🧿

You looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, the distant hum of music and laughter from downstairs dances across your ears. You’ve lived in New York with Roy for a few months now, with suspicious radio silence from Harvey, and you’ve been enjoying the time you’ve had. Right now the Titans are all in the living room enjoying drinks and playing various card games, you’re three drinks in yourself. There’s a knock on the doorframe of the bathroom and you look up. Roy is standing there, a drink in hand and a half crooked smile as he leans against the frame.

“Didn’t you quit drinking?” You ask.

“Didn’t you? How many drinks have you had tonight?”

“Touche. Only three, just enough for a buzz. You?”

“This is my third, same as you. Really only drink at times like this now.”

“Yeah, me too.” There’s a beat of silence before you look up at Roy again. “Did you need something, or just being nosy?” You tease

“Just checking in on you, it’s loud down there and well Wally, he’s been a lot with the questions and stuff. Just making sure that you’re ok. You avoided the questions on what you were doing in all that time you were gone, about Two-Face.”

“I don’t want the same lecture that you gave me from everyone else, especially Dick.”

“I’m sorry, I was angry over a lot of things. Especially when I saw you alive, I was so mad, so mad you didn’t tell anyone, tell me.”

“It was a weird spot for me, it still is.”

“I can send everyone home, just make it a me and you night. Finish our drinks and watch a movie?” He holds out a hand to help you take the small step down from the bathroom back to the main hallway and you take it.

“No, no, it’s fine. Thank you. I did miss them, I’m glad they’re here, just needed a quick breather.”

“You ready to go back out?”

You nod and follow him down the narrow flight of stairs, your hand pressed against his back as the weight of your third drink catches up to you. A giggle escapes your lips as a memory crosses your mind from all the bar staircases you and Roy walked down together all those years ago. He turns to look back at you, raising an eyebrow, but you just shrug and push him forward slightly. A cheer erupts as you enter the living room and Wally zips over grabbing your shoulders with a big lopsided grin that’s a telltale sign of a speedster that is way too drunk for his own good.

“The prodigal son returns! I thought you left us again!” Wally chimes out in a slur, the slowest you’ve ever heard him talk.

“Someone needs to be cut off, who keeps letting him have access to alcohol?.” You gently push him off of you as he grabs onto Roy’s arm.

“You’re always so mean to me!” Wally’s face forms a pout as he speaks as Roy walks him back to the couch, in which Wally promptly plops down. You take your seat in front of the small coffee table, running your hands through the soft rug as you debate which snack to grab from the vast array of choices in front of you. Roy grabs the container of Lofthouse cookies and slides them your way on the table and you grin. Something about the way being inebriated makes those cookies taste so good needs to be studied, you think, as you begin to take too big of a bite of one than needed and sink back against the bottom of the recliner behind you. The same recliner that you did not notice Roy had taken the chance to claim as his seat for the rest of the night. Your head bumps against his knee and you shoot back forward, looking back at him. You're met with a warm smile and Roy parting his legs slightly, so you let you head fall back against the lower part of the recliner, hitting the soft cushion. Your cheeks can't help but to flush as you think of the position your head is in right now, this was bad. You take a sip of the beer you've been holding onto for the past hour, the taste now painfully flat and slightly warm, and you sigh. Things with Roy since moving in with him have been, odd, to say the least. At first, your boundaries were obvious. You were only there because Harvey insisted you go, but as time passed and no word came from Harvey or any of his informants, you found yourself relaxing. What started as you joining Roy on the couch one late night when he got back from a patrol ended up turning into a weekly movie night. You were getting comfortable, complacent even, it was an odd feeling to you. Those movie nights slowly evolved into more, Roy going as far to prepare a meal most nights, trying something new that he has been wanting to cook, or a familiar favorite. On nights of new meals, he'd present the dish with a large smile, giving a brief history of the meal, and making some cheesy comment on how "If both of us are locked down in this city, we shall travel with our food!" in a silly posh accent. You remind yourself to thank Oliver for teaching Roy how to cook next time you see him.

You look around the room noting all your friends, one's you had considered to be in the past, that are all back in your life. Vic and Garfield are playing some racing game, laughing when one pit maneuvers the other into a wall to slow them down. Kori is lounging across the loveseat, her hair cascading around her frame and the armrest of the couch. She's humming slightly while Donna sits on the same couch as her, her legs across Donna's lap. Donna is leaning back laughing as Dick makes some comment muffled to your ears from the music and noise from Vic and Gar. The warmth of the beer hits your stomach and you feel your eyes get heavier, letting the sounds of the room float through your body. Your head leans to rest against the inside of Roy's knee and you feel him brace it to support you more, a small smile graces your lips. Roy brings a hand down and rubs your shoulder gently, like a calm massage to keep you grounded. This type of thing has become a more regular occurance as well, entering dangerous territory close to how things used to be between the two of you before you left. The alcohol clouding your mind didn't let you process how the thought of that made you feel. Instead, you look up at Roy, half expecting him to be staring at Donna like he always did back even when the two of you shared a bed almost every night, but he wasn't his eyes were on you. He squeezed your shoulder slightly when he saw you glance up at him matching your smile with one of his own.

Dick left first, Wally in tow, making sure the Scarlet Speedster made it back to Titan's tower safe for the night. He looked sick and tired of Wally, who was currently laughing to himself with the biggest shit eating grin on his face imaginable. Donna, Kori, Garth, and Raven left next in a group. You get up to hug both Donna and Kori bye, promising them that you plan to stick around and that you will see them again. All that was left in the house was you, Roy, Gar, and Vic. Roy had decided it was time for them to leave too, practically chasing them out of the door. It was late, borderline daylight late, and now you and Roy sit in the kitchen over a glass of ice water he had brought the both of you.

"How was that?" he asked leaning against the wall next to your chair and taking a sip of his water.

"A lot, but it was nice. Seeing everyone again. I feel like I could've answered their questions better."

"The last thing Dick needed to know was that you were in cohorts with Two-Face. You would've been scolded, just like you said. It was smart to avoid the questions."

"Yeah, it just, it felt like I was lying to them."

"You don't owe anyone anything."

"I do. I ran off for years. Everyone thought I was dead. You thought I was dead."

"And it was largely my fault. I chased you off. I wasn't there for you like you were me. I treated you horribly when you were going through the exact thing as me."

"We've been over this countless times Roy, it's in the past. It's ok." I reach my hand out to grab his. "Trust me, I would've put up one hell of a fight in coming here if I didn't forgive you."

"I'm pretty sure I remember you throwing a fit to Two-Face."

"I promise, It would've been much much worse if I was still as pissed at you as I had been all that time ago."

You stand up, maybe it was the alcohol, but you wanted to be closer to him. Your whole body felt warm, you two hadn't really been this close since before the falling out. Roy's arm reaches around your waist, just high enough to still be respectful, to help support you as you drunkenly wobble on your feet. He was a solid wall of support as he guided you up the stairs, your body leaning into his, your hands on his over your waist.

"I missed this." You whisper as Roy opens the door to your room.

"I missed you, I missed us." Roy answers, watching your eyes for a reaction, but you look away. Even under the influence, you knew this couldn't be. It's temporary, this arrangement, no point in getting attached to him again. It's not worth the risk. It's not worth the fights that the two of you used to have so often it was more common than the air you breathed.

"We shouldn't. We know how this ends." A sigh from both of you. You slip from his grasp, making the way towards your bed. You pull your shirt off from over your head, you know Roy is still there in the doorway but it doesn't bother you. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the fact you've changed in front of him countless times before, but you weren't bothered as you slipped into your bed. The cool of whatever expensive high thread count sheets Oliver buys cradle your skin.

"Need anything from me before I go?" Roy asks, the tone in his voice indicating he's not quite ready to leave.

"I'm ok, thank you. Goodnight Roy. Tell the Titans that I'm sorry if my mood wasn't great."

"They didn't think that at all." He turns the light off and closes the door. "Goodnight."

The weight of the events from the night before hit you harder than Harley Quinn's bat when you woke up. A pounding headache from the hangover followed by waves of embarrassment from remembering the way you sat between Roy's legs on the floor, the way his hands rubbed your shoulders. How his gaze never left you once the entire night. You groan, rolling over onto your side to swing your legs over the bed, and stand. Your body aches with the first morning stretch on your feet and you find some clothes to toss on for the day. Today was the day you were going to call Harvey again, try to get more answers on his radio silence. You don't like that your guard is dropping here, your guard hasn't dropped in years.

Making your way downstairs you catch the smell of something cooking in the kitchen and head that way, the smell is sweet and rich. When you get close, you see a pan of cinnamon rolls steaming on the island and your mouth waters.

"Didn't think you were the cinnamon roll type in the morning, Roy. At least I've never seen you make em."

You finish walking into the kitchen as you speak and you hear the sound of a utensil clatter. When you look up you notice it's not Roy. It's Oliver and Dinah, both of whom are staring at you like they've see a ghost. As if on que, Roy appears looking freshly woken up from the sound of the utensil dropping to the floor.

"Roy? You didn't tell us you had a guest." Dinah spoke first, breaking the ever thickening barrier of silence.

"A dead guest at that," Ollie chimes in, "Well, I guess presumed dead. Undead? Is this another Black Lantern situation?"

Your mouth is dry, meeting the Titans again was one thing, but they were old friends with drinks in hand, this is different. Ollie and Dinah were both friends and teammates of your mentor, Ray, Atom himself. They were also the mentor to Roy and are well aware of the complicated history the two of you have. Roy speaks up, saving you from the way your mouth hangs open in surprise.

"Not a Black Lantern situation. Moreso a pretend to be dead and come back situation and not tell anyone they were alive."

Ollie shrugs, "Fair, wouldn't be the first time. Why didn't you tell us? I mean he's in my house, sleeping in my guest bedroom. I feel like it would've been nice to know."

"In my defence, I didn't expect you to be back today, let alone this week."

"Vacation fell short due to an alert at the Watchtower."

"I'm sorry, Ollie, Dinah, I didn't mean to stay long. I can leave tonight, I was planning to leave pretty soon anyway." Roy gives you a look at that comment and you avoid his gaze.

"Don't listen to Ollie, he's grumpy from the trip," Dinah says, patting Oliver on his back sternly. "You are welcome to stay as long as you need." She smiles and it's warm, like it always was around you. She knows more about your struggles than most, often finding a younger you in a mess and picking you up, getting you cleaned up, and back on your feet before Ray found you. "Join us for breakfast!"

"I really appreciate the offer Dinah, but I've really got to make some important calls today and uh, work on getting back home."

"Oh are you going back to Ivy Town?"

"No, uhm, most likely Gotham. It's where I have been staying these past years."

"Oh wow, Bruce never mentioned you were there."

"I uh-"

Roy claps his hands and chimes in, "He spent a lot of time trying to stay under the radar, didn't get out much, hence the reason we all thought he was dead." He looks to you from the corner of his eye, a silent notion to stay quiet of your time of borderline villainy.

Dinah just smiles and once again offers breakfast, only for Roy to decline before you can say anyhing.

"We actually have plans to get breakfast at a local resturant, sorry Ollie. I know he really misses your cooking but maybe tomorrow if you'll still be here?"

Oliver nods as Roy quickly ushers you from the room.

"What are you doing Roy? That was suspicious as hell. They're going to think we are fucking or something, you acted like a teenager caught with his pants down." You scold him under your breath.

"You were the suspicious one, were you just going to tell them that you were working for Two-Face?"

"I'm not stupid Roy!"

