapped, then pressed his lips together, pulling the edge off his tone. “Two hundred people, Y/N. You never told me it would hit you like that.”

You let out a breath, your voice quiet. “I’ve never tried it on that scale before. I didn’t know.”

His jaw worked. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to yell, but the sight of you still pale against the pillows stopped him. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, and dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re insane. Brilliant, but insane.”

A thin smile tugged at your lips. “Is that your version of a compliment?”

He huffed, almost a laugh. “Take it how you want.”

Silence stretched. The only sound was the faint hum of the vent and the distant muffled noise of the fort outside—boots on gravel, the occasional bark of an order. You could feel the mission pressing in again, the weight of it creeping back onto your shoulders.

“We need a cover story,” you said finally. “A real one, not just… patchwork lies. People already think we’re married, but we keep tripping over the details. If we don’t get it straight, someone’s going to notice.”

Woonhak straightened, nodding slowly. “Alright. Ground rules first. Then the story.”

You shifted against the headboard, raising a hand as though you were about to lecture him. “Rule one: physical contact is limited. Only what’s expected of a married couple in public. Hand on the waist, maybe holding hands. Nothing sudden, nothing surprising.”

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “That one’s for me, isn’t it?”

“You think?” Your glare was sharp, though your lips twitched. “You grabbed my hand earlier and nearly gave me an aneurysm."

He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. No surprise hand-holding. Got it.”

“Rule two: no nicknames.”

“Banned completely?” He tilted his head, feigning innocence.

“Banned.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm. “So I can’t call you sweetheart?”

“No.”

“Darling?”

“No.”

“Wifey?”

You groaned, grabbing a pillow and shoving it into his chest. He caught it easily, laughing under his breath.

“Alright, no nicknames,” he said, a grin still plastered across his face. “You’re no fun.”

“Fun doesn’t keep us alive,” you shot back.

“Neither does acting like strangers when we’re supposed to be married,” he countered smoothly.

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t argue. He had a point. “... Fine. If the situation calls for it, then.”

“Rule three,” you continued, ignoring his smug look, “we agree on consistent answers. Married eight months. Wedding in Malibu. Met at a friend’s party.”

“Eight months, Malibu, party,” he repeated like a soldier memorizing orders. Then he frowned. “Shouldn’t it be something more interesting? Like—‘I saved you from a runaway train,’ or ‘we locked eyes across a battlefield.’”

You snorted. “What kind of romance novel are you living in?”

“One with more spice than ‘we met at a party,’” he said, leaning back with a grin.

“Believable is better than spicy,” you said firmly.

“Debatable.”

“Not up for debate.”

He chuckled and let it go, though you could tell he was still imagining ridiculous meet-cutes.

“Rule four,” you pressed on, “when we’re alone, we drop the act. No pretending, no nicknames, no… whatever it is you do. Professional. Mission first.”

The grin faded slightly, replaced by something steadier. He nodded. “Professional. Understood.”

“Good.” You let out a breath, sagging against the headboard. “So we agreed: eight months married, wedding in Malibu, met at a party. No surprises, no nicknames, and professional when we’re alone.”

“Sounds airtight,” he said. His expression soured instantly.

“You scared me,” he said again, quieter this time. “Don’t do that again.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of exhaustion press you down. “Not planning to.”

There was a pause, then the soft creak of the chair as he leaned forward. His voice was low, almost tender.

“You don’t have to do all the heavy lifting alone, you know.”

Sleep tugged at you, but you caught the words, tucked them away like a secret.

By the time the sun slipped below the horizon, Fort Marshall had transformed. The parade grounds that only hours earlier had rung with gun salutes now shimmered with strings of lights. The mess hall—scrubbed and polished within an inch of its life—had been remade into a ballroom, its bare walls softened by draped banners and the low gleam of chandeliers. Music floated through the air, the lilting strings of a military orchestra weaving beneath the buzz of conversation.

You caught your reflection in the full-length mirror before stepping out. The navy gown Alfred had chosen for you clung in ways that felt deliberate, the fabric heavy but elegant, every seam a statement. The slit up the leg had made you curse when you first saw it, but now it seemed almost practical—if you needed to reach for the knife strapped against your thigh. A necklace glittered at your throat, subtle enough not to draw suspicion but fine enough to look real.

When you turned, Woonhak was staring. He wore his evening dress uniform as if it had been built for him, every button aligned, every ribbon gleaming. The crisp black bowtie sat at his collar like it had never been a problem in the first place. The sight made your stomach dip, though you smothered it quickly.

He whistled low. “Not bad, newlywed.”

You leveled him with a look. “Rule two. No nicknames.”

He lifted his hands in mock surrender, smirk tugging at his lips. “Right, right. Professional.”

But when he offered you his arm, there was no mockery in the gesture. Just expectation—and necessity. You looped yours through, skin brushing his sleeve, and together you walked into the lion’s den.

The ballroom was a sea of uniforms and gowns, the air thick with cologne, perfume, and the faint tang of champagne. Conversations rose and fell in waves, punctuated by laughter and the occasional clink of glassware. Officers stood in tight circles, their spouses glittering at their sides, while waiters slipped through the crowd with trays of hors d’oeuvres.

Everywhere, eyes lingered. Some curious, some assessing, others outright suspicious.

The hypnosis still stretched like a net across the room, tugging at the corners of your mind. Two hundred people, each one convinced you belonged here, each one convinced you were married. It was easier now, lighter—the initial strain had passed—but the effort was constant. You had to keep the web taut, or it would unravel.

“Smile,” Woonhak muttered, his voice low enough only you could hear. “You look like you’re about to stab someone.”

“I want to stab someone,” you hissed back, still smiling.

He chuckled under his breath, leaning just slightly closer. “There’s the charm I married you for.”

The first hour blurred into polite smiles and introductions. You spoke to generals’ wives in pearls and to younger officers eager to please, trading pleasantries you could hardly remember minutes later. The guiding thread was your hypnosis—a constant, subtle pressure smoothing over doubts, nudging thoughts toward acceptance. You were married. You belonged here. No questions asked.

And yet… cracks lingered.

“Such a sweet couple,” one woman cooed after you and Woonhak accidentally spoke over each other about how long you’d been married. She leaned toward her husband with a laugh. “They can’t even get their story straight. Newlyweds always forget the details.”

More laughter. More smiles. You forced one of your own, but your head throbbed faintly with the strain.

Later, as the orchestra swelled into a waltz, a middle-aged couple approached. The man wore his medals with the quiet pride of someone who’d earned every one, while the woman beside him had the kind of elegance that came from decades of moving in these circles.

“Colonel Kim,” the man said warmly, clasping Woonhak’s hand. “And your lovely wife. We’ve heard so much about you.”

You pasted on your best smile. “All good things, I hope.”

The woman laughed politely, eyes glimmering. “Of course. Though I must say…” Her gaze lingered on the two of you, assessing. “For newlyweds, you two are very… mellow.”

“Mellow?” Woonhak repeated.

“Yes. No offense,” the woman added quickly, “but most couples your age can’t keep their hands off each other. You seem almost…” She tilted her head. “…professional.”

You felt your stomach tighten. The net in your mind strained.

Woonhak’s grip on your arm shifted—subtle, but firm. “Excuse us,” he said smoothly, his smile unchanging. “My wife needs a moment.”

His voice brushed your ear. “Outside. Now.”

You blinked at him, startled, but let him tug you toward the balcony. The cool night air hit instantly, sharper than the warmth of the ballroom. Stars stretched endless over the Nevada desert, the faint hum of cicadas filling the spaces between music drifting from inside.

“What the hell—”

“Change of plans.” His voice was firm, eyes sharp in the moonlight. “We’re not convincing enough. Too stiff. Too cautious. They’re expecting more from us.”

“More?” You narrowed your eyes.

“More PDA.” He said it flatly, like it was a tactical maneuver. “Hand-holding. Touching. Hell, maybe even kissing if it comes to that.”

You stared at him like he’d sprouted horns. “Are you out of your mind? We agreed—”

“Rules don’t matter if we blow our cover.” His gaze didn’t waver. “If they’re already whispering, we need to overcorrect. Sell it. Hard.”

You scoffed. “Oh, so your grand plan is to suddenly act like we can’t keep our hands off each other? That won’t look suspicious at all.”

