"i think alot, but I don't say much"💋

“You'll need to be more convincing than that,” she mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “Afraid I won’t make a believable doting wife?”

She smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Afraid you’ll catch feelings.”

You laugh once, short and hollow.

“Right. Because you never do.”

The villa is gorgeous.

A little too gorgeous, actually.

Light pours across the marble floors, the sea is framed perfectly through sheer curtains, and the bed is one, singular, frustratingly large bed.

You toss your bag onto the armchair and glance at Yelena, who hasn’t moved from the doorway.

“You taking the left or the right?”

She doesn’t answer.

Just walks past you, shrugs off her jacket, and throws herself across the mattress like it’s the only battlefield she can’t control.

“Whichever side lets me keep a weapon within reach,” she mutters.

You watch her from the corner of your eye.

The hard lines of her face. The tension under her skin. The way she never seems to breathe fully.

You remember the girl she used to be.

Before the Red Room chewed her up. Before you escaped it and left others behind.

You wonder if she remembers you.

The mission kicks off with a gallery dinner hosted by your target, Malikov. You wear a red silk dress that clings in all the right places. She stares when she thinks you don’t notice.

She wears a black suit, tie loosened just enough to look dangerous. Everyone watches her. You pretend not to care.

But when her fingers slide along your waist in front of the guests, when she leans in close and murmurs “Smile, Detka,” into your ear like it’s a promise, you forget the mission entirely.

You smile. Too easily.

And that’s when you know.

This isn't fake. Not to you at least.

That night, after the party, you try to sleep. You really do.

But the air in the villa is too thick. Her presence is everywhere, her scent is everywhere.

You notice the hallway light under the bedroom door.

You find her on the balcony, barefoot in a tank top and joggers, hair damp from a shower, beer in hand. She doesn't look at you when she speaks.

“You were staring at me tonight.”

You hesitate. “So were you.”

A beat.

Then, a whisper, a plea. “I wasn’t pretending.”

You step closer. “Neither was I.”

She turns to face you. Her jaw clenches. Her eyes, those gorgeous eyes, burn into you.

“We shouldn't,” she says, voice low, uneven.

You nod. “We already are.”

She kisses you as if she’s drowning.

Like you’re the only thing keeping her alive. Her hands cradle your face, then slip down to your waist, then hold you like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go.

Clothes fall away slowly, deliberately, each layer dropped like a secret finally released. She doesn't rush. Not with you.

The bed is cool under your back, but her skin is warm, burning where it touches yours.

Her mouth trails down your neck, over your collarbone, and moves lower. She whispers your name like it hurts like it’s a prayer.

And when her fingers are inside you, forehead pressed to yours, her breath shaky and reverent, it feels like something holy.

You’ve never felt so wanted. Not just for your body but for you.

Later, tangled together in silence, she brushes her knuckles along your cheek.

“You scare me,” she admits.

You take her hand and kiss her fingers.

“Good. I scare myself too.”

The final night of the mission comes faster than either of you want.

You get the codes. Malikov dies.

The moment you’re told the cover’s no longer needed, something in your chest sinks.

Yelena doesn't say anything. She just stares at the wedding ring still on your hand.

You pull it off slowly, set it on the windowsill, and then look at her.

“Was any of it real for you?”

Her eyes are unreadable. “Every moment.”

Silence stretches.

“Come with me,” she says softly. “No mission. No lies.”

Your breath catches. “You’re serious?”

She steps forward, hand brushing your cheek.

“I’ve done enough pretending for ten lives,” she murmurs. “But I wasn’t pretending when I touched you. I wasn’t pretending when I kissed you. And I sure as hell wasn’t pretending when I-”

You cut her off with a kiss, deep and slow, and everything inside you says yes.

You leave the villa the next day. No longer undercover. No longer playing a role.

Her fingers are laced with yours.

The ring isn’t on your finger anymore but somehow, it feels more real now than it ever did.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

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