The two of you walk out the front door and you get in the front seat of your car, turning the key in the igniton. Roy quickly follows into the passenger seat. You rub your hands over your face with a groan. The last thing you wanted was for members of the Justice League to know you were back, let alone alive. Word will get out soon and it's only a matter of time before Bruce finds out what you were doing in Gotham while hiding from him in the cowl. You quickly compose yourself, throwing your vehicle into reverse and pulling into the street before driving off. The silence is deafening, the dull hum of whatever is playing on the radio isn't enough to drown out the overwhelming lack of talking. You didn't even know where you were driving to, you just kept turning onto random side streets in the New York.

"You told Ollie and Dinah that you were leaving today. Did you mean that?" Roy speaks first and you debate how you are going to answer.

"I don't know. I should. I need to get ahold of Harvey, the radio silence isn't like him, and I'm-" you pause. "I'm getting too comfortable here."

"It's good to be comfortable. You're safe. Back with people who care about you."

"I don't know Roy, I just- I don't know. I'm just supposed to be here for a job."

"Is this about last night?" "No. We were both drinking, not thinking right. It's fine."

Silence again.

"I just really wish Harvey would answer me so I didn't have to feel like a caged animal waiting to be told when it can go outside."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Just the hurry up and wait game as usual."

You had driven to and parked at a small cafe on the corner near a gas station. The place seems familiar but you aren't sure why, chalking it down to a place you've stopped a robbery at and nothing else.

"Breakfast?"

Roy looks more confused than usual, giving you a sidelong glance. "Yeah, I could eat."

"This place better be good, I really wanted those cinnamon rolls."

Another confused look from Roy, a part of you thinks for a moment that you almost see hurt but you brush it off. He doesn't say anything, just holds the door for you as you walk in.

The two of you are seated next to a wall of polaroids, all dated and showing usually one or two people with a very large empty milkshake glass and some silly hat on. Roy is glancing at the wall of photos, nervous.

"You take an ex here or something? What's got you so flighty?"

"Hmm? Oh it's nothing, just morning jitters. You know how I get when I'm hungry." He's not looking at you, so you follow his gaze. A photo that has been almost completely buried in years time hangs on the wall showing none other than you and Roy as teenagers with the same hat and empty glass mockup. The photo was old, Teen Titans old. You were leaning into Roy eyes closed with a big grin, his arm around your shoulders. He had that stupid yellow hat on and you had that old haircut you regretted so much. The two of you looked happy. Happier than either of you have been in god knows how long. You're starting to remember. A bet between you and Roy that you had won, and made him come try the 3 minute half gallon milkshake challenge with you. He had kissed you on the walk back to the Tower. That was the first time the two of you kissed, neither of you knowing the years long situationship it would lead to. The years of fights and tears and breakups just to end back in the other's room. You clear your throat and Roy looks back at you.

"Sorry. I would've gone somewhere else had I remembered. I shut a lot of those memories down."

"It's fine, so did I."

You feel for the poor waitress that brought the drinks to the table, the awkwardness radiating from the corner booth the two of you sat in. She shuffled away quickly, as polite as she could, with a smile.

"Guess I was the ex, huh?"

Roy snorts a laugh, "Yeah, something like that."

"We could replace the photo with a new one. Bet we can beat our old time."

"Absolutely not, I think I spent that whole night vomitting."

"That was from the milkshake? I thought you just hated kissing me that much." You grin and he laughs, almost spilling his coffee. The laughter is cut short when your phone buzzes. It's a message from Harvey that just reads Call Me. Roy looks at you, this distant look of fear that you will disappear again flashes across his face. He goes to reach for your hand but stops himself. Your heart is racing and you aren't sure if it's from excitement that Harvey didn't forget you, or nervousness of what he has to say.

"I'm going to step out really quick. I'll be back."

"Don't go running off again." Roy's voice is playful, but his expression isn't. He always did have a terrible Poker face.

"No promises." You tease back, trying to make your tone reassuring before stepping outside the cafe, your thumb hovering over the call button as you look behind over your shoulder into the window of a shop. You sigh before clicking the little symbol of the phone, anxiously listening to the sound of the ring, there are no hints to what direction this call will take.

@twentytomidnight I finally finished.... Now I can focus on that Warren fic 👀

You’d had a crush on him for long enough that you’d stopped being able to identify when it had crossed from inconvenient into embarrassing. Somewhere between the nights spent helping him organize case notes at two in the morning and the afternoon he’d appeared at your apartment with your favorite takeout because you’d mentioned having a bad week, friendship had become something significantly less manageable.

You’d dealt with it by never saying anything. Tim, presumably, had dealt with it by either not noticing or being remarkably good at pretending he hadn’t.

“Sure,” you said.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Sure?”

“You need a fake girlfriend. I can fake being your girlfriend.”

The words came out with far more confidence than you felt, particularly when Tim’s attention settled fully on you. He stared for a second as though recalculating something, then nodded once.

“Okay.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

At 8:17 the next morning, Tim sent you a document titled Relationship Continuity Notes.

It was eleven pages long.

You opened it while standing in your kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil and initially assumed he’d accidentally attached something else. Then you reached the section labeled Public Timeline and understood that Tim Drake had apparently approached fake dating with the same degree of preparation he used for covert surveillance.

According to the document, you and Tim had been dating for four months. Since you’d actually been friends for years, there was no need to invent how you’d met or explain why you already knew so much about each other. The fabricated part began with your supposed first date at a small Italian restaurant outside Gotham, where the likelihood of running into photographers was lower, followed by becoming exclusive three weeks later. Two Wayne Foundation events you’d actually attended together as friends had been folded into the cover as discreet couple appearances, giving the relationship a public history without requiring either of you to invent one from scratch. The lack of public confirmation was intentional rather than suspicious.

There were sections covering likely questions, acceptable public displays of affection, subjects to redirect away from, and several possible explanations for why neither of you had posted about the relationship.

Tim had also included your preferred tea order.

You stared at that line for a while before continuing.

He’d noted that you didn’t drink coffee because it upset your stomach, that you didn’t drink alcohol, and that if someone ordered something for you, a sweet-tart mocktail would be the safest choice. He’d specified that strawberries were your favorite fruit, that you enjoyed raspberries and blackberries but disliked getting seeds stuck in your teeth, and that you liked kiwi despite being allergic to it.

There was even a note about oranges: likes flavor. Dislikes pith and sticky hands.

You called him.

Tim answered on the second ring. “Morning.”

“Why did you include the orange thing?”

A pause followed, short enough that anyone else might not have noticed it. “You hate pith.”

“I’m aware.”

“There’s fruit on the menu.”

You lowered the phone and looked at the ceiling before bringing it back to your ear. “You included fruit contingency planning.”

“It’s not contingency planning.”

“Then what is it?”

“Relevant information.”

You closed the document before discovering what else Tim considered relevant information before nine in the morning. “Eleven pages, Tim.”

“The last two are mostly reference material.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

He seemed genuinely puzzled by that assessment.

You should’ve known then that Saturday was going to be a problem.

The garment bag arrived at your apartment shortly after noon on Saturday.

You knew it was from Tim before checking the note because nobody else in your life would’ve sent something in packaging expensive enough to make you afraid of touching it with unwashed hands. Inside was a dress, carefully wrapped and unmistakably chosen for a Wayne-level event rather than anything already hanging in your closet.

It was also beautiful, which irritated you more than it should’ve.

You’d expected something generic, the sort of dress an assistant could order after being given your approximate size and the gala’s dress code. Instead, it looked like something you would’ve chosen for yourself if the price tag hadn’t made you immediately put it back. The fabric fell elegantly without feeling restrictive, formal enough for the ballroom Tim had described but comfortable enough that you wouldn’t spend the night worrying about moving incorrectly.

Then you tried it on.

You stood in front of the mirror for a very long time because it didn’t merely fit well enough to make do. The waist sat exactly where it should, the length worked with the shoes you’d planned to wear, and there wasn’t a single place where the fabric pinched or hung incorrectly.

You had never told Tim your measurements.

By Saturday evening, you’d developed approximately twelve explanations for how he’d gotten them, ranging from reasonable to criminal.

You were still debating which category was most likely when your phone buzzed.

I’m outside.

You glanced at the time.

Exactly seven.

Of course.

You told him to come up while you dug through your jewelry box for the earrings that matched the dress. He already knew how to get into the building; Tim had been to your apartment often enough that there was no reason to send him the code again.

The knock came two minutes later.

You grabbed your bag, crossed the apartment, and opened the door.

Tim forgot whatever he’d been about to say.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. One hand remained slightly raised as though he’d been about to adjust his cuff, while his gaze moved over you before returning abruptly to your face.

You waited, but Tim Drake, who could fill silence during interrogations, board meetings, and conversations with Batman when Bruce had decided monosyllables constituted communication, continued saying absolutely nothing. The pause lasted long enough for nerves to creep in.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.” The answer came quickly enough to nearly overlap your question, and Tim blinked as though realizing that saying nothing else might actually be worse. “You look…”

His gaze dipped again despite himself.

“You look beautiful.”

Something warm and dangerous unfurled beneath your ribs. Tim complimented you sometimes, usually with the same straightforward sincerity he applied to everything else, but this wasn’t like that. He looked genuinely startled by you.

“Thanks,” you managed.

His hand finally completed its journey to his cuff. “The dress fits?”

The warmth inside you faltered.

Slowly, you looked down at yourself before lifting your eyes back to him. “Tim.”

His expression changed immediately.

“How did you know this would fit?”

“I estimated.”

“My measurements?”

His attention flicked toward the elevator as though briefly considering whether the mission gave him grounds to retreat. When you crossed your arms, he sighed.

“I know what sizes you usually wear.”

“How?”

“You leave clothes at my apartment.”

“One sweatshirt.”

“Two.”

“That still doesn’t explain this.”

“You’ve complained about sizing before. I know which brands run small on you, and you mentioned having to size up in one of them because the cut was wrong through the—”

He stopped, and when you stared at him, Tim had the decency to look faintly uncomfortable.

“You were going to say bust.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You absolutely were.”

“It was relevant to the estimate.”

“You reverse-engineered my measurements.”

“I estimated them.”

“The dress fits like it was tailored.”

“I allowed for some—”

You pointed at him. “Do not say margin of error right now.”

His mouth closed.

For perhaps the first time since you’d met him, you won an argument because Tim had apparently determined that continuing it posed an unacceptable operational risk. Instead, he held out his hand.

“Ready?”

You looked down at it.

You’d held Tim’s hand before. He’d pulled you through crowds, steadied you on icy sidewalks, and once kept your fingers trapped loosely in his while falling asleep on your couch after thirty-six hours awake.

This was different because both of you knew what it was supposed to mean.

You slipped your hand into his, and Tim’s fingers closed around yours. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles before he seemed to notice himself doing it.

Tim’s car was waiting downstairs. It wasn’t a limousine, which you appreciated, although it was still polished enough that the doorman watched the two of you with obvious interest when Tim opened the passenger door for you.

You settled into the seat and immediately noticed a pair of flats on the floor.

Your size.

You turned toward Tim, but he was already walking around the front of the car, leaving you several seconds to contemplate the implications before he climbed behind the wheel.

“You brought backup shoes.”

“You hate wearing heels for more than a few hours.”

“I don’t remember telling you my shoe size.”

“You ordered sneakers from my laptop once.”

Of course you had.

You decided not to ask whether Tim remembered the credit card number too.

The first twenty minutes of the drive passed easily enough. Tim reviewed the broad points of the investigation without drowning you in details, which suggested he’d actually listened the previous three times you told him that you didn’t need to understand the corporate structure of every criminal organization he investigated.