“It’ll look natural,” he shot back. “Because that’s what they expect newlyweds to be—loud, clingy, disgusting.”

“Disgusting,” you repeated flatly.

“Exactly.” He smirked, and for a heartbeat you wanted to punch him.

You argued in circles for several minutes, your voices low but heated, until finally you threw up your hands. “Fine. PDA mode. But if you try anything stupid, I’ll break your nose and tell everyone it was an accident.”

He grinned like you’d just agreed to something fun instead of torturous. “I wouldn't want it any other way, sweetheart.”

When you returned inside, it started almost immediately. His hand found yours, fingers lacing deliberately. He laughed too loudly at one of your fake anecdotes, draping an arm over your shoulders. You elbowed him lightly in the ribs, muttering under your breath, but he only leaned closer, eyes glinting with mischief.

To everyone else, you looked inseparable. To you, it felt like walking a tightrope blindfolded.

The clink of silverware rang sharp against the steady hum of conversation. Every table in the mess hall glowed under soft light, candles flickering in polished brass holders, chandeliers scattering fractured gold over crystal glasses. The smell of roasted meat and buttered rolls thickened the air until it felt almost indulgent, almost decadent—an illusion of luxury wrapped over the bones of a military base.

You and Woonhak were seated near the center, close enough to be seen but not so close as to be under constant scrutiny. You sat shoulder-to-shoulder, your navy gown brushing his crisp uniform whenever either of you shifted. The chairs were close, too close, forcing his knee against yours beneath the table.

He didn’t move it.

On your left, a general’s wife launched into a story about her son’s engagement, her pearls catching the light with every emphatic gesture. Across from you, a younger couple asked endless questions about “married life.” Every word felt like a test, every glance like a spotlight.

You smiled when expected, nodded when polite, and offered vague answers that left no openings for suspicion. But beneath your calm exterior, your mind tugged like thread drawn too tight. The satellite. The radar tower. The mission.

You reached for your champagne glass, swirling it slowly, and slipped into his mind.

Tonight, we locate the satellite.

The glass in his hand nearly slipped. His head jerked toward you, eyes wide.

You can— His thoughts burst into your head like fireworks, loud and chaotic. Wait—wait, you’re actually in my head right now? This is insane. You’ve been holding out on me! This is—

Shut up, you snapped in his mind, wincing as his excitement rang like a bell against your skull. You’re yelling.

I’m not yelling, he thought—loudly. This is just how my thoughts sound! Wait, you’ve been able to do this the whole time and you’re only showing me now? Oh my god, do you realize how game-changing this is? We don’t even need comms, we can just—

You cut the connection abruptly, slamming a door in his mind. Blessed silence returned.

Across the table, his mouth opened in protest. “Hey—” he started aloud, but caught himself when half the table turned at the sound of his voice. He coughed into his napkin, smiling sheepishly, and leaned closer to you.

You cut him a side-eye glare, lips still frozen in a social smile.

Out loud, he muttered under his breath, “Not fair.” Then, softer, “Let me back in. I’ll behave, scout’s honor.”

Scout’s honor? you echoed dryly, reopening the link with hesitation. You’re insufferable.

His relief was so palpable you could feel it bleed across the tether. Better insufferable than silent. Okay, let’s focus. The satellite—

Is in the radar tower, north side of the base. If we can disarm it—

We don’t have to keep playing house, he finished, his thoughts calmer now, steadier. Good. Because I don’t think I can handle much more of this “sweetheart” nonsense.

You’re the one who keeps pushing it, you shot back.

Because you’re fun to tease, he thought, grinning into his wine glass.

You ignored the heat creeping into your cheeks and pressed on. We’ll need a distraction. Security around the radar tower will be tight, especially after curfew. If we move during cocktail hour, most of the guard force is stuck here babysitting drunk VIPs.

He nodded faintly, spearing a piece of roast beef as though he were just another officer indulging in small talk. Means timing is everything. We slip away while they’re distracted, head to the tower, disable the uplink, and return before anyone misses us.

Sounds good. No heroics, you warned.

No delays, he countered.

Your gazes met briefly over the rim of his wineglass. For one charged heartbeat, your thoughts aligned, the plan sealed in silence.

“Colonel Kim?” one of the younger wives chimed in, breaking the spell. She leaned across the table with a bright smile. “How did you two meet? You make such a lovely couple.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Uh—” Woonhak started.

“At a party,” you blurted at the same time.

Silence. Then laughter rippled around the table.

“A party, was it?” the woman teased. “How charming.”

Her husband grinned knowingly. “Newlyweds always forget the details. Give them a few more years and they’ll finish each other’s sentences.”

You forced a laugh, fingers tightening around your glass. Beneath the table, Woonhak tapped twice against your knee, his version of relax, I’ve got this.

He leaned in, his breath brushing your ear. See? They think it’s adorable.

You’re reckless, you shot back.

You worry too much, he countered.

You rolled your eyes, keeping your smile fixed.

Dinner wore on in that rhythm—plating after plating, course after course, all while you maintained the performance. His arm found its way draped along the back of your chair, his hand brushing over your shoulder in practiced affection. Once, he even leaned close enough that his lips grazed your temple when he whispered, “Smile.” The surrounding couples melted, sighing at the sight.

At one point, you adjusted the fall of your gown and muttered under your breath, “Fix your tie. You look like a rookie.”

Without missing a beat, he murmured back, “You snore, you know.”

A ripple of chuckles passed down the table. “Aww,” someone cooed, “they’re such a cute couple!”

You wanted to sink beneath the tablecloth. Woonhak only smirked, eyes dancing with mischief.

We need to end this cover fast, you thought bitterly. The longer we play house, the harder it gets.

Then we finish it tonight, he replied. His mental voice was steady now, confident, threaded with something sharper beneath. We get to that radar tower, shut down the satellite, and walk out before sunrise. No more husband and wife. No more cute couple routine.

Your chest tightened with relief. Good. I don’t think I can stomach another toast to “young love.”

Yeah, he thought, smirking as he reached casually for his glass. And maybe next time, you’ll thank me for being the best fake husband you’ve ever had.

You nearly choked on your champagne.

Cocktail hour loosened the hall like a sigh.

The dinner tables were cleared with military efficiency, replaced with high trays of hors d’oeuvres and endless champagne flutes. The string quartet traded waltzes for light jazz, the volume rising just enough to drown conversation into a pleasant blur. Already, cheeks were flushed and laughter came freer—the stiff formality of the ball giving way to tipsy camaraderie.

Perfect cover.

You lingered close to Woonhak as couples drifted toward the bar. He leaned casually against a marble column, champagne in hand, while his other arm looped easily around your waist. To everyone else, you looked like the picture of a man doting on his bride. To you, it was a countdown.

Now, you whispered in his mind, slipping your glass onto a passing tray. Before they get suspicious we’re not drinking like the rest.

He set his own glass down without taking a sip and tilted his head toward the side door. His fingers squeezed your hip lightly—a signal, not affection.

The two of you slipped through the throng with practiced ease. Most eyes were too glazed with alcohol to notice, too wrapped in their own laughter. By the time the heavy doors shut behind you, the hum of the ballroom was nothing but a muffled echo.

The night air was sharp and cold. The desert sky sprawled above, a wash of stars brighter than any chandelier. Crickets hummed low in the dark, the scent of dust and motor oil heavy around the fort’s perimeter.

“North tower,” you whispered aloud this time.

He nodded, falling into step beside you. The gravel crunched under your heels until you bent quickly to slip them off, carrying them in one hand as you padded silently forward. Woonhak smirked but didn’t comment, his boots silent despite their weight.

The night air outside was sharp, carrying the desert’s chill now that the sun had long sunk beneath the horizon. Stars spilled endless across the black sky, but all you could see was the fortified outline of Fort Marshall stretching in every direction. Barbed wire gleamed under floodlights. Towers loomed with their watchful silhouettes. And north—faint but undeniable—the radar tower rose like a jagged spear, its blinking red lights pulsing against the dark.

“That’s our mark,” you whispered, careful not to move your lips too much.

“Romantic,” Woonhak murmured back, his smirk audible. “Moonlight stroll to a radar tower.”

You elbowed him lightly in the ribs, keeping step as you circled away from the main building. The ballroom’s glow faded behind you, replaced by the hush of crickets and the crunch of gravel underfoot.

The path to the tower wasn’t empty. Guards patrolled in twos, rifles slung across their shoulders, boots thudding in practiced rhythm. Each checkpoint glowed under harsh floodlights, shadows stretching long across the yard.

You brushed his hand lightly, just enough to open the telepathic tether again. We’ll need to go silent from here. No chatter, no noise. Follow my lead.

Copy that, came his thought, quieter now, steadier.

You pulled him into the shadows of a storage shed, pressing your back to the cool metal siding as two soldiers passed just feet away. Their conversation was muted, but the click of their boots echoed like gunfire. You didn’t breathe until their voices faded.

Woonhak glanced down at you, eyes shining in the dark, and whispered against the bond: You’re terrifying when you get like this.

Good, you shot back. Be terrified quietly.

He chuckled under his breath, earning another jab of your elbow.

The closer you crept, the more oppressive the tower loomed. Its steel frame bristled with antennas, cables running like veins into its heart. A blinking red beacon pulsed rhythmically at its tip, casting intermittent flashes across the compound like the sweep of an eye.

Guards encircled the base, their movements precise, predictable. You studied their rhythm—the three-count turns, the way two passed each other and exchanged words, the beat before they moved on.

We’ve got thirty seconds when the two on the north side cross paths, you calculated, eyes narrowing. That’s our opening.

Thirty seconds is more than enough, Woonhak thought, rolling his shoulders. His body coiled, ready to spring. You cover. I move.

No heroics, you warned.

No delays, he countered.

The moment came. Two guards paused, muttering quietly as their paths intersected.

“Now,” you whispered.

Woonhak darted from cover, silent despite his size, slipping across the open stretch and into the tower’s shadow. He moved like liquid steel, all the lazy bravado stripped away, leaving nothing but precision. You followed seconds later, your gown’s hem whispering across the dirt, knives hidden beneath the fabric pressing reassuringly against your thigh.

“This is it,” you breathed.

Woonhak glanced at you. His grin returned, faint but sharp. “Ladies first?”

You scowled. “Not a chance.”

Inside the tower, the air vibrated with low, steady hums. Machinery thrummed in the walls, servers blinking like constellations in the dark. You could feel the data rushing through the uplink, a current feeding straight into The Light’s hands.

“There,” you said, sliding into the console chair. “Give me five minutes.”

Woonhak paced by the door, scanning the windows. “You’ve got three.”

Fingers flying across keys, you tunneled past the firewalls, layer after layer of defense meant to keep intruders out. The code was good—but not good enough. You’d broken worse. Sweat trickled down your temple, the hum of the servers growing louder in your ears until—

“Got it.” The uplink stuttered, then cut. The stream of data blinked to static. You sagged into the chair, relief spilling from your chest. “We did it.”

But before he could answer, the console flashed bright red. ERROR. AUTO-REBOOT INITIATED.

Your blood ran cold. “No.”

“What?” His voice sharpened instantly.

“They built in a failsafe. A secondary channel—if the first link’s cut, it reroutes. We stopped it, but it’s already rebooting.” Your fingers flew over the keys, trying to kill the process. “I can stall it, but—”

Footsteps.

Heavy, booted, closing fast.

Your blood froze. The door rattled.

“Shit,” Woonhak hissed, hand flying to his sidearm before remembering—he wasn’t Colonel Kim the soldier tonight. He was Colonel Kim, the dutiful husband.

In one motion, he hauled you up from the chair, spun you toward him, and crushed his mouth against yours.

The world tilted.

His lips were warm, firmer than you expected, almost bruising in their urgency. You gasped, and he used the opening to deepen the kiss, his hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you flush against his chest. His uniform pressed stiffly against your gown, medals biting faintly into your ribs, but all you could register was the rush of heat.

You felt Woonhak smirk against your mouth. Instead of pulling away, he angled his head, his lips moving against yours with a maddening slowness now, as if savoring it. His other hand cupped the side of your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as though the two of you were the only ones alive.

The door burst open.

Boots scuffed against concrete. A voice barked, “Colonel Kim? What’s going—”

Then silence.

Your heart thundered. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his dress shirt, not sure if you were trying to push him away or hold him closer. His breath mingled with yours, champagne-sweet, heat spilling into your lungs.

Behind him, the guards coughed—awkward, embarrassed. One muttered, “Oh. Uh—sorry, sir.”

But Woonhak didn’t let go. He pressed forward, lips moving over yours again, slower this time, almost tender. You felt the curl of his smile even as your own knees wobbled.

It wasn’t just for show anymore.

Finally, he broke the kiss, but only just. His forehead rested against yours, his hand still cradling your cheek. Both of you were breathing harder than you should’ve been.

“Forgive us, gentlemen,” he said, his voice husky with fake amusement that didn’t quite hide the rasp. “My wife and I… got carried away. Honeymoon phase, you understand.”

One soldier stammered, “O-of course, Colonel! We’ll, uh—we’ll… leave you to it.”

Another voice: “Won’t happen again, sir!”

Their boots scrambled against the floor, the door slamming shut in their retreat.

The moment it closed, you shoved him back, chest heaving. “What. The fuck. Was that?!”

“Improvising,” he said smoothly, though his lips were still flushed, his chest rising hard. His grin was infuriatingly smug. “Effective improvising.”

“You kissed me!”

“You kissed me back.”

Your mouth opened, closed, then betrayed you by pressing into a thin line. Heat still lingered on your lips, on your cheeks, in the pit of your stomach.

“That was—” you started, then faltered.

“Convincing?” he supplied, his tone dripping with satisfaction.

You wanted to deny it. You wanted to shove him into the wall. But instead, your silence betrayed you, your heart still racing in a rhythm that wasn’t all adrenaline.

Finally, you managed, “We’re stuck here now. They think we’re out here… doing this.”

“Then I’d say we nailed the cover,” he murmured, leaning closer, the glint in his eyes far too amused.

You stepped back sharply, dragging a hand across your mouth like you could erase the memory. “Tomorrow night. We have to finish this. And then—no more fake husband crap.”

But as you slipped out of the tower, hand still tangled stubbornly in his like the picture of a devoted wife, your lips still burned with the phantom of his, and you hated how real it had felt.

Morning crept in slow, desert light spilling through the slatted blinds in pale gold stripes. The air smelled faintly of dust and starch, the muffled sounds of drills already echoing somewhere outside the barracks.

You stirred with a groan, body sore from the strain of the night before. The first thing you registered was warmth—solid, steady warmth cradling the back of your neck. Then came the realization that your barricade of pillows had shifted sometime in the night, collapsed in a messy pile at the foot of the bed.

Your eyes cracked open.

His arm was beneath your neck, bent in a lazy cradle like a pillow that had been there all along. Your own arm was draped shamelessly across his torso, your hand splayed against the broad plane of his chest where his uniform shirt should have been. He wasn’t in uniform now—just the thin gray undershirt Alfred had packed. Warm. Soft with sleep.

Woonhak lay on his back, still half-asleep, lashes dark against his cheekbones. His lips were parted slightly, the rise and fall of his chest slow and even. The faint shadow of stubble dusted his jaw. For a fleeting second, you let yourself stare, let yourself remember the heat of his mouth on yours, the way the guards had gasped before scrambling away.

Your cheeks burned.

You froze, weighing your options: pull away slowly and risk waking him, or stay perfectly still and pray he rolled over first.

Then his chest rumbled. “Good morning, wife.”

Your blood turned to fire.

You jerked upright so fast you nearly headbutted him. “What the hell—how long have you been awake?!”

He cracked one eye open, smirking faintly. “Long enough to know you drool.”

“I do not—” You cut yourself off, flustered, swiping at your mouth just in case.

He chuckled, low and warm, before stretching, the arm beneath your neck flexing as he sat up. “Guess your pillow wall wasn’t very effective.”

You glared at the heap of cushions at the foot of the bed. “I knew I should’ve slept on the floor.”

“Or,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face, “maybe you secretly wanted to cuddle me in your sleep.”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?!”

He shrugged his shoulders, grin lazy but his eyes sharp with mischief. “Not judging. I am pretty comfortable.”