Bellamy was moving money for someone, and the encrypted work phone tied to the transfers would be locked in the private hospitality suite he was using as an office for the evening. Tim needed several uninterrupted minutes with it to clone the contents and confirm who was on the other end of the transactions.

Your role, operationally speaking, was mostly decorative.

“Comforting,” you said.

“I mean for the investigation.”

“Much better.”

Tim’s mouth twitched.

You were searching the center console for a charging cable when your hand closed around a familiar foil packet.

You pulled it out.

Lactaid.

There were several more underneath it.

You turned slowly toward Tim, who kept his eyes on the road.

“Why do you have this much Lactaid in your car?”

“You’re lactose intolerant.”

“I know why I have Lactaid. Why do you have enough to supply a small restaurant?”

“There’s more at my apartment.”

You stared at him.

“That was not the reassuring answer you thought it was.”

“You keep forgetting to buy it.”

“So you stock it?”

“You keep eating dairy.”

“Because cheese is worth suffering for.”

“Which is why I keep Lactaid.”

The logic was maddeningly circular.

You dropped the packets back into the console and tried very hard not to think about the fact that Tim apparently planned for your potential consumption of pizza even when you weren’t around.

The gala occupied three floors of one of Gotham’s older hotels, all restored marble and enormous windows overlooking the river. Tim’s hand settled against the small of your back when you entered, warm through the fabric of your dress, and remained there as you moved through the crowd.

You reminded yourself that it was part of the cover.

That reminder became less useful when his thumb shifted gently whenever someone passed too close behind you.

Mrs. Bellamy found you within ten minutes.

She was charming, curious, and devastatingly pleased by the discovery that Tim Drake had apparently been hiding a relationship from Gotham society for four months. It made immediate sense why Tim had described her as someone who noticed everyone. She remembered you from previous Wayne events and apparently kept track of how rarely Tim brought a date with him.

“How did you finally convince him to stay at one of these things for longer than half an hour?” she asked.

You smiled. “I threatened to start telling people he made me up.”

Tim looked down at you. “You said you wouldn’t use that.”

“It was in one of the appendices.”

Mrs. Bellamy laughed, and Tim’s expression softened enough to sell the joke.

You wished your heart would stop interpreting every useful piece of undercover behavior as evidence.

A server approached with champagne. You’d barely opened your mouth before Tim shook his head politely and took a glass of sparkling water for himself.

“She doesn’t drink.”

The server nodded and moved on.

Mrs. Bellamy looked between you. “Nothing at all?”

“Not really,” you said.

“There’s a bar in the east room,” Tim added, his hand still resting at your back. “They’re doing mocktails.”

You glanced at him. “You checked?”

“The menu was included with the invitation.”

Of course it was.

Twenty minutes later, while you spoke with a Wayne Foundation donor you vaguely remembered meeting once before, Tim excused himself to speak with Bellamy. Their conversation lasted several minutes before Tim broke away and headed back toward you, stopping at the bar along the way. By the time he reached your side, he was carrying a glass that he placed into your hand without interrupting your conversation.

The drink was citrus and berry, sweet enough to be enjoyable but tart enough to keep it from becoming syrupy. You waited until the donor moved away before looking at Tim.

“You ordered for me.”

“You were busy.”

“You remembered.”

He glanced at the glass. “Of course I remembered.”

You took another sip, trying not to read too much into how easily he said it.

His attention lingered on your mouth for a moment too long.

The next hour passed in a collection of increasingly dangerous little moments. Tim guided you around a photographer without breaking conversation, noticed when you started shifting your weight because of your shoes and steered you toward a chair before you said anything, and moved a small dish containing kiwi garnish away from your place setting before you’d fully registered it was there.

When dessert arrived, Tim traded two of his strawberries for the raspberries on your plate without asking. You liked raspberries, but you hated spending the rest of the evening wondering whether there were seeds caught in your teeth, and apparently Tim had filed that away alongside everything else.

You looked at him.

He was already eating one of the raspberries as though the exchange required no explanation.

There was something deeply unfair about loving someone who could make quiet care look so automatic. You’d spent years telling yourself that Tim was simply observant. He remembered things because remembering was what his brain did. He tracked information other people let slip away, stored details, and built patterns from scraps.

Maybe none of this meant anything.

Then Mrs. Bellamy returned.

She glanced at your plate before looking toward Tim with an amused expression. “You know, I was wondering when this would happen.”

Tim paused. “What?”

“You two.”

You nearly choked on your drink.

Mrs. Bellamy seemed not to notice. “I met her at the museum benefit last year, remember? You spent half the evening making sure she wasn’t getting trapped by that dreadful man from the zoning board.”

Tim went very still beside you.

You remembered that benefit.

You hadn’t known he was watching.

Mrs. Bellamy smiled at you. “He looked ready to climb over the table every time the poor man tried to talk to you.”

“He was annoying,” Tim said.

“He was seventy.”

“That didn’t make him less annoying.”

Her laughter drew the attention of someone nearby, but you barely heard it. Mrs. Bellamy tilted her head, looking between the two of you with far too much interest.

“So what finally did it?”

Tim’s fingers tightened fractionally around his glass. “What finally did what?”

“Made you realize.”

The easy answer was sitting right there.

He could’ve referred to the fake timeline. Four months ago, dinner outside Gotham, friendship becoming something else. You’d rehearsed all of it.

Instead, Tim looked at you.

For a second, the room seemed to thin around the edges.

“There wasn’t really a moment,” he said quietly. “I think I was already there before I knew what to call it.”

Your breath caught.

Tim seemed to realize what he’d admitted at the same moment you did.

Mrs. Bellamy’s expression softened into something almost unbearably knowing, but someone called her name from the other side of the table before she could say anything else. She excused herself, leaving you and Tim sitting in a silence neither of you seemed prepared to touch.

He looked away first.

You didn’t mention it.

Neither did he.

Near the end of dinner, Tim excused himself to take what everyone else believed was a phone call. He was gone for seven minutes, long enough to clone Bellamy’s phone and just long enough for Bellamy’s security chief to start wondering where Timothy Drake had disappeared to.

You noticed the man watching shortly after Tim returned.

Tim noticed you noticing.

His posture didn’t change as he touched lightly at your elbow and guided you out of the dining room toward the quieter gallery overlooking the ballroom. You kept smiling as though this was nothing more than a boyfriend deciding he’d had enough of crowded tables.

“Problem?” you murmured.

“Maybe.”

Tim’s hand slid into yours.

Several couples stood along the gallery railing, far enough apart to provide the illusion of privacy. Bellamy’s security chief followed at enough of a distance to pretend he hadn’t.

“He doesn’t know where I went,” Tim said, leaning close enough that anyone watching would assume the conversation was private for entirely different reasons. “He saw me coming back from this wing. I need him to think I was checking whether the gallery was private enough before I brought you up here, not coming from Bellamy’s suite.”

You glanced toward the security chief without turning your head. “And how are we convincing him of that?”

Tim’s gaze dropped toward your mouth.

Understanding arrived in a rush.

“Oh.”

His expression changed immediately. “We don’t have to.”

You loved him a little more for that, which felt deeply inconvenient under the circumstances.

“You’re asking permission to kiss your fake girlfriend.”

“I’m asking permission to kiss you.”

The distinction landed somewhere beneath your ribs.

You nodded.

Tim gave you enough time to change your mind anyway before releasing your hand, cupping your jaw, and kissing you.

Everything about the first second was careful: the gentle pressure of his mouth, the way his fingers rested against your cheek without pulling you closer, the controlled angle that would look convincing from across the gallery without turning into something neither of you could take back. He clearly meant it to be brief.

Then you kissed him back.

Tim forgot the plan.

His hand shifted into your hair while the other moved around your waist, drawing you closer until your hand caught against the front of his jacket. His mouth parted against yours, and suddenly there was very little controlled about the way he kissed you except the obvious effort he was making not to lose control completely.

You’d imagined kissing Tim before.

Your imagination had been embarrassingly inadequate.

The kiss deepened for one dangerous moment before Tim seemed to remember where you were. He pulled back slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours, and neither of you was breathing quite steadily.

Footsteps moved away behind you.

Tim stared at you.

“Did it work?” you whispered.

His eyes remained fixed on your mouth. “What?”

You almost laughed. “The cover.”

“Right.”

He blinked and looked toward the entrance.

The security chief was gone.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moved apart. Tim’s hand was still at your waist, and you were still holding his jacket when his thumb moved once against your side.

“We should go downstairs.”

“Probably.”

You stayed there another several seconds.

The rest of the mission went smoothly, which felt offensive considering the state of your nervous system.

Barbara confirmed that Tim had gotten what he needed from Bellamy’s phone, and he spent the final forty minutes of the gala behaving as though he hadn’t just kissed you hard enough to make you forget the name of the person you were supposedly helping him investigate.

Except he kept touching you.

His hand found yours more often than the cover required. When he leaned close to speak, his breath warmed your ear and sent heat down your spine. At one point, while Bellamy spoke to someone across the table, Tim rested his hand on your knee beneath the linen.

Nobody could see it.

That was the problem.

His palm was warm through your dress, fingers spread just above your knee. When your leg shifted instinctively toward him, Tim’s attention snapped to your face.

Neither of you said anything.

His hand remained there.

By the time you left, you were fairly certain pretending to date Tim Drake was actively shortening your lifespan.

When he asked if you wanted to come back to his apartment while Barbara finished processing the copied data, you agreed before good judgment could intervene. Your heels had already been abandoned for the flats waiting in his car, and by the time you followed Tim inside and dropped your shoes beside the door, the gala already felt much farther away than it actually was.

Tim loosened his tie as he followed you toward the kitchen. “Want something to eat?”

“Eventually.”

“I have pasta.”

“With cheese?”

“Obviously.”

“Do you have—”

“Second drawer.”

You opened it.

There was an unopened box of Lactaid.

Underneath it sat another.

You stared into the drawer before slowly looking back at him. “Why do you have two boxes?”

“You go through it faster than I expected.”

“So you bought more?”

“The next shipment isn’t until the end of the month.”

You stopped.

“The next what?”

Tim went suspiciously quiet.

“You have a Lactaid subscription.”

“It’s cheaper that way.”

You put the box down very carefully.

Something about tonight had finally pushed you beyond your ability to accept Tim’s explanations at face value.

There were oranges in the fruit bowl on his counter. You reached for one, and Tim held out his hand before you’d even started peeling it.

“Give it to me.”

You looked at his hand, then at him.

Slowly, you passed him the orange.

Tim started peeling it with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this for you too many times to consider it remarkable. Once the skin was gone, he began methodically stripping away the white pith.

You watched him until he finally looked up.

“What?”

“You peel oranges for me.”

“You hate doing it.”

“That isn’t an explanation.”

“It’s literally the explanation.”

“You remove all the pith.”

“You think it’s bitter.”

“You have a Lactaid subscription.”

“That’s unrelated.”

“You sent me a dress in the right size without asking for my measurements. You bought emergency flats in my size, know my tea order, moved kiwi away from me before I saw it, brought me exactly the kind of mocktail I like, and traded me your strawberries because you knew I’d want them more.”

Tim stopped peeling.

You took a breath.

“You wrote eleven pages about how to pretend to be my boyfriend, and most of your preparation was just knowing me.”

Silence settled over the kitchen.

Tim looked down at the orange in his hands, and for once, he didn’t have an immediate rebuttal.

Your heartbeat had climbed high enough that you could feel it in your throat, but you’d already started and couldn’t imagine surviving another year of pretending you didn’t see what was happening between you.

“You said you always notice me.”

His fingers tightened slightly around the peel.

“At the gala.”

“I know.”

“Was that part of the cover?”

Tim looked at you. “No.”

The answer was quiet.

You swallowed. “Was the kiss?”

His expression tightened. “It started that way.”

Something inside you tipped.

Tim set the orange down.

“I knew I liked you,” he said before you could ask another question. “That isn’t something I figured out tonight.”

You hadn’t expected honesty to knock the air out of you quite so efficiently.

“How long?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Does it matter?”

“Considering you have Lactaid delivered to your apartment because I refuse to stop eating pizza, I think I’m allowed to ask.”

A faint flush reached his face. “That started eight months ago.”

“The subscription or the feelings?”

“The subscription.”

Despite everything, you laughed.

Tim’s mouth curved briefly before the expression faded. “The feelings were before that.”

“How far before?”

He leaned back against the counter, looking suddenly more uncertain than he had while sneaking into Bellamy’s suite earlier.

“I don’t know exactly.”

That might’ve been the most convincing proof he could’ve offered. Tim knew dates and timelines; if he couldn’t identify when friendship had become love, it was because there hadn’t been a clean boundary to mark.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His eyes dropped. “Because you were already there.”

You frowned.

“In my life,” he clarified. “I already had you. Telling you meant I could lose that.”

The softness of it hurt more than anything dramatic could have.

You stepped closer, and Tim watched you carefully.

“I said yes to tonight too fast.”

“I noticed.”

“Of course you did.”

His mouth twitched.

You stopped in front of him, close enough to catch the faint trace of his cologne. “I said yes because I wanted to know what it would feel like.”

His gaze sharpened. “To what?”

“Date you.”

Tim went very still.

This time, you enjoyed being the reason.

“You could’ve told me,” he said eventually.

You stared at him. “You made an eleven-page document instead of telling me.”

“Technically, nine pages.”

“Tim.”

“The appendices were supporting material.”

You caught his loosened tie and pulled him toward you.

Tim stopped talking.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Can I kiss you?”

The question warmed you all over despite the fact that you were already holding him by his tie.

“There’s nobody watching.”

“I know.”

“So you don’t need to.”

“I know.”

You smiled.

Tim’s hand settled carefully at your waist.

“Then yes.”

The second kiss was nothing like the first because there was no audience to convince and no security chief to fool. Tim kissed you slowly at first, as though allowing both of you time to understand that this was real, before your fingers tightened around his tie and patience became significantly less important.

His mouth moved against yours with enough hunger to make your knees feel unreliable. You caught yourself against his shoulders, and Tim’s hands slid around your waist, drawing you against him until there wasn’t room left for the careful distance you’d maintained for years.

When you kissed him harder, a quiet sound escaped him.

That seemed to ruin what remained of his restraint.

Tim turned you until your back met the counter, one hand braced beside you while the other slipped beneath the loose fall of your hair to cup the back of your neck. His mouth moved from yours to your jaw, then lower, pressing warm kisses along your throat while you tried to remember why you’d ever thought pretending to date him for four hours was survivable.

Your fingers slid into his hair, and Tim’s breath caught against your skin.

“You’re wearing the dress I picked,” he murmured.

“You just noticed?”

“I definitely noticed.”

You laughed softly, but his mouth returned to yours before you could say anything else.

The edge of the counter pressed against your hips. When you shifted onto it, Tim stepped naturally between your knees, his hands settling at your waist as the fabric of the dress gathered slightly beneath his fingers.

The kiss became messier.

Your hands moved beneath his jacket, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, and Tim’s thigh pressed between yours when you pulled him closer. The friction sent a sharp rush through you that made your breath catch against his mouth.

Tim stilled.

You knew immediately it wasn’t because he wanted to stop; the way his forehead dropped against yours made that painfully obvious.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

His eyes closed for a moment. “You’re making it really difficult to remember I wanted to take you on an actual date before we got this far.”

A smile tugged at your mouth. “You were doing a pretty convincing impression for four months.”

“I know. I’d like one that isn’t in an eleven-page document.”

You kissed him again, softer this time. Tim followed when you drew back, stealing another brief kiss before resting his forehead against yours.

There was something unexpectedly tender about the quiet that followed. His tie hung loose between you, your lipstick was definitely ruined, and his hair had stopped resembling anything appropriate for a gala several kisses ago. The skin along your throat still tingled from his mouth.

Still, Tim looked happier than you’d seen him all night.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Neither of you moved.

It buzzed again.

“Barbara?” you asked.

“Probably.”

“You should check.”

“I’m considering becoming irresponsible.”

You smiled. “Dangerous.”

“Very.”

Eventually, Tim reached for his phone without moving away from you.

Barbara had finished processing the data. Bellamy’s connection was confirmed, everything necessary had been forwarded to the appropriate people, and Tim was officially done working for the night.

He put the phone facedown.

You glanced toward the forgotten orange. “Are you going to finish peeling that?”

Tim looked at it, then at you. “Yes.”

He stepped back just far enough to retrieve it, finished peeling the orange, and separated it into segments before handing you one.

You took it. “You know this is boyfriend behavior.”

“I’m starting to understand that.”

“You have a subscription.”

“I’ll give you that one.”

“And the dress?”

His gaze traveled over you again.

This time, he didn’t pretend otherwise.

“I’m keeping my defense on the dress.”

“Which is?”

“I picked it because I knew you’d look beautiful in it.”

Heat crept into your face.

Tim looked pleased with himself for approximately three seconds before reaching for his phone again.

You narrowed your eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s your lying voice.”

“I don’t have a lying voice.”

“You absolutely have a lying voice.”

You leaned closer.

An Italian restaurant was open on his screen.

Of course it was.

“Tim.”

“What?”

“We’ve been dating for real for less than an hour.”

He glanced at the clock. “Forty-three minutes.”

You laughed hard enough that you nearly dropped your orange.

Tim smiled and reached for another segment, peeling away a final stubborn thread of pith before holding it out to you.

“So,” he said, “Tuesday?”

You ate the orange from his fingers. “Only if there’s pizza.”

“There can be pizza.”

“You’re supplying the Lactaid.”

“I think we’ve established that.”

You looked at the man who had spent years memorizing your preferences, stocking his apartment for you, peeling your oranges, keeping your favorite tea in his kitchen, and somehow convincing himself all of it belonged safely beneath the heading of friendship.

Then you caught his tie again.

“Fine.”

Tim leaned into you before you’d even finished pulling him closer.

“But the date doesn’t need a briefing document.”

Tim opened his mouth.

You kissed him until he stopped arguing.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider ❤️💛

taglist: @twentytomidnight, @ferbiederbie, @lackofsins, @rain-the-ramblr, @dutifullyshamelesstrash, @the-ancient-grimm, @fwrdsl4sh, @eighthwondrting, @sillygayfreak, @megumidefender89, @selina0226, @hotchhner

"you want slow, captain?" you purred, your voice dripping with saccharine cruelty. instead of increasing the friction, you deliberately slowed your hand to a glacial pace, your nails dragging with agonising precision from the sensitive skin beneath his balls all the way up to the weeping tip.

steve's back arched off the chair, a muffled wail breaking through peggy's palm as his entire body shuddered from the overstimulation. the serum made every ridge of your nail feel like lightning against his hyper sensitive nerves.

"oh, listen to him, peggy," you cackled, watching his desperate struggle with undisguised amusement. "so needy."

peggy just pressed her hand harder against his mouth, tilting her head as she watched him unravel, her eyes bright with condescending delight. just as steve seemed to be on the verge, you suddenly abandoned the slow torment, your grip snapping back into a brutal, rapid rhythm. steve's hips bucked violently against your palm, his body convulsing as the sudden change sent him spiralling past the point of no return.

"that's it, captain, give it to us," you commanded, your voice laced with cruel satisfaction as you watched his muscles lock.

a strangled cry died behind peggy's palm as steve finally came. his cock jerked spasmodically, spurting thick cum across his scattered recon files and the polished wood of his desk. he collapsed back into the chair, chest heaving, eyes rolling back in pure, overstimulated exhaustion.

you both broke into delighted laughter, cackling at the mess he'd made. peggy finally pulled her hand away, only to trace a finger through one of the white streaks on the desk as if examining a specimen.

"so messy, rogers." peggy finished with a smirk, tilting her head to examine the way the cum pooled between the classified documents.

you laughed, wiping your slick palm on the edge of his pristine uniform jacket. "completely pathetic, captain. all that strength, all that serum, and you're reduced to a shaking mess on a desk just because we touched you."

steve could only whimper, a broken, pathetic sound that vibrated against peggy's palm. his eyes were glazed, staring up at the ceiling as sweat rolled down his temples. he looked utterly defeated, stripped of his dignity more effectively than any enemy soldier could have managed.

"clean this up when you've regained your composure, rogers," peggy said smoothly, finally withdrawing her hand entirely and patting his flushed cheek condescendingly. "we have actual work to do."

you gave his cock one last mocking flick before standing up, leaving him panting and exposed. turning to peggy, the two of you sharing a satisfied glance over the ruined soldier. the sight of the legendary captain america reduced to a quivering, cum-stained mess atop his own classified intelligence, was more entertaining than any victory parade.

"come along, agent," peggy said, straightening her skirt with effortless poise as she began to walk toward the door. "we shouldn't keep the director waiting."

you followed suit, glancing back one last time at the broken man in the chair. steve was still staring at nothing, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps, his cock still twitching wetly in the aftermath of his humiliation.

"don't forget those files, captain," you called out over your shoulder with a cruel wink. "they're getting soaked."

# fic inspo = p!link gif on tumblr, literally straight in your face.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus @hisokamywaifu @rosemint-tea @axtira @infinictus

$ join taglist

You stared at yours for several seconds before looking up. “Evelyn?”

“It tested well.”

“With who?”

“People who don’t complain about operational aliases.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched.

You turned toward him. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I really wasn’t.”

That probably annoyed you more.

The briefing officer tapped the remote before either of you could continue, replacing your fabricated marriage certificate with an aerial photograph of a sprawling alpine resort. Snow covered the surrounding mountains, broken only by the narrow road leading through dense pine forest toward the estate.

Saint Armand Lodge had been built as a private retreat nearly a century ago and renovated several times since. The current owner, Laurent Vey, had converted it into the headquarters of a charitable foundation whose polished website featured photographs of schools, vaccination clinics, refugee aid programs, and smiling children from half a dozen countries.

The classified file told a different story.

Vey’s legitimate companies moved medical equipment and agricultural supplies across international borders. The same shipping routes had begun appearing in investigations involving forged identities, missing minors, bribed officials, and private adoptions that had never existed outside falsified paperwork. Investigators believed Vey wasn’t simply financing the network. He was coordinating it.

“This weekend is the first time we’ve confirmed that all five senior members of the organization will be in one place,” the briefing officer said. “Vey is hosting donors and business partners under the cover of the foundation’s annual winter retreat. Twenty-four guests, all vetted personally. Married couples only.”

Bucky looked down at the photograph again, and you could practically feel his objection forming.

“The Sinclair identities have been active for eighteen months,” she continued. “Viktor Sarin put them in Vey’s orbit last year, and the invitation came through six months ago. Aidan Sinclair founded a private cybersecurity company, sold his controlling interest three years ago, and now spends most of his time managing the Sinclair Foundation with his wife. Evelyn handles charitable partnerships and cultural acquisitions.”

You flipped through the folder. There were property records, tax filings, travel histories, photographs, charity events, and enough documentation to make two imaginary people appear more established than most real ones.