“You’re so annoying.” You shoved a pillow into his face, but he only laughed harder, muffling the sound against the fabric before tossing it aside.

For a moment, the room fell into an easy silence. You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, staring at the floor while your thoughts chased themselves in circles. The kiss. The arm under your neck. The fact that you hadn’t exactly pulled away last night.

Finally, you cleared your throat. “We still have a job to do.”

That sobered him. The grin softened into something steadier. “Right. The satellite.”

“The failsafe’s still running. Which means tonight we try again.” You pressed your palms into your knees, steadying your voice. “But until then—we keep the act. PDA, banter, all of it. We can’t afford to slip now, not after last night.”

His smirk returned, though gentler this time. “So you’re saying I get to keep holding your hand all day?”

You threw him another pillow.

Life at Fort Marshall carried on with military precision, and yet, in the small, borrowed room you and Woonhak shared, the world felt strangely… domestic.

You padded into the bathroom first, hair mussed from sleep, cheeks still warm with embarrassment from the pillow barricade disaster. The mirror was fogged slightly from the night’s chill, and when you reached for your toothbrush, another hand brushed yours.

“Seriously?” you muttered, giving him a pointed look as he appeared at your side.

“What?” he said innocently, squeezing toothpaste onto his brush. “We’re a couple. Couples brush their teeth together.”

You rolled your eyes, but when you caught his reflection in the mirror—bent over, brushing lazily, hair sticking up in defiance—you snorted. “You look so ridiculous.”

He spat into the sink, rinsing his mouth. “You drool. At least I’m hygienic.”

Later, when you tugged on the silk brunch dress Alfred had packed, you cursed under your breath as the zipper caught halfway up your spine. You tried once, twice, and then swore louder, twisting your arm at an impossible angle.

“Need help?” came his smug voice from the doorway.

You spun around. He was already half-dressed, crisp shirt tucked in, tie dangling uselessly around his collar. “You’re one to talk,” you shot back, glaring at the limp strip of silk hanging from his neck.

“Fair point,” he admitted, lips twitching. “Trade?”

You sighed, turning your back to him. “Fine. Just… no funny business.”

“Me?” His tone was mock-innocent. “Never.”

Warmth ghosted down your spine as his large hands brushed the zipper. With one firm tug, he pulled it up smoothly, the teeth fastening all the way to the nape of your neck. His knuckles grazed your skin in the process, sending an involuntary shiver through you. He stilled for a moment, then stepped back quickly, as though the touch had burned him too.

“There.” His voice was rougher than before, though his grin was intact. “Easy.”

You crossed your arms, trying to mask the heat climbing up your neck. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Only a little,” he teased.

“Now give me that,” you snapped, snatching the dangling bowtie from his collar.

You accepted the piece of fabric and stepped closer, ignoring the way his breath caught in his throat as he glanced down at you—or the way your palms seemed slicker with sweat than they had three seconds before.

“Stay still, or I’ll choke you with this goddamn bow,” you muttered.

He only nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as you reached behind his neck to wrap the silk around. Your fingers brushed the warm skin just beneath his jaw as you pulled the ends forward, tying them with quick, practiced movements.

You could feel his dark eyes trained on your face as you worked, heavy and unrelenting. You didn’t like the way that weight settled on you—how aware it made you of every breath, every brush of your fingers against him. Or the way you could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to seep through the thin layers of your dress.

Or worse—the way you caught it: the faint whiff of something musky, woodsy, and undeniably sweet clinging to him.

You tied the final loop a little too tightly, making him wince.

“Done,” you said flatly, stepping back.

He tugged at the knot, hissing softly. “Aggressive.”

“You were staring.”

“Can you blame me?” His grin was maddening, smug and unguarded. “You look good when you’re concentrating.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

But when the two of you finally stepped out into the morning light, his bowtie perfect and your dress fitted snug along your frame, the memory of his hands on your zipper and your fingers brushing his throat lingered like static in the air between you.

Morning sunlight slanted through the high windows of the mess hall, chasing away the glitter of last night’s ball with a softer, golden glow. The room was buzzing already—soldiers in crisp dress uniforms and their spouses in bright brunch attire filled the long tables, plates clinking, silverware scraping, voices tumbling over one another in a cacophony of cheer.

The air smelled of maple syrup and coffee, savory bacon and sizzling butter. Platters of pancakes were stacked high, glistening with powdered sugar, alongside steaming bowls of scrambled eggs, platters of sausages, and baskets of warm rolls. Waitstaff moved like clockwork between tables, refilling pitchers of orange juice and pouring dark coffee into polished mugs.

And from the moment you and Woonhak stepped inside, every head seemed to turn.

“…there they are,” someone whispered, not nearly low enough.

“Slipped out during cocktail hour…”

“…couldn’t keep their hands off each other…”

“…honeymoon phase. You know how it is.”

Your cheeks flushed hot, the weight of all those amused smiles settling heavy on your shoulders. It wasn’t suspicion—it was worse. It was indulgence, fondness, like the whole fort was in on a joke you hadn’t agreed to.

You forced your lips into a polite smile, spine straight as a blade, and let Woonhak guide you forward with his arm firmly around your waist. He looked utterly unbothered—relaxed, grinning, as though he’d orchestrated this rumor himself.

“Morning,” he said warmly to a cluster of officers as he pulled out your chair for you. His voice carried just enough to catch the ears of the nearest tables. He sat beside you, close enough that your skirts brushed his trousers, and leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss against your temple. “Sleep well, darling?”

The room melted.

“Aww!” someone squealed.

“Look at them,” another woman sighed, her pearls catching the light as she pressed her husband’s arm. “So in love.”

You sat frozen, face flaming. His lips had barely grazed your skin, but the phantom warmth lingered like fire.

He’s selling the act, you told yourself fiercely. That’s all.

But when you risked a sideways glance at him, his grin was relaxed, soft at the edges, like it cost him nothing.

You busied yourself with coffee the moment it was poured, your hands trembling faintly as you lifted the mug. The bitter heat grounded you, though not nearly enough.

The officer across from you—a broad man with laugh lines deep around his mouth—smiled knowingly. “So, Mrs. Kim, how was your first night in Fort Marshall?”

You nearly inhaled your coffee.

Before you could stammer out a reply, Woonhak spoke smoothly, draping his arm across the back of your chair so his fingers brushed your shoulder. “Exhausting,” he said with a lazy grin, “but worth every second.”

The table erupted with laughter. One man clapped him on the back. A woman leaned over to squeeze your hand with a conspiratorial wink.

“I remember those days,” she said fondly. “When my husband and I couldn’t go an hour without sneaking away.”

Your mouth went dry.

You stabbed at your pancake with unnecessary precision, cutting it into perfect squares just to keep your hands busy. Your face burned as the laughter rolled on around you, every joke about passion and honeymooners sinking deeper under your skin.

And then you felt it—his hand sliding beneath the table, finding yours. Warm. Steady. His thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles, absent and easy, as though it were second nature.

You didn’t pull away.

It’s fake, you told yourself, heart hammering. All of this is fake.

But his touch didn’t feel staged. It didn’t feel deliberate. It felt unconscious—like something he’d do even if no one was watching.

And that unsettled you more than anything.

Conversation flowed around you in waves. Someone asked about your “honeymoon destination.” Someone else teased about when you’d “start a family.” You smiled when expected, murmured vague replies, all while Woonhak leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing yours with each small movement.

“You’re blushing,” he murmured low, lips close to your ear, just for you.

You stiffened. “Shut up.”

“Adorable,” he teased, smirk tugging at his lips as he sipped his coffee.

You clenched your jaw, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

And when he leaned in again—not to whisper this time, but to brush a quick kiss against your cheek—your breath caught, your fork pausing mid-air.

The table sighed in unison. “They’re precious,” someone said dreamily.

You wanted to disappear into your plate.

Woonhak just grinned, looking smugger by the second. But when his hand tightened just slightly around yours under the table, steady and warm, you realized with a start that he wasn’t letting go.

The mess hall eventually thinned, soldiers filing out in clusters, couples lingering with cups of coffee clutched between their hands. You excused yourself at the first chance, your cheeks still hot from the barrage of “honeymoon” jokes.