“How long have they been married?”

“Four years.”

Bucky made a quiet sound beside you.

You glanced over. “Problem?”

“Just wondering what I did to deserve four.”

“I’m sure Evelyn has her regrets.”

The briefing officer continued before the exchange could gain momentum. “Your invitation came through Sarin, who’s cooperating with investigators and has agreed to treat the Sinclairs as longtime acquaintances. If Vey checks your history against him, he’ll corroborate the cover. Once you’re inside, your primary objective is the server housed in the administration wing. We believe it contains transaction records, payment schedules, transportation routes, and identifying information for victims.”

The photograph was replaced with a floor plan. You leaned forward, studying the administration wing where it connected to the main lodge through an enclosed passageway on the second floor. Vey’s private office sat at the far end, along with a smaller records room and a secured server closet. The electronic locks were isolated from the guest network, which meant you would need physical access.

“Security?”

“Twenty-seven personnel registered with the estate. We believe at least twelve are directly involved with the network. The rest may simply think they work for a paranoid billionaire. Avoid engagement unless necessary.”

That part was directed toward Bucky, and he noticed.

“So she gets to hit people?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You looked at me.”

“Experience suggests I should.”

You ignored him and studied the service corridors. “Extraction?”

“Scheduled for Sunday afternoon with the rest of the guests. If your cover is compromised, emergency evacuation is available, but the nearest response team will be operating from the valley. Weather conditions may interfere with air support.”

Another page appeared, highlighting a maintenance corridor running behind the east spa and connecting to a service staircase.

“An asset on Vey’s staff has placed an equipment cache here. Tactical clothing, masks, weapons, communications equipment, medical supplies. It’s emergency use only. The objective is intelligence collection. You are not going in to dismantle the organization yourselves.”

Bucky’s gaze shifted toward you, but you kept your eyes on the screen. The silence between you stretched just long enough for the briefing officer to notice.

“I mean it.”

“I heard you,” you said.

“So did I,” Bucky added.

Her expression suggested that somehow made things worse.

The presentation moved on to the cover identities. You and Bucky had supposedly met five years earlier at a charity auction in D.C. and married eleven months later in a small ceremony in Vermont. The Sinclairs had no children, owned a penthouse apartment in Manhattan and a house outside Burlington, spent two weeks every summer in Maine, and had recently begun discussing whether their foundation should expand into international child-welfare programs.

That last detail explained why Vey had taken an interest. It also made your stomach turn.

By the time the briefing ended, you knew Aidan Sinclair well enough to pass for his wife. You could recite his birthday, education, investment portfolio, favorite whiskey, and the invented relationship he had with a Labrador that had supposedly died the previous year.

The problem was that you already knew Bucky almost as well.

You knew he favored his left shoulder when he got tired because the place where metal met flesh started to ache after too many hours on his feet, though he’d deny it if asked. You knew he disliked crowded elevators but tolerated them without comment. You knew he drank tea when coffee had kept him awake for too many nights in a row, checked every exit on instinct, and slept lightly enough that a door opening across the hall could wake him. You knew he carried a knife at his ankle even when the mission packet specifically said unarmed.

You also knew exactly how furious he became when you ignored an extraction order.

That particular lesson had cost you three stitches, a gunshot wound through the upper arm, and nine months of mutual hostility.

You’d been assigned to the trafficking task force for months, but Bucky wasn’t technically part of it. They’d brought him in for this operation because his particular combination of infiltration experience and enhanced durability made him difficult to replace, which meant neither of you had been given much say in working together again.

When the briefing officer finally left, you remained seated long enough to skim the final page of your cover history.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you told him.

Bucky glanced at the rings and reached across the table, gathering your wedding band and engagement ring into his palm. “I haven’t enjoyed any part of this.”

“You smiled when she said Evelyn.”

“That wasn’t a smile.”

“You’ve got a terrible poker face.”

“I spent decades being one of the most effective covert operatives on the planet.”

“And somehow nobody taught you not to look smug.”

His eyes lifted to yours, the familiar tension between you stretched thin enough that neither of you needed to raise your voice anymore. Months ago, your arguments had been louder; eventually they’d hardened into something colder and more efficient.

Bucky held out his free hand. “Left.”

“I know which hand they go on.”

“Just checking.”

You gave him your hand before you could reconsider it. His expression changed so slightly that someone who didn’t know him might have missed it, his attention dropping to your fingers before returning to your face.

He slid the wedding band over your knuckle first, then settled the engagement ring above it. The platinum was cool against your skin, both rings fitting perfectly.

Too perfectly.

You’d never given the cover team your ring size, which left remarkably few possibilities for where they’d gotten it. When you looked at Bucky, his expression remained carefully neutral, but he didn’t ask why you were staring. His thumb brushed lightly along the side of your finger before he released you.

Then he reached for his own band, turning the plain strip of platinum once between his fingers before sliding it onto his left hand. It looked strangely natural there, which bothered you more than it should have.

“There,” he said. “Mrs. Sinclair.”

Your gaze lingered on his hand for another second before you dragged it back to his face. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

His faint smile returned. “We’ve been married four years, my love. People might get suspicious.”

By Friday afternoon, you had discovered that pretending to be married to Bucky Barnes was considerably easier than preparing to pretend to be married to Bucky Barnes.

Preparation required practice, and practice required proximity. For two days, you sat across from him in one of the task force’s safehouses while handlers ran you through question after question, testing how well the two of you could sell a marriage that had never existed.

Where had Aidan proposed? Who cooked? Which side of the bed did Evelyn sleep on? What had they argued about on their first vacation? Which one had wanted the Manhattan apartment? What did they buy each other for their third anniversary?

Some answers came from the cover file. Others were deliberately omitted because real couples didn’t memorize their lives from a dossier. They remembered them together, which meant you and Bucky had to improvise.

“Aidan proposed in Vermont,” you said.

Bucky looked at you. “Maine.”

“The file says Vermont.”

“The wedding was in Vermont.”

You opened the folder.

He was right, and you disliked how satisfying he found that.

One of the handlers asked, “What did he say?”

You and Bucky went quiet.

“That wasn’t in the file,” you said.

“It wouldn’t be.”

Your eyes moved toward Bucky, who was already watching you. For several seconds, neither of you spoke before he leaned one forearm against the table.

“I told her I’d already bought the ring, so she could either marry me or make me return something I’d already spent way too much money on.”

You stared at him while the handler laughed.

“That’s your proposal?”

Bucky shrugged. “You said yes.”

“Apparently Evelyn has terrible judgment.”

“She married me.”

“That’s what I just said.”

The handler made a note on her tablet. “Good. Keep that one.”

You looked away before Bucky could see you smile.

By the end of the afternoon, the Sinclairs had acquired dozens of tiny details nobody had planned. Evelyn hated being cold but refused to admit it. Aidan pretended not to enjoy old movies and always watched until the credits ended. Their first apartment together had been in an old Manhattan building where the pipes knocked whenever the heat came on, something Evelyn had complained about every winter until they moved. They’d once driven three hours in the wrong direction because neither would admit the other person had misread the map.

Most of the details were fabricated, but some weren’t, and that became the dangerous part.

When the handler asked what Aidan drank when he couldn’t sleep, you answered before thinking.

“Tea.”

Bucky glanced at you.

“What kind?”

“Whatever’s there, as long as it isn’t chamomile.”

The handler looked at Bucky, who nodded once.

You shifted in your chair.

Later, when she asked which shoulder Evelyn usually carried a bag on, Bucky answered correctly.

You stared at him. “You know that?”

“I have eyes.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It does enough.”

The handler smiled, and neither of you acknowledged it.

By the time you boarded the charter flight under your new names, you had developed the kind of familiarity the cover required. You also had a headache.

Bucky, irritatingly, seemed perfectly comfortable.

He wore the clothes selected for Aidan Sinclair as if he’d been born into them: dark wool coat, expensive watch, simple black sweater, pants tailored to the quiet wealth his cover demanded. Subtle prosthetics altered the lines of his jaw and nose, while a pair of dark-framed glasses changed the way his face registered at a glance. None of the alterations were dramatic on their own, but together they kept Aidan Sinclair from resolving immediately into Bucky Barnes.

His left arm had required more planning. Aidan’s fabricated medical history said a motorcycle accident years earlier had cost him the limb, and the cover team had fitted Bucky’s vibranium arm with a cosmetic shell that made the visible hand and wrist resemble an expensive civilian prosthesis. His sleeves concealed the rest. Anyone who noticed it would see exactly what the paperwork told them to expect.

Nobody expected him to strip down in front of the guests.

At least, you hoped not.

The private car climbed steadily into the mountains while you watched snow gather along the road and Bucky reviewed the guest list one final time.

“You know it already.”

“I know.”

“Then stop reading it.”

His eyes remained on the page. “You nervous?”

“No.”

“You’re tapping your thumb.”

You stopped.

Bucky finally looked up, and irritation came automatically before the unpleasant awareness that he was right settled underneath it. You’d infiltrated criminal organizations before. You’d attended dinners with men who would have ordered your death if they knew who you were, lied convincingly enough to pass interrogations, and kept your pulse steady with guns pointed at your head.

None of that bothered you as much as the possibility that children were disappearing because the people at Saint Armand had learned how to bury them beneath paperwork.

Bucky folded the list, his voice losing its edge. “We get the records, we get the locations, and the teams move.”

“I know.”

“You can hate the plan. Still have to follow it.”

You turned toward the window.

There it was, nine months of resentment condensed into a single sentence.

“Thanks for the reminder.”

His jaw tightened, and neither of you spoke again until the lodge appeared through the trees.

Saint Armand looked more like a private palace than a resort.

Warm light glowed from dozens of windows beneath steep slate roofs. Snow covered the surrounding terraces and softened the lines of the stone walls, while black vehicles lined the circular drive beneath an enormous covered entrance.

A doorman opened your side before Bucky could, and you stepped out as he rounded the car while your luggage was unloaded.

The transformation happened immediately.

Aidan Sinclair emerged somewhere between one step and the next. Bucky’s expression softened, his shoulders loosened, and when he reached you, his hand settled against your lower back with easy familiarity.

You almost stepped away.

Instead, you smiled at him.

“You all right, sweetheart?”

The endearment landed with enough force to nearly ruin your expression, but you recovered.

“Long flight.”

His thumb moved once against the back of your coat. The gesture was probably meant to look affectionate, and you told yourself that explained why he did it.

Inside, the lodge smelled of cedar, woodsmoke, and money. A Christmas tree still stood in the central hall despite the holiday having passed weeks earlier, decorated in white lights and glass ornaments. Staff moved quietly between arriving guests while a pianist played near the fireplace.

Laurent Vey greeted you personally.

He was in his late fifties, silver-haired and elegant, with the controlled warmth of someone who had spent decades convincing people that wealth and morality were interchangeable.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair.”

Bucky shook his hand. “Call me Aidan.”

Vey turned his attention to you, and you offered him the practiced smile that belonged to Evelyn Sinclair. “Evelyn. Thank you for inviting us.”

“I’ve heard a lot about your foundation.”

“Hopefully only the flattering ones.”

Vey smiled. Bucky’s thumb brushed once against your waist as the two of you followed him farther into the hall, the gesture easy enough to pass for affection.

Introductions blurred together after that: a shipping executive and his husband from Rotterdam, a banking heir from Geneva, a pharmaceutical investor from London, a married couple who funded private schools across Eastern Europe, and two diplomats whose presence would cause problems for three different governments if they were ever connected publicly to Vey.