The fort’s courtyard was quieter. The sun had climbed higher, its light bleaching the Nevada desert into something stark and unforgiving. You found shade beneath a concrete archway and sank onto the bench there, exhaling slowly. The heat pressed against your skin, but your chest felt cold—hollow in a way you couldn’t shake.

You pressed your palms into your knees, staring at the cracked pavement.

What the hell is happening to me?

You replayed everything.

The banter that had started as a shield—your scoffs, his smirks, the constant back-and-forth that kept both of you sharp. You’d told yourself it was just dynamic, just the way partners worked. It kept missions alive, it filled silences, it distracted from danger.

But then there had been the smaller things.

The way he always stood a half step closer than necessary. The way he caught your wrist during a mission briefing, grounding you when you didn’t realize you’d been fidgeting. The way he laughed when you rolled your eyes, like every jab you threw was a gift.

You remembered the kiss. You’d sworn it was just a cover. He’d sworn it was improvisation. But the memory clung to you like static—the heat of his mouth, the way his hand had cradled your jaw, the way you’d frozen not from fear, but from something that made your pulse sprint.

And this morning. The collapsed pillow barricade. His arm beneath your neck, your hand splayed across his chest. How natural it had felt, like you’d done it a hundred times before.

At brunch, he’d leaned into the role so easily—too easily. His thumb had traced circles over your knuckles under the table, casual, unconscious. You could have dismissed it as performance. You should have. But what if it wasn’t?

What if some of it is real?

The thought lodged in your chest, heavy and dangerous.

Were you into him?

You replayed every scoff, every muttered “you’re insufferable.” The way his eyes caught yours during arguments. The way his laugh cracked the hard edges of your day. The way his voice softened—rarely, but enough—when you scared him.

You hated how easily you could picture the answer.

Maybe.

Maybe you had been for longer than you’d admitted.

And that terrified you more than any satellite, more than any guard, more than The Light itself. Because missions you could plan for. Enemies you could fight. But this? This blur between fake and real, between act and feeling? You didn’t have a blueprint for that.

Boots scuffed against the gravel. You looked up.

Woonhak was there, hair catching in the sunlight, jacket crisp against his broad frame. He had that damned smirk again—the one that made you want to punch him and pull him closer all at once.

“There you are,” he said, sliding onto the bench beside you. His shoulder brushed yours as naturally as if it belonged there. “Thought I lost my wife.”

You scoffed, masking the heat climbing up your neck. “Keep it up and I’ll file for divorce.”

He chuckled, but his gaze lingered on you a beat too long. And you hated how much that single look unraveled you.

The rest of the day unraveled like a noose tightening around your throat.

Everywhere you turned, someone was there.

The wives, with their manicured nails and curious eyes, took turns pulling you into little circles of gossip. They introduced you to others as “the new bride,” cooing over your dress, asking about the wedding you hadn’t actually had. They wanted stories. Memories. Tender details about a marriage that didn’t exist. You offered careful smiles, deflecting with vague platitudes, your mind screaming at every second wasted.

Meanwhile, Woonhak was cornered by officers and young recruits, hanging on his every word. You caught snippets when you passed: elaborate tales of his time “stationed abroad,” fabrications dressed in the cadence of truth. He laughed easily, even mimed scars that weren’t real. You wanted to strangle him for how effortlessly he leaned into the lies.

We don’t have time for this, you thought, jaw clenched as you nodded through another conversation about someone’s garden. The satellite is still ticking.

By luncheon, your nerves were stretched thin.

You sat side by side at yet another long table, a delicate plate of sandwiches untouched before you. Conversations churned around you, clinking glasses and laughter blurring into white noise. But all you could see was the clock in your head, the countdown on the console flashing red. Thirteen hours. The Light siphoning deeper into the League’s secrets with every passing minute.

Woonhak leaned close, brushing crumbs from your sleeve like a doting husband. To everyone else, it was charming. To you, it was infuriating.

We should be moving now, you thought bitterly. Not playing tea party.

When the luncheon finally ended and the crowd began to disperse, you seized the moment, tugging him into an empty hallway.

“What the hell are you doing?” you hissed, shoving his chest. “Telling stories? Playing soldier? Do you realize the clock is ticking?”

He stepped back, eyes narrowing. “And what do you want me to do? Blow our cover by storming the tower in broad daylight? You think I like wasting time?”

“You looked like you loved it,” you snapped. “You’ve been soaking up the attention all morning while I’ve been stuck smiling through garden club gossip!”

“Because that’s the job,” he shot back. His voice rose, raw and sharp. “We blend. We convince. We survive. You think you’re the only one frustrated?”

Your hands curled into fists. “At least I’m not parading around like it’s a game!”

His jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “You always do this. You act like you’re the only one who cares. Like your brain is the only weapon that matters, and I’m just muscle to drag along.”

The words struck harder than you expected. “You think I don’t trust you?”

“You don’t!” His voice cracked, louder now. “Every time, it’s you with the plan, you with the answers, and me left playing catch-up. You don’t rely on me—you tolerate me.”

Your chest burned, anger and something else you didn’t dare name tangling in your throat. “That’s not true!”

“Then prove it!” he yelled.

Silence crashed down, so heavy it made your ears ring.

The corridor was empty save for the muffled hum of voices drifting from the luncheon hall. Pale light from the narrow windows fell in sharp bands across the floor, dust motes swirling in the beams. The walls pressed close, the silence after your shouting heavier than any security checkpoint you’d faced.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast. His shoulders heaved, his fists clenched tight at his sides. For once, he wasn’t smirking, wasn’t teasing, wasn’t hiding behind easy charm. He looked furious. And underneath that fury, he looked wounded.

“You don’t rely on me,” he repeated, quieter now, his voice hoarse. “You never have.”

“That’s not true,” you snapped automatically, but your throat tightened around the words.

“Isn’t it?” His jaw flexed. “Every op, every mission—you keep me at arm’s length. You plan, you decide, and I follow orders like I’m just your personal bodyguard. Do you even see me as your partner?”

The accusation stung, sharp as glass. “Of course I do.”

“Then why does it feel like you don’t trust me?” His voice cracked, loud again, reverberating off the narrow walls. “Why does it feel like I’m just here to break down doors and take bullets while you do the real work?”

You flinched. Not because he was wrong, but because he wasn’t.

Your silence stretched, heavy.

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

Anger surged, hot and choking. “You think it’s easy for me? Carrying the weight of everyone’s lives every time I use my powers? Holding two hundred minds in line at once until I collapse? You think I like doing everything myself?”

His eyes snapped to yours, dark and burning. “Then why won’t you let me carry some of it?”

“Because you make everything a joke!” you shot back. “Because you don’t take anything seriously until it’s falling apart! Because if I lean on you and you mess up, we both die!”

The words hung sharp in the air, and the moment they left your mouth, you regretted them.

He recoiled like you’d struck him.

“I mess up,” he repeated, softer than a whisper, but the hurt laced through it cut deeper than any shout.

Your chest caved in. “That’s not—”

“No, I get it.” He raked a hand through his hair, pacing a tight circle, then turned back to you, eyes bright with frustration. “I’m just a hammer to you. Point me at a wall, I’ll smash it. Point me at an enemy, I’ll fight it. But don’t you dare trust me with anything else.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the pulse pounding at his throat. “You don’t trust me to lead. You don’t trust me to plan. Hell, you don’t even trust me with your hand without frying my brain.”

The words hit too close to the truth, and it made your defenses snap up sharper. “Maybe because you never take me seriously!”

His voice thundered back, raw and desperate. “Because if I did, I’d—”

He stopped himself. The sentence fractured midair, leaving you both staring, breathless.

“…you’d what?” Your voice cracked, softer, trembling.

His eyes darted away, then back, as if torn between speaking and running. His chest rose and fell like he’d just fought ten rounds. Finally, he whispered, almost broken: “Because if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You stared at him, your own anger unraveling thread by thread until only confusion and something far more dangerous remained.

“You…” Your voice faltered. “You’re not just—this isn’t just about the mission, is it?”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t need to. You could see it. In his clenched fists, in the way his shoulders shook, in the way his gaze refused to leave yours even when it burned.