Every one of them had been investigated. Some were considered clean. Others weren’t.

Your room was on the third floor.

One room, with one bed.

You stood inside the doorway while the porter placed your luggage beside the wardrobe. Bucky tipped him generously, and the door closed behind him.

You looked at the bed, then at Bucky.

He followed your gaze and sighed. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“And what was I about to say?”

Bucky glanced toward the sitting area. “That I’m taking the couch.”

Your eyes moved to the velvet sofa, which was approximately five feet long. “You’ll fit.”

“I’m six feet tall.”

“Curl up.”

He gave you a flat look and moved toward the window instead. Outside, snow had begun falling again. Bucky checked the terrace, adjacent balconies, and sightlines toward the security wing while you opened the luggage, most of which had been packed by the cover team.

So had the personal effects.

You pulled out a toiletry bag containing two toothbrushes, a bottle of your usual shampoo, Bucky’s preferred shaving cream, and a handful of Polaroids tucked into the side pocket. The cover team had apparently decided Evelyn Sinclair was the kind of person who kept physical mementos, even while traveling.

One showed you kissing Bucky’s cheek. Another had him looking down at you while you laughed.

The editing was convincing enough to make them look like moments you’d somehow forgotten living through.

“They’re creepy.”

Bucky turned.

You held up the Polaroids.

He crossed the room and studied them. “Could’ve picked a better angle.”

“You look fine.”

The words left before you could stop them.

His eyes shifted toward you.

You tucked the photos back into the pocket. “I mean the editing.”

“Right.”

A knock sounded, and both of you went still. Bucky’s hand moved toward his ankle before you caught his wrist.

“Aidan.”

His expression changed again.

By the time you opened the door, he was standing behind you with one hand resting at your hip.

A member of the lodge staff smiled. “Mr. Vey asked me to remind you that cocktail hour begins at five.”

“We’ll be there.”

Her gaze flicked briefly over the room. You leaned back into Bucky without thinking, and his arm came around you.

The staff member smiled more warmly. “Enjoy your stay.”

The door closed, but neither of you moved immediately. Bucky’s chest pressed against your back, his hand resting low on your stomach, and you could feel his warmth even through both layers of clothing.

“You can let go.”

“I know.”

He stepped away.

The sudden absence of contact felt colder than it should have.

By the time you left the suite for the cocktail hour, the cover had settled back into place. Bucky had changed into a charcoal suit with a burgundy tie, his glasses and subtle prosthetics making Aidan Sinclair look polished enough to belong at Saint Armand. You’d traded your travel clothes for an evening gown in the same deep burgundy, elegant without being conspicuous among Vey’s guests. Together, you looked exactly like the wealthy married couple everyone expected to see.

Cocktail hour gave way to dinner at 1800, and dinner lasted nearly three hours.

You learned quickly why married couples had been required. The entire retreat had been designed around intimacy as a form of vetting. Guests were seated together on low sofas before dinner, encouraged to tell stories about travel and family, then arranged by couple along a long table so each pair was drawn into conversation with the guests opposite them.

The questions sounded harmless. They weren’t.

“How long have you two been married?”

“Four years,” you answered, and without looking away from the man across from him, Bucky held up four fingers at exactly the same moment.

The woman beside him laughed. “That synchronized already?”

“You should see us argue.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked toward you, and the laughter spread around that end of the table.

You smiled into your wineglass. You’d been nursing the same glass of Bordeaux since dinner began, taking only the occasional sip. Bucky, meanwhile, was on his second scotch, pacing himself with the rest of the table so no one noticed how little the alcohol actually affected him.

Vey glanced toward your nearly full glass. “You don’t like the Bordeaux?”

“I do. I usually leave the alcohol to Aidan.”

Bucky turned his scotch slowly between his fingers. “Apparently I’ve developed a reputation.”

His mouth curved when you looked at him, and Vey watched the exchange with open amusement.

You realized a second too late that you had fallen into something effortless. Bucky realized it too.

Neither of you let it show.

Later, Vey’s wife asked how you’d met.

The cover file said charity auction, so you began with that until Bucky interrupted halfway through to say you’d corrected him about a painting.

“That is not what happened,” you said.

“You absolutely did.”

“You called a Monet a Manet.”

“I was looking at the plaque.”

“You were pretending to look at the plaque.”

“Because you’d already corrected me in front of six people.”

Vey’s wife laughed. “And that was attractive?”

Bucky’s gaze settled on you.

For once, there was no sarcasm in his voice when he said, “She wasn’t afraid of embarrassing me.”

Your smile faltered.

He continued before anyone could notice. “Still isn’t.”

You nudged his ankle beneath the table.

His expression didn’t change.

After dinner, guests gathered in the library for drinks while snow thickened beyond the windows. You and Bucky occupied a small sofa near the fire, his arm resting along the back behind you while your hand lay casually on his thigh.

It had been there for ten minutes, but somewhere around the five-minute mark, you’d stopped thinking about it.

Vey was discussing charitable partnerships with three donors when one of his aides entered and whispered something in his ear. His expression remained pleasant, but his fingers tightened around his glass.

Bucky felt you notice. His hand touched the back of your neck, affectionate to anyone watching, while the slight pressure of his fingertips told you to wait.

You did.

The aide left, Vey resumed his conversation, and nothing else changed.

At 2300, the guests began retiring. You and Bucky walked upstairs together, his hand remaining at your waist until the suite door closed behind you.

Then the performance loosened.

“That wasn’t nothing,” Bucky said.

“No. Whatever his aide told him, he didn’t like it. He reached for his pocket right after.”

“Phone?”

“Probably.”

Bucky loosened his tie. “Could be unrelated.”

“Could be.”

Neither of you believed it.

You checked the time. The patrol gap your inside asset had arranged around the administration wing began at 0200, giving you just under three hours before you needed to be in position.

Bucky disappeared into the bathroom to change out of his dinner clothes while you began laying out what you’d actually carry to the server room: the bypass kit, encrypted comms, the drive supplied by the task force, two pairs of gloves, lightweight face coverings, and a handful of compact restraints. The heavier tactical equipment was still waiting in the emergency cache.

He came back a few minutes later in dark pants and a sweater that could pass for expensive loungewear while still giving him enough freedom to move.

The secured tablet remained on the desk. From the outside, it looked like the kind of expensive personal device Evelyn Sinclair might have carried anywhere, but the task force had loaded it with the encrypted software and credentials you needed to access Saint Armand’s surveillance system. You would use it to establish the initial camera loop before leaving, and it would stay behind in the suite while you worked.

You stripped off the jewelry Evelyn had worn to dinner and set it beside the tablet, leaving only the engagement ring and wedding band on your left hand. Those could have come off too. There was no reason to keep wearing them while you waited in the suite.

For some reason, you didn’t take them off.

Before 0100, you changed into dark pants and a sweater that wouldn’t restrict your movement, then pulled the silk robe over them. If anyone saw you and Bucky wandering the guest floor in the middle of the night, Evelyn Sinclair looking as though she’d left her room without bothering to dress properly was considerably less suspicious than an operative dressed for a break-in.

At 0147, Saint Armand was quiet.

You clipped the task force’s encrypted comm beneath the hem of your sweater and settled the nearly invisible earpiece into place while Bucky checked his own. Using the secured tablet and the credentials supplied by Vey’s inside employee, you accessed the lodge’s surveillance system and looped the cameras covering your corridor, the guest stairwell, the service route, and the approach to the administration wing.

Only once the loop was stable did you leave with Bucky beside you.

You kept an easy pace through the guest wing, close enough that his hand could settle naturally at your back whenever you crossed an exposed stretch of corridor. If a member of staff happened to see you in person, they would see Aidan and Evelyn Sinclair wandering away from their room late at night rather than two operatives headed toward a restricted section of the lodge.

The performance ended when the service-stairwell door closed behind you. Bucky’s hand dropped from your back, and the easy pace you’d kept through the guest wing gave way to something quicker and more purposeful as you descended toward the administration wing.

Once you were out of the guest areas, the rest of the cover disappeared with it. Bucky removed his glasses and slipped them into an inner pocket before you both pulled on the gloves and lightweight face coverings you’d brought from the suite, concealing enough of your faces that anyone who crossed your path would remember two intruders rather than Aidan and Evelyn Sinclair. From that point on, neither of you used names.

The final corridor was secured by two coded doors and a separate electronic lock. The credentials from Vey’s employee carried you through the first two; the last required a manual bypass. You crouched beside the panel and opened your kit while Bucky took position at the corner, listening for movement beyond the range of the cameras.

“How long?”

“Thirty seconds.”

Bucky glanced toward the corridor. “Make it twenty.”

“That’s not how electronics work.”

“Tonight would be a great time to prove yourself wrong.”

“Watch the hall.”

The lock released with a soft click before he could answer.

Bucky reached for the handle and opened the door.

The server room was colder than the corridor. You connected the drive supplied by the task force and began the download while Bucky took up position beside the door.

The progress climbed through eight percent, fifteen, then twenty-two as you opened the directory structure. Most of the files were encrypted, but the active operating logs weren’t, and the screen filled with routes, vehicle identifiers, hotel names, border crossings, and payment records.

You scrolled until something stopped you.

Bucky noticed immediately. “What?”

You opened the latest transportation schedule.

Seven entries had been added that afternoon, each containing a first name, an age, a forged nationality, and a destination. The oldest was fourteen.

The youngest was six.

Your stomach dropped.

Bucky crossed the room and leaned over the screen. “Where?”

You opened the location field.

SAINT ARMAND — SERVICE ANNEX B

“They’re here.”

His jaw tightened.

The download reached forty-one percent while you opened the next file.

Departure was scheduled for 0430.

You checked the time.

0206.

Just over two hours.

Your hand moved toward the encrypted comm at your waist, but Bucky caught your wrist.

“Wait. Finish the download.”

“They’re moving them tonight.”

“I can read.”

“Then you know we don’t have until Sunday.”

“I know.”

His grip loosened.

For one moment, you expected the argument. It would have been the same one you’d had nine months earlier in a burning warehouse when he’d told you to leave and you’d refused.

Instead, Bucky glanced toward the progress bar and then back at you. “Send the emergency code.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“I’m agreeing with you. Try to appreciate it.”

You pressed the recessed switch on the comm twice, transmitting the prearranged distress signal.

The acknowledgment sounded in both earpieces seconds later. “Response team thirty-two minutes out. Air support grounded.”

The download had reached sixty percent.

Bucky looked toward the screen. “They can move seven kids in thirty-two minutes.”

“Yes.”

Neither of you needed to argue about what came next.

“Cache?” you asked.

“East spa.”

The download reached seventy-eight percent before footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Two sets.

The handle moved.

You ripped the drive from the server at ninety-one percent as Bucky killed the light.

The door opened.

Bucky moved before the first security guard could bring his weapon up, catching his wrist and driving him into the doorframe hard enough to knock the breath from him. You intercepted the second at the same time, redirected the barrel toward the floor, and swept his legs out from under him before he could fire.

Neither fight lasted more than seconds.

You rendered your guard unconscious while Bucky did the same with his, then immediately checked both men for additional weapons. Their wrists and ankles were bound with the compact restraints you’d brought from the suite, and both rifles were unloaded before being shoved beneath the server rack well beyond reach.

Neither man had seen enough of your faces to identify you later, and neither would be waking up in time to follow.

Bucky checked the corridor while you secured the drive beneath your sweater at your waistband.

“Think the server flagged us?” he asked quietly.

“Maybe. Could’ve been the download.”

“Then they know someone’s inside.”