All at once, every memory of him crashed into you like a wave. His stupid jokes, his endless teasing, the way he always stood a half-step closer than anyone else. The way he’d kissed you last night, too convincingly for it to be fake. The way his hand had stayed in yours under the table this morning, his thumb brushing circles he probably didn’t even realize he was making.

You thought of how your heart had hammered then. How it was hammering now.

You swallowed hard, voice trembling when you finally spoke. “Woonhak… are we even pretending anymore?”

The question hung between you like a live wire, sparking, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

And in his silence—raw, vulnerable, unguarded—you realized you weren’t sure of your own answer, either.

Woonhak’s chest heaved, his fists flexing at his sides like he didn’t know whether to punch the wall or reach for you. His jaw worked, tight and angry, but underneath the anger was something else—something that scared you more than the fight.

“You always do this,” he said finally, voice rough, quieter now. “You pretend it’s just the mission. Just tactics. Just survival. But you never admit it’s more than that.”

Your breath caught. “More than what?”

His gaze snapped to yours, dark and unflinching. “More than partnership. More than banter. More than… whatever this game is.”

The words cut straight through you, sharp and clean. You wanted to deny it, wanted to shove the truth back down where it couldn’t touch you. But the look in his eyes burned through every defense you had left.

Your voice wavered. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The hell I don’t.” He stepped closer, the air between you buzzing. “Every time you roll your eyes at me, every time you call me insufferable, every time you look at me like you want to strangle me—you think I don’t notice? You think I don’t know what it means?”

Your back hit the wall before you realized you’d been stepping away. He stood in front of you now, too close, his shadow blotting out the sunlight streaming through the window.

“And what does it mean?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

His chest rose, fell. His hand lifted halfway, hesitated, then finally pressed against the wall beside your head. His eyes burned into yours, raw and furious and aching all at once.

“It means,” he said, voice low and shaking, “that I can’t keep pretending this is just fake.”

The words cracked something inside you wide open.

All the fights. All the teasing. All the times he’d driven you insane just to make you laugh. The way he’d kissed you last night like it wasn’t just an act. The way your heart has refused to steady since.

It all crashed into you in one dizzying wave.

“Woonhak…” Your voice broke, the name slipping out softer than you’d ever said it.

His eyes flicked to your lips. And before you could stop yourself—before either of you could throw up walls—you surged forward.

His mouth crashed against yours, raw and demanding, and all the fire you’d been swallowing since last night ignited in your veins. This wasn't a cover, wasn’t theater—it was messy, unpracticed, and real.

You gasped, and he caught the sound, deepening the kiss like he’d been waiting for it all along. His hand slid from the wall to your jaw, fingers curling under your chin to hold you in place, his thumb brushing your cheek with a surprising tenderness that only made your knees weaker. The other hand gripped your hip, firm, grounding you even as your world tilted dangerously off-balance.

Your fingers clenched in his uniform, pulling him closer, needing him closer. You hated the way it felt natural, like your body had been waiting for this exact gravity. You tugged at his shirt until the medals pressed against your chest, hard edges biting into silk, and still it wasn’t enough.

The kiss broke for air—a heartbeat of panting, of mouths parting just enough to breathe. But his lips hovered, brushing yours with every inhale, unwilling to let go.

Then he kissed you again, slower this time, like he wanted to taste every ounce of your resistance before tearing it apart. His lips moved against yours with infuriating patience, softer, deeper, making your chest ache with something you didn’t want to name.

Your hands slid up, almost without permission, fingers threading into his hair. It was softer than you expected, your nails grazing his scalp, and he groaned low in his throat at the contact—a sound that made your pulse slam harder against your ribs. His mouth opened under yours, pulling you in deeper, hungrier, like he’d been starving for this and you were the only thing that could sate him.

The world narrowed to heat, to breath, to the slick slide of mouths and the press of bodies. The corridor, the mission, the ticking satellite—it all fell away, eclipsed by the dizzying fact that this was him, kissing you like he meant it, and you kissing him back like you’d been waiting for it longer than you dared admit.

When you finally tore apart, gasping for air, you stayed tangled. His forehead rested against yours again, his nose brushing yours, both of you still clinging to each other like the gravity wouldn’t let go.

“This—” you tried, voice cracking, “this is a mistake.”

His lips curled, breathless, almost laughing against your mouth. “Feels like the best mistake I’ve ever made.”

You wanted to shove him away. You wanted to drag him closer. Instead, you just stayed there, trapped in the wreckage of the kiss, your heart hammering with the awful realization that neither one of you were pretending anymore.

Night fell heavy over Fort Marshall.

From the window of your shared quarters, the desert sky stretched black and endless, stars scattered like broken glass across velvet. The base was quieter now, guards pacing their routes, searchlights carving arcs into the dark. Somewhere beneath it all, the satellite uplink pulsed steadily, mocking you with every passing second.

But tonight, the mission demanded masks once again.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, smoothing your palms down the silk that grazed the floor with every movement. The blood-red gown was nothing like what you normally wore on missions—or anywhere, for that matter. It caught the light with every shift of your body, the high slit flashing the pale line of your thigh, the neckline scandalously low, straps delicate against your shoulders. It wasn’t armor nor was it a disguise. It was dangerous in a different way.

For a moment, you almost convinced yourself to change. To pick something simpler, safer. But then you remembered Alfred’s words: blend in. Tonight, that meant being the kind of woman a decorated officer couldn’t keep his eyes—or his hands—off of.

Your heart thrummed against your ribs as you opened the bathroom door.

Woonhak was standing by the dresser, fastening his cufflinks with infuriating precision, the black of his tuxedo jacket sharp against his broad shoulders. His hair was neatly combed, his medals perfectly polished. He looked every inch the officer he was pretending to be—polished, commanding, untouchable.

Until he saw you.

The cufflink slipped from his hand, clattering against the wood. His head snapped up, and for the first time since you’d met him, you saw his confidence falter.

His eyes dragged over you, slow, deliberate, and impossible to misinterpret. From the slit of your gown to the curve of your neckline, to the way the red silk glowed against your skin. His mouth parted slightly, as though words had failed him.

“Holy—” He stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. “You look…” He exhaled hard, almost laughing at himself. “You look like trouble.”

Your cheeks flamed. You crossed your arms over your stomach as if that could shield you from the weight of his gaze. “Don’t stare.”

“Can’t help it.” He pushed away from the dresser, crossing the small space between you in just a few strides. He stopped close—too close—close enough that the musky, woodsy sweetness of his cologne wrapped around you, grounding and dizzying all at once.

The silence stretched. His hand lifted halfway, hovering near your arm before he caught himself and let it drop. His throat bobbed with a swallow, his eyes still burning into yours.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, stepping back to break the moment.

His hand caught your wrist, gentle but insistent. “And you’re stunning,” he said softly, simply, the honesty in his voice disarming you more than the words themselves.

The warmth of his touch lingered even after he let go.

You turned quickly, pretending to fuss with the small clutch Alfred had packed, anything to keep from meeting his eyes again. But the question gnawed at you—was he still acting? Still selling the role of a husband smitten with his new bride? Or was there something else threaded in his voice, something real?

Your reflection in the mirror offered no answers. Only flushed cheeks, quick breaths, and eyes you didn’t quite recognize.

Behind you, he adjusted his bowtie, the silk catching between his fingers.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. The knot refused to cooperate.

You sighed, exasperated. “Still? After all this time?”

He shot you a sheepish grin in the mirror. “It’s not exactly a skill a superhero needs.”

You rolled your eyes and gestured towards him. “C’mere.”

The ballroom shimmered under golden light, chandeliers scattering fractured brilliance across polished marble. Black-and-gold banners draped the walls, and the air buzzed with perfume, mulled wine, and the faint tang of anticipation.

You froze at the edge of the dance floor, your crimson gown catching the light like fire, the slit flashing dangerously every time you shifted your weight. Couples gathered in the center, clasping hands, bodies angling close as the first sharp notes of the tango sliced through the hum of conversation.

Your stomach plummeted. “No. Absolutely not.”

Woonhak turned to you, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes glinting under the warm glow. “Oh yes.”

“I don’t know how to tango,” you hissed. “I’ll trip. I’ll ruin the cover. We’ll stand out—”

He extended his hand toward you, palm steady, inviting. “It takes two to tango.”

The words landed like a challenge.