You pressed a hand briefly over the drive. “Ninety-one percent has to be enough.”

“It will be.”

Bucky picked up one of the guards’ radios just as a voice crackled through it.

“Lock the east wing. Nobody leaves their rooms.”

His eyes met yours.

The operation had changed again.

The equipment cache sat behind a removable panel in an unused spa treatment room.

You locked the door while Bucky pulled the panel free, revealing two black packs. Inside were dark tactical layers, lightweight armor, gloves, close-fitting hoods, masks, and protective eyewear that left almost nothing recognizable exposed.

The rest of the cache was built around getting in and out without escalating the situation: collapsible batons, compact stun devices, restraints, medical supplies, a ruggedized control handset preloaded with the access credentials supplied by Vey’s inside employee, and a pair of throat mics designed to link with the encrypted earpieces you were already wearing.

Bucky’s gear included one additional piece. A reinforced sleeve fit over his left arm from shoulder to fingertips, hiding both the cosmetic shell and every trace of vibranium beneath matte fabric and armor.

You stripped off the robe and folded it into the open cache before pulling the tactical layers over the clothes you were already wearing. Bucky slipped his glasses from his inner pocket and tucked them into the zipped pocket of the robe.

Your rings came last.

You looked down at them for a second.

Bucky was fastening his vest. “You can leave them.”

“They’ll catch.”

“Then take them off.”

You slid off the engagement ring and wedding band and placed both beside his glasses. Across from you, Bucky glanced down at his own hand before pulling off the plain platinum band and adding it to the pocket.

For the first time since you’d left for Saint Armand, neither of you looked married.

The bare skin beneath your rings felt strangely noticeable.

You zipped the pocket closed, folded the robe securely around the items inside, and pushed it farther into the cache before sealing the panel.

Bucky glanced over after securing his mask. “Hair.”

You gathered your hair at the back of your head and twisted it into a tight bun, securing it firmly enough that nothing could work loose beneath the hood. Once it was pinned flat, you pulled the hood into place and checked the edges in the mirror.

“Yours too.”

Bucky gave you a look. “I don’t have enough for that to be a problem.”

You almost laughed.

Instead, you took the control handset from the cache and expanded the camera loop across the east spa, service corridors, and annex. Anyone reviewing the feeds afterward would see empty hallways rather than two unidentified operatives moving through them. Once the loop was stable, you secured the handset to your vest and checked the rest of your equipment, making sure the collapsible baton, stun device, and restraints were all within easy reach.

You clipped one of the throat mics beneath the edge of your collar and paired it with your earpiece while Bucky did the same. The encrypted channel was already secure, and the microphones were sensitive enough that neither of you would need to raise your voice above a murmur. At close range, you’d use hand signals when you could; if you needed to speak, there would be no names.

Once the tactical layers were in place, you transferred the drive from your waistband to a secured pocket on your vest.

The stolen radio crackled before either of you could do anything else. “Guest wing secure. Search teams to administration and east service corridors.”

You looked at Bucky.

He pulled the collapsible baton from his vest and snapped it open. You drew your own a second later, the stun device still secured at your side if you needed it.

From that point on, anything that couldn’t be communicated by hand signal passed quietly through the encrypted channel.

The lodge narrowed to dark service passages, muted radio traffic, and the sound of bootsteps moving somewhere ahead. You’d spent enough missions arguing with Bucky to know exactly how he moved: how his weight shifted before he cleared a doorway, how he committed to one angle only when he trusted you to cover the other. He knew you just as well, catching the fractional change in your stance before you broke formation because you’d spotted something he hadn’t.

At the first junction, Bucky held up two fingers.

Two guards.

You nodded.

Both men were armed, which made getting them down quickly more important than winning quietly. Bucky stepped into view first and caught the nearest guard’s rifle before he could bring it up, wrenching the barrel toward the wall while his baton struck hard across the man’s forearm. You closed on the second at the same time, knocking his weapon aside before driving the stun device against his vest.

He dropped almost immediately.

Bucky’s guard lasted only a few seconds longer. By the time you turned back, the rifle was on the floor and Bucky was lowering the unconscious man beside it.

You checked both for additional weapons before binding their wrists and ankles with restraints. Their radios joined the one you’d already taken, and the rifles were unloaded before you pushed them beneath a service cart where nobody could reach them quickly.

Neither man would be getting back into the fight.

Bucky retrieved his baton. “You changed sides.”

“You were blocking mine.”

“I was clearing yours.”

“You were standing in it.”

“That’s called covering you.”

“You can cover me from somewhere else.”

His eyes narrowed behind the protective lenses, but you were already moving.

The service annex occupied the lowest floor beneath the eastern guest wing. Two armed men stood outside the entrance, with a third visible through the narrow window in the door beyond them.

Bucky signaled left.

You went right.

This time, the first guard managed to fire before you reached him. The shot buried itself in the stone behind you, forcing you sideways as Bucky closed the distance on the other man. You caught your guard’s wrist with both hands, drove the gun toward the floor, and brought your baton sharply across his arm until his grip broke.

The weapon clattered away.

Your stun device finished the job.

Across the corridor, Bucky had already put his own guard down and kicked the man’s rifle beyond reach when the third came through the door.

“Down,” you murmured.

Bucky heard you through the earpiece and ducked immediately.

You stepped past him and struck the third guard’s weapon aside as he fired, the shot going harmlessly into the ceiling. Bucky caught him from behind before he could recover, tore the gun from his hands, and drove him hard enough into the wall to leave him dazed. One touch of the stun device dropped him the rest of the way.

Bucky looked at you as you lowered your baton.

“You could’ve warned me.”

“You ducked.”

“Because I know you.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

You secured all three men before moving on, checking that none of them had a second weapon or radio hidden beneath their jackets. By the time you reached the interior doors, five guards lay unconscious and restrained behind you, their weapons disabled and well out of reach.

The rooms beyond had once been staff quarters. Now the windows had been covered, and electronic locks had been installed on three interior doors.

You reached the first and tested the handle.

Locked.

Bucky stepped forward. “Move.”

“You’re supposed to be hiding the arm.”

“They won’t see what it is.”

He gripped the handle with his left hand and tore the locking plate from the frame beneath the tactical covering.

You stared at him. “Subtle.”

“We’re past subtle.”

Inside, four children recoiled against the far wall.

You lowered your baton immediately, and Bucky collapsed his behind you. The children stared at the two masked figures in the doorway, one of them beginning to cry.

You crouched slowly, keeping your hands visible.

“It’s okay. We’re getting you out.”

The oldest child in the room looked about thirteen. Her eyes stayed fixed on the baton in your hand, so you collapsed it and secured it against your vest before crouching a little farther away.

“You’re police?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

Her gaze moved toward Bucky. He remained masked, but he lowered himself slightly so he wasn’t towering over them.

“There are three more,” she whispered.

“We know.”

Bucky looked toward the remaining doors. “I’ve got them.”

You stood. “I’m coming.”

“You stay here.”

Your eyes narrowed. “We’re doing this now?”

“I’m not leaving them alone.”

You looked at the four children behind you.

He was right.

You hated that.

“Fine.”

Bucky disappeared into the corridor.

The oldest girl watched him go. “He’s coming back?”

“Yes.”

The certainty of the answer came before you had to think about it.

A few minutes later, Bucky returned with three more children, including a boy who looked about fourteen, matching the oldest profile from the server records. A fresh tear ran through the right sleeve of his tactical layer. Through the open doorway behind him, you could see another guard unconscious and restrained against the wall.

You counted all seven children twice anyway.

Once everyone was ready to move, you drew your baton again and led them toward the reinforced laundry room.

The update from the response team came through your earpiece as Bucky took position at the door.

“Twelve minutes.”

The next several minutes dragged. Bucky remained at the door while you stayed with the children, listening to fragmented security traffic through the stolen radio and the occasional rush of footsteps somewhere beyond the laundry room.

You sat with the youngest child, who still hadn’t spoken. His hands shook, and when you removed one glove and offered him your hand, he hesitated before wrapping his fingers around it.

Gunfire erupted somewhere beyond the laundry room.

Bucky touched two fingers to his earpiece. “Status?”

The response came immediately. “Four minutes out.”

His eyes met yours. “Not ours.”

You exchanged a look.

The shooting continued, accompanied by increasingly chaotic traffic over the stolen security radio. From the overlapping calls, it sounded as though some of Vey’s contractors had realized what was in the annex and were refusing orders, while the personnel loyal to him tried to contain the area and destroy evidence before law enforcement arrived.

“They’re turning on each other,” you said.

Bucky tightened his grip on the baton. “Stay here.”

This time, you didn’t argue.

He disappeared through the door, and the youngest child tightened his grip on your hand.

Three minutes later, Bucky’s voice came through your earpiece. “East corridor clear. Team entering through the loading dock.”

You exhaled.

The response unit reached you shortly afterward. Their leader knew both of you and carefully avoided using either of your real names while the children were transferred to the medical personnel arriving behind them.

Vey’s loyal security staff were being detained, and the server drive was placed in an evidence bag. For the first time since leaving your room, you allowed yourself to breathe.

Then the team leader looked between you and Bucky.

“Your cover’s still good.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“Two senior targets are unaccounted for. We don’t know whether they got out before lockdown or whether they’re still somewhere on the property, and we don’t know whether they had observers among the guests or staff. Officially, any masked personnel seen tonight were part of the advance tactical unit responding to an anonymous tip. Nobody knows the Sinclairs were involved.”

Bucky looked down at his tactical gear. “Then we need to change.”

“You’ve got about ten minutes before we start moving the guest wing.”

You turned toward the service corridor, and Bucky followed.

Ten minutes later, Aidan and Evelyn Sinclair were terrified.

It required more effort than the fighting had.

You stripped away the tactical layers in the spa room, returning to the dark pants and sweater you’d worn beneath them. Bucky peeled off his hood, mask, and reinforced sleeve beside you, checking that the cosmetic shell over his left arm was still secure.

You pulled the pins from your hair and worked it loose from the tight bun before retrieving your robe, pulling it around yourself before reaching into the zipped pocket.

The rings waited inside.

You slid the wedding band back on first, followed by the engagement ring. Across from you, Bucky retrieved his own band and pushed it back onto his left hand before replacing his glasses.

For a moment, your eyes caught on the platinum around his finger.

Bucky noticed. “Convincing?”

You dragged your attention back to his face. “Too convincing.”

His mouth twitched before his gaze moved over the rest of you. “You’re too clean.”

You frowned as he reached toward your hair.

“What are you doing?”

“People who’ve spent the last half hour hiding from gunfire don’t look this put together.”

His fingers loosened your hair, pulling several strands free around your face.

You stared at him. “Your turn.”

“You’re not touching my hair.”

“You touched mine.”

“For operational reasons.”

“So is this.”

You reached up and ran both hands through it.

Bucky went very still.

You pushed it out of place, then tugged his collar loose enough to make it look as though he’d been pulling at it under stress. Your fingertips brushed the warm skin beneath his throat.

His eyes remained on your face.

The room suddenly felt smaller.

You withdrew your hands.

“There.”

His voice was lower. “Good?”

You nodded.

Neither of you moved until radio traffic sounded somewhere beyond the wall and reminded you where you were.

“We should go.”

Bucky opened the door.

You stopped him. “Wait.”

He turned.

“If we were hiding during an armed raid, we wouldn’t walk out looking calm.”

Understanding crossed his face. “What do you want me to do?”

You stepped closer. “Hold me.”

For once, Bucky didn’t make a joke.

His arm came around your shoulders, and you slid yours around his waist. The position felt wrong for exactly one second before your body remembered every touch from dinner.