Before you could argue, his hand closed gently but firmly around yours, tugging you onto the floor. The warmth of his palm against yours sent a shiver straight up your arm. His other hand slid to the small of your back, guiding you into place, pulling you flush against him.

The music swelled.

You stumbled on the first step, but his grip steadied you instantly. He moved with practiced ease, his body leading yours with subtle shifts of pressure—forward, back, side, spin. You realized quickly that the tango wasn’t gentle, and wasn't safe like a waltz. It was sharp. Demanding. A battle disguised as an embrace.

And he was winning.

Your leg brushed his with every lunge, the slit of your gown flashing scarlet as he spun you in a quick pivot. You gasped as his hand pressed firmer against your back, arching you into a dip that made your hair brush the floor. His grin was wicked as he pulled you up again, your bodies colliding in perfect sync.

“You’ve done this before,” you muttered, breathless.

“Maybe once or twice,” he said smoothly, lips grazing the shell of your ear as he spun you into another sharp turn.

The violins climbed higher, the rhythm pounding in your chest. You struggled to keep up at first, every step a scramble to match his precision. But the more you fought, the more you realized the tango wasn’t about memorizing steps. It was about surrender. About trust.

Two bodies moving as one.

And the more you gave in to his lead, the easier it became.

Your breaths fell into rhythm with his. Your body began anticipating his shifts—the subtle tightening of his hand before a spin, the press of his chest before a lunge. Your heels clicked against the marble in perfect time, skirts flaring as he pulled you through a sweeping arc.

You hated how natural it felt.

The dance tightened, movements shrinking until you were locked close, his thigh sliding between yours as you pivoted. Heat radiated through every point of contact—his hand at your back, his fingers twined with yours, his breath ghosting against your cheek. The push and pull of the tango mirrored every argument, every tease, every kiss that had blurred the line between fake and real.

You weren’t just dancing. You were fighting. You were confessing. You were unraveling.

The music built to its peak. He spun you one final time, your dress flaring like flame, then pulled you back into a dip so deep you felt the world tilt. His arm held you steady, his face hovering just above yours, his breath hot against your lips.

Hours later, when the ball was in full swing—glasses clinking, laughter spilling freer with every refill—the plan bore fruit.

A young soldier in full dress uniform approached, his boots clicking against the marble as he made his way through the throng. Conversations softened around him, curiosity stirring as he stopped in front of your table and bowed stiffly.

“Colonel Kim. Madam.” His voice was clipped, official. “General Lyle requests your presence. Immediately.”

Heads turned. Whispers flitted. The general wants them. No one would question it.

Woonhak stood smoothly, offering his hand to you with all the polish of a decorated officer. “Of course.” He pressed a kiss to your knuckles before guiding you to your feet. “Come, darling.”

The soldier pivoted sharply, leading the way out of the ballroom. You walked arm-in-arm with Woonhak, your crimson skirts whispering across the floor, his presence solid beside you. You felt eyes on your backs all the way to the doors.

Once outside, the night swallowed you whole. The cool desert air wrapped around your bare shoulders, stars burning above. Searchlights swept across the yard, guards pacing like shadows.

The soldier led you toward the courtyard. His steps were steady, unaware of the trap already closing.

You brushed against his mind, the hypnosis still wrapped tight around his thoughts. The illusion of urgency kept him marching forward until you reached the shadowed corner of the base where the light thinned.

Then, with practiced ease, Woonhak moved.

His hand shot out, clamping around the soldier’s mouth. In one swift motion, he yanked him back into the shadows. Your palm pressed to the soldier’s temple, sending a psychic pulse sharp enough to drop him unconscious before he could resist. His body slumped, dead weight, into Woonhak’s arms.

“Out cold,” Woonhak muttered, easing the soldier against the wall. He adjusted the man’s hat so it covered his eyes. To anyone glancing from a distance, he’d look like another guard grabbing a smoke break.

You exhaled, your heart pounding. “That’ll buy us time.”

His hand caught yours again, the contact firm and urgent. “Come on.”

The radar tower loomed above you, its red lights pulsing steady as a heartbeat. The hum of the uplink thrummed in the ground beneath your boots, the countdown etched into your mind like a drumbeat.

You and Woonhak crept closer, breaths even, steps silent—

—until metal shrieked.

A heavy body dropped from above, boots slamming against steel with a clang that reverberated down the tower.

The man rose from his crouch slowly, grinning like he’d been waiting for this moment. His skin shimmered faintly under the floodlights, veins glowing a sickly yellow that pulsed in time with the tower’s lights. He flexed his hands, knuckles cracking, his grin sharp.

“Well, well,” he rasped, voice gravel ground into words. “The League sends children to do their dirty work. Cute.”

Your stomach sank. “Meta-human.”

“Low-tier,” Woonhak muttered, his stance shifting. His shoulders squared, his body instinctively angled between you and the intruder. “Still dangerous.”

“Orders were simple,” the meta said, pacing slowly around you, eyes glowing brighter. “Guard the tower. Kill intruders. Looks like I get to have some fun.”

Then he lunged.

He moved faster than his bulk should have allowed, his fist a blur. You ducked just in time, his punch exploding against the concrete where your head had been a moment ago. Shards sprayed your arm, slicing shallow cuts across your skin.

Woonhak was already moving, shoulder slamming into the meta’s chest. The impact cracked the air, both men grunting as they locked in a brutal grapple. Their fists collided, the sound like thunderclaps, each blow shaking the air.

You scrambled back, ripping the knife from your thigh sheath, its weight solid and familiar in your palm. You hated fighting. You always had. But the mission—the countdown—the heat of blood already trickling down your arm—left no room for hesitation.

The meta swung wide, backhanding Woonhak across the face with enough force to send him staggering into the tower’s base. The man’s yellow eyes locked on you.

“Pretty little thing,” he sneered. “Let’s see how long you last.”

He lunged.

You sidestepped, slashing your blade across his arm. The metal sheen resisted at first, then split, blood spilling in a hot arc across the concrete. He snarled, whipping his other fist toward your ribs.

Pain exploded through your side, white-hot, your breath torn away as you flew back, colliding with the gravel. The knife clattered from your grip.

“Y/N!”

Woonhak let out a shout, launching himself back into the fray. He tackled the meta from the side, slamming him against the steel tower with enough force to rattle its beams. The meta’s head snapped back, blood spraying as Woonhak drove a fist into his jaw once, twice, a third time. Bone cracked.

The meta only laughed, spitting crimson teeth onto the ground. “Not bad,” he rasped, swinging back hard. His glowing fist caught Woonhak in the stomach, the impact a deep, sick thud. Woonhak staggered, coughing blood onto the gravel.

“Bastard,” he growled, wiping his mouth.

You forced yourself up, ribs screaming, vision blurred with pain. Your fingers found the knife again, sticky with your own blood. With a sharp breath, you surged forward, slashing low across the back of the meta’s leg.

This time, the blade cut deep, severing muscle. Blood gushed, dark and hot, spraying across your arm.

The meta howled, his balance faltering. He spun, his fist catching your shoulder and sending you sprawling again. Your back scraped raw against the concrete, the knife nearly slipping from your grasp.

He loomed over you, grinning through the blood spilling down his chin. “You’ve got fight, I’ll give you that. But you’ll bleed out long before you take me down.”

His hand closed around your throat, fingers tightening, crushing. You clawed at his grip, knife slicing desperately at his forearm. Blood welled, but his strength didn’t falter.

Then his grip vanished.

Woonhak slammed into him like a battering ram, wrenching him off you. They crashed to the ground, fists flying, the sound of flesh meeting flesh sharp and sickening.

“Don’t touch her,” Woonhak snarled, his voice guttural. His fist smashed into the meta’s mouth, splitting it wide open. Blood sprayed in an arc, painting Woonhak’s cheek.

The meta spat, laughing even as teeth scattered across the gravel. “You think you can save her? You’re nothing but a blunt weapon—”

His words cut off in a gurgle as you drove your knife into his side. Deep. The resistance of muscle gave way to the sharp scrape of bone. Hot blood gushed over your hand, warm and slick.

He yelled, his glowing eyes flaring brighter as his elbow cracked against your temple. Stars exploded in your vision, the world tilting dangerously.

“Y/N!”

Through the haze, you saw Woonhak grab the meta’s head with both hands. His arms bulged, veins straining, teeth bared. With one violent twist, there was a sickening crack.

The glow in the meta’s eyes flickered, then died. His body collapsed to the gravel with a heavy thud, blood pooling beneath him.

For a long, horrible moment, there was silence. Just your ragged breathing, the metallic tang of blood, and the steady thrum of the radar tower overhead.

Woonhak crouched beside you, his face streaked with blood—some his, some not. His hand cupped the back of your head gently, steadying you. “You okay?”

You coughed, wiping blood from your lips. “Define okay.”

He almost laughed, shaking his head, but his eyes were dark, fierce. “You fought.”

You looked down at your hand, still slick with the meta’s blood, your knife dripping steadily onto the gravel. Your stomach twisted—but you met his gaze, steady.

“Had to.”

And for the first time since you’d met him, he didn’t smirk, didn’t tease, didn’t argue. He just nodded.

“Together,” he said. His hand squeezed yours, grounding. “We finish this together.”

Then the alarms shrieked.

Red strobes burst to life across the base, painting everything in flashing crimson. Radios crackled. Boots thundered. The entire fort had been roused.

“They know we’re here,” you rasped, pulling the small black case from your belt.

“Then we end it now,” Woonhak growled, planting himself between you and the incoming storm.

Inside the case, nestled like the last bullet in a loaded gun, was the chip Batman had given you: a sleek sliver of obsidian circuitry no bigger than a flash drive. When inserted into the console, it would erase every byte of stolen data and fry the satellite’s link for good.

You sprinted across the open yard, ribs aching, the chip clutched tight in your bloodied palm. Bullets cracked overhead, guards shouting as they spilled from the barracks.

“Cover me!” you shouted.

“Always!” Woonhak yelled back.

He opened fire, each shot precise, brutal. A soldier spun and dropped, blood spraying. Another lunged close, only to be met with the snap of Woonhak’s elbow breaking his jaw. The air filled with the acrid bite of gunpowder, the metallic tang of blood.

You slid beneath the console canopy, coughing through the smoke. The uplink screens glowed angry red, streams of encrypted data racing skyward. 23 minutes. 18 seconds.

You yanked the panel open, exposing the ports beneath. Sparks snapped against your knuckles as you jammed the chip home. For a breathless moment, nothing happened—

Then the system screamed.

UNAUTHORIZED DEVICE DETECTED.

You bit down hard, fingers flying as you bypassed locks. “Come on, come on—”

Guards swarmed. Woonhak dropped two with precise shots, but a third barreled in from the side, blade flashing. Woonhak caught the man by the throat, slammed him into the steel beam with a sickening crunch, and finished him with a single, bone-breaking twist. Blood sprayed across his sleeve.

“Y/N!” he barked, glancing back at you, eyes wild.

“Almost there!”

The screen flickered, corrupted code eating through the data streams line by line. Files collapsed, names shredded, secrets burned away. The chip was working.

A soldier broke through the chaos, rifle leveled at your back. You spun instinctively, knife flashing. The blade sank deep into his stomach, hot blood spilling over your hand. He gurgled, eyes wide, before crumpling at your feet.

You yanked the knife free, chest heaving. “I hate fighting,” you muttered under your breath.

“You’re damn good at it,” Woonhak grunted, slamming another attacker into the ground, his fist ending the man with one bloody crack.

The console beeped, shrill and final.

UPLOAD: TERMINATED. DATA ERASED.

“Yes,” you breathed, yanking the chip free just as sparks erupted from the panel. The entire tower shuddered.

“Move!” Woonhak grabbed your arm, dragging you back as the uplink screamed, electricity arcing wildly. The red lights sputtered before going black. Above, the radar tower’s crown blinked once, twice—then died.

The satellite was blind. The League’s secrets were safe.

And the tower began to collapse.

Steel screamed overhead as the structure buckled, explosions blooming along the spine. You and Woonhak dove behind sandbags, the shockwave tearing across the ground. Shards of metal rained like knives, fire clawing at the night sky.

For a long, terrible moment, there was only ringing in your ears, the acrid burn of smoke in your throat, the weight of his arm thrown protectively across your body.

Then—silence.

You lifted your head, coughing, eyes stinging from ash. The tower was a twisted husk, fire chewing through its remains. Sparks popped and hissed where the consoles had burned out, the smell of ozone thick in the air.

You’d done it.

Woonhak shifted beside you, blood streaked across his jaw, soot smeared down his neck. His eyes met yours, raw and unguarded. “Told you I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightened, the chip still clutched in your trembling hand. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You do.”

THE AFTERMATH

The medbay was too quiet.

Machines beeped steadily, curtains swayed faintly in the draft from the air vents, and antiseptic stung sharp in the back of your throat. You sat propped up against pillows, bandages tight around your ribs, trying not to think about how the last 48 hours had gone.

The curtain rustled.

Woonhak—Superboy—slipped inside, his broad frame filling the small space. He was cleaned up now, bruises fading purple and blue along his jaw, fresh gauze wrapped around his knuckles. He looked sharp even in the plain shirt Alfred must’ve shoved at him, though his shoulders hunched in a way you rarely saw.

“Seraphim,” he greeted quietly.

“Superboy,” you returned, a little too formal, a little too careful.

He hovered at the foot of your bed for a second, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure he belonged here. Then he sat on the edge of the mattress, the dip pulling you both closer.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t heavy this time—just strange, delicate, like glass that might shatter if you moved wrong.

“So,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “How’s the rib?”

You raised a brow. “Broken. Wrapped. Hurts like hell when I breathe. Standard procedure.”

He winced. “Right. Guess that was a dumb question.”

“Not your dumbest,” you said lightly, and to your surprise, he laughed.

Silence fell again, softer this time.

“You?” you asked. “How’s the jaw?”

He touched the faint bruise at his cheek with a crooked grin. “Still attached. Can’t say the same for the other guy’s.”

Despite yourself, you snorted. “Show-off.”

His grin widened, but faded just as quickly. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “Feels weird, doesn’t it? Being back. Mission over. Just…” He gestured vaguely at the white walls. “This.”

You nodded, staring at your hands. “Too quiet.”

Another beat of silence. Then, softly, “Do you think they’ll remember us? At the fort?”

You tilted your head. “The wives?”

He smirked faintly. “The ones convinced we were sneaking off every five minutes.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “I’m never living that down.”

“Could’ve been worse,” he teased. “At least they bought it. I mean, the tango alone sold the whole ‘madly in love’ thing.”

Your cheeks heated before you could stop them. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing,” he shot back.

You opened your mouth for a retort—but stopped when his expression shifted. The grin slipped. His shoulders tensed. His hand flexed against his thigh like he was bracing himself.

“Seraphim…” His voice was low, careful. “What are we?”

Your head snapped toward him, caught off guard.

He kept talking, words tumbling too fast, nerves finally cracking through his usual bravado. “I mean, we’ve been partners forever, right? And we bicker, and we fight, and yeah, we’ve saved each other’s asses more times than I can count. But then—” His voice pitched higher. “Then we’re pretending to be married, and kissing for cover, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like pretending anymore, and I don’t know where the act stops and where… whatever this is starts, and—”

You stared at him, blinking slowly, as his rambling grew wilder.

“—and maybe it’s just me, maybe I’ve been reading into things, maybe you really do just think I’m an arrogant pain in the ass, but I can’t stop thinking about the tango, and the look on your face when—”

You cut him off, your voice flat but your heart hammering in your throat.

“Just kiss me, you idiot.”

He froze. Mouth open. Eyes wide.

Then, slowly, a grin curved across his bruised face. “Gladly.”

And he leaned in, closing the distance in one smooth, decisive motion. His mouth met yours, softer this time—no pretense, no audience, no act to maintain. Just him. Just you. His hand cupped your cheek, careful, as if you might break, while the other pressed against the mattress to steady himself.

You sighed into the kiss, your fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer despite the ache in your ribs. The world fell away again—no satellites, no missions, no code names. Just the two of you, raw and unguarded, finally admitting what had been burning between you all along.

When he pulled back, breathless and grinning, his forehead resting against yours, he whispered, “So that’s a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Shut up and kiss me again.”

He chuckled, low and warm, before doing exactly that.

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