His hand moved slowly up and down your arm.

You drew a shaky breath.

Some of the adrenaline was real enough that acting became unnecessary.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

His grip tightened slightly. “That wasn’t Aidan asking.”

You looked up.

The concern in his expression belonged entirely to Bucky.

“I’m okay.”

He studied you another second before nodding.

Footsteps approached.

You buried your face against his chest just as a response officer rounded the corner with two armed agents behind him.

You startled convincingly, and Bucky pulled you tighter.

“Hands where we can see them.”

Bucky immediately raised his right hand, his left remaining around you until the officer ordered him to move it.

“We’re guests,” he said, allowing his voice to shake just enough. “Aidan Sinclair. This is my wife, Evelyn.”

You nearly admired him for it.

“Why are you down here?”

“We heard shooting from our room,” you said. “Someone in the hallway was shouting for everyone to get downstairs, so we took the service stairs. Then there was more shooting, and we hid in a storage room.”

The officer approached.

Bucky positioned himself subtly between you and the weapon.

That part wasn’t acting.

The officer lowered it. “You’re safe. Stay with us.”

You nodded.

Bucky took your hand, and together you returned to the main lodge.

Chaos had replaced its carefully curated elegance. Guests crowded into the library wrapped in blankets, armed officers filled the hallways, and medics moved between people being treated for minor injuries.

Vey was nowhere to be seen.

You knew he was already in custody downstairs.

Nobody else did.

A woman from dinner spotted you. “Oh my God, Evelyn.”

She crossed the room and hugged you. You stiffened before remembering to return it.

“We thought you were still upstairs.”

“We couldn’t stay there once the shooting started.”

She looked past you. “Aidan?”

Bucky stood close behind you. “I’m fine.”

The woman touched his right arm. “You’re bleeding.”

You looked.

A thin line of blood had soaked through his sleeve near the elbow.

Your stomach tightened.

Bucky glanced down. “Glass.”

Lie.

You knew immediately.

The cut had come from the fight, and he hadn’t mentioned it.

You caught his wrist. “Aidan.”

“I’m fine.”

The words carried the same stubborn finality they always did.

This time, you were supposed to be his wife.

You leaned into the role. “You said that last time you needed stitches.”

One of the other guests laughed nervously.

Bucky stared at you.

You smiled sweetly.

A medic was summoned, and he had no choice.

The injury turned out to be shallow. You took the chair beside Bucky while it was cleaned, his right hand settling against your knee as the medic worked.

Nobody nearby was paying enough attention to require the gesture.

His thumb moved slowly over the fabric of your pants.

You looked down.

He stopped for a second, then started again.

You let him.

At 0300, the remaining guests were evacuated from Saint Armand. With the roads below the lodge partially closed, everyone was transported to another resort twenty minutes down the mountain.

You and Bucky were given another private suite, along with the same instructions as everyone else: stay available, don’t leave the property, and expect formal statements in the morning.

Your bags followed not long afterward. Once the guest floors at Saint Armand had been cleared, officers had begun collecting luggage and personal belongings to be sent after the evacuees. The task force made sure someone who knew what they were looking at handled the Sinclair suite, so when your things reached you, the secured tablet had been returned to its innocuous case and everything else looked exactly as though an ordinary married couple had packed it.

Once the door finally closed behind you, the secure comm vibrated with a second set of instructions meant only for the two of you.

COVER REMAINS ACTIVE. STAY WITH GUEST GROUP. DO NOT INITIATE CONTACT.

There was one bed again.

Neither of you commented on it.

Bucky tugged at the collar of his sweater while you kicked off your shoes. The adrenaline had begun fading, leaving exhaustion behind, and he crossed toward the minibar to retrieve two bottles of water before tossing one to you on the sofa.

You opened it as he sat in the chair opposite.

For the first time all night, there was nothing you were supposed to be doing.

The silence felt heavier than gunfire.

“You should’ve told me you were cut.”

“It wasn’t bad.”

“That isn’t the point.”

His expression tightened.

You recognized it immediately.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Turn this into Marseille.”

The city dropped into the room between you, bringing nine months of resentment with it.

The warehouse had been coming apart around twenty-three civilians while your extraction route collapsed with it. Bucky had gotten the last two hostages through an emergency exit before part of the structure came down between him and the transport, and you’d been ordered onto the vehicle with everyone else.

You went back instead.

Bucky had spent the entire time telling you over comms to leave him there. You’d found him trapped beneath a collapsed steel support while armed men closed in, freed him, and almost made it back out before someone shot you through the upper arm. A piece of broken metal had opened another cut along your side in the escape, leaving you with three stitches to go with the bullet wound.

Neither of you had spoken to each other the same way afterward.

“You’re the one making it Marseille,” Bucky said.

“Because apparently bleeding is only a problem when I do it.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“You spent months acting like I committed some unforgivable offense because I went back for you.”

“You ignored a direct extraction order.”

“So did you tonight.”

His jaw clenched. “You were willing to go into that annex before the team arrived.”

“So were you.”

“I know.”

“Then what exactly have we been fighting about?”

Bucky looked away.

The anger in you had been waiting too long, and you pushed to your feet. “You told me to leave you in that warehouse.”

“There were twenty-three civilians already on the transport.”

“And all twenty-three got out.”

“You didn’t know they would.”

“I knew I could get you.”

“You got shot.”

“And you’re angry because someone shot me?”

“I’m angry because you were there to get shot in the first place.”

You stared at him.

Bucky pushed out of the chair. “You want to know why?”

“Yes.”

“Because I told you to leave.”

“I heard you.”

“And you came back anyway.”

“Obviously.”

“You don’t get it.”

His voice rose for the first time.

You folded your arms. “Then explain it.”

Bucky went quiet.

He looked exhausted suddenly, older in a way that had nothing to do with his face. When he spoke again, his voice had lost most of its anger.

“I’ve spent most of my life being the one who goes back. I know what it sounds like when somebody tells you they’re fine and they’re not, and I know what it feels like to decide you can take one more hit if it means somebody else gets out. I know exactly how easy it is to convince yourself your life is the acceptable cost.”

Something inside you shifted.

Bucky’s gaze dropped for a moment. “And then you did it for me.”

“I wasn’t trying to die.”

“I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because I finally understood why everybody gets so damn angry.”

Your mouth closed.

His gaze returned to yours.

“You came through that door after I told you to leave, and all I could think was that if you got killed because of me, I was going to have to live with it.”

The room became painfully quiet. “That’s why you’ve hated me?”

His eyebrows drew together. “I don’t hate you.”

“You’ve done a convincing impression.”

“I was angry.”

“For nine months?”

“You make it easy.”

Despite everything, a laugh escaped you.

Bucky’s mouth twitched, easing some of the tension before he stepped closer.

“I was angry because you scared me. Every time you did something reckless after that, it happened again.”

“You do reckless things constantly.”

“I know.”

“That’s unbelievably hypocritical.”

“I know.”

“You’re admitting that?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

You shook your head.

Bucky was close enough now that you could see the faint bruising beginning along his jaw from the fight. Your hand rose before you thought better of it, fingertips touching the darkening skin.

He went still.

“You could’ve just told me.”

“Probably.”

“Instead, you decided to be unbearable for almost a year.”

“I was already good at it.”

Your thumb moved lightly along his jaw.

Bucky’s eyes lowered to your mouth.

The shift between you happened quietly. There was no mission alarm or watching audience to justify the moment now. You weren’t Evelyn Sinclair, and he wasn’t Aidan. There was nothing left to perform.

His hand settled at your waist.

“Tell me to stop.”

You could have.

Instead, you stepped closer.

Bucky kissed you.

The first contact was almost careful, as though both of you expected the other to reconsider.

Your fingers curled into the front of his sweater and pulled him back when he started to retreat.

That changed everything.

Bucky kissed you again with enough force to move you one step backward. His hand tightened against your waist while yours slid around the back of his neck, months of resentment taking on an entirely different meaning as every argument, every irritated glance, and every moment you’d caught him watching you across a briefing room came rushing back at once.

You bit his lower lip.

Bucky made a quiet sound against your mouth, his other hand settling against your back.

The edge of your engagement ring pressed against him.

He noticed.

His mouth slowed as his fingers caught your left hand between you, the diamond catching the light above the narrow platinum band.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“Aidan and Evelyn,” you murmured.

“Terrible couple.”

“They fooled everybody.”

“They fought too much.”

“You made up half the arguments.”

“You started the other half.”

You met his gaze, expecting to see that familiar look of satisfaction he got whenever he got the last word.

Instead, Bucky lifted your hand and brushed his thumb over the rings.

“Take them off.”

Something in your chest sank unexpectedly.

Of course.

The rings belonged to the cover, and maybe he’d finally remembered that whatever had changed between you at Saint Armand had started with pretending.

You reached for the engagement ring, but Bucky’s fingers closed around yours.

“Not because I want this to stop.”

You looked up.

He seemed almost annoyed with himself.

“Those rings belong to Aidan and Evelyn.”

“Aidan and Evelyn aren’t real.”

“That’s my point.”

Understanding arrived slowly.

Bucky’s thumb moved across your knuckle.

“If I’m kissing you, I don’t want it to be because we’re still pretending.”

The answer lodged somewhere behind your ribs.

You slipped off the engagement ring, then the wedding band beneath it, and set both on the table.

Bucky looked down at his own hand as though he’d only just remembered the band was still there. He pulled it free and placed it beside yours, three pieces of platinum belonging to two people who had never existed. Bucky pulled off his glasses and set them beside the rings.

When he looked back at you, whatever happened next belonged to the two of you rather than the people you’d been pretending to be.

Then you reached for him again.

This kiss was slower for all of a few seconds.

Bucky’s palm settled against your cheek as you leaned into him, but whatever restraint had survived the first kiss disappeared when your fingers curled into the front of his sweater. He made a quiet sound against your mouth and pulled you closer until there was hardly any space left between you.

Without the cover, everything felt different. His hand at your waist wasn’t there because someone might be watching, and yours against his chest had nothing to do with selling four years of fabricated marriage. The three rings sat abandoned on the table beside you, and neither of you had any excuses left.

Bucky kissed you harder, backing you up until the edge of the table pressed against the backs of your thighs. His hands stopped there, steady at your waist even while his mouth moved against yours with considerably less restraint.

“Still want me to stop?” he murmured, and began to pull away.

You caught his sweater and pulled him back down. “Does it look like I do?”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “Just checking.”

“You’ve been checking since we got here.”

“Wasn’t allowed to do anything about it until now.”

The admission sent heat through you that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

“You wanted to?”

His expression changed.

There had been plenty of moments since arriving at Saint Armand when you’d caught him looking at you, but you’d dismissed every one of them as part of the cover because acknowledging any other possibility had seemed considerably more dangerous.

Bucky’s thumb moved slowly against your side.

“You really need me to answer that?”

Apparently you did.

You looked at him, and whatever he saw on your face erased the last trace of humor from his.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I wanted to.”

Your next kiss nearly knocked the breath from both of you.

Everything that followed carried the same strange combination of urgency and care. Months of arguments had taught you where to push and where he would push back, but this was different. Every touch came with the possibility of stopping, and every time either of you hesitated, the other closed the distance again.

Somewhere between the table and the bed, Bucky’s sweater landed on the floor.

You didn’t remember deciding to put it there.

You did remember the moment his hands settled at your waist again and he looked at you, waiting.

There was no performance left to hide behind.

You reached for him.

That was answer enough.

Later, the room was quiet except for both of you trying to catch your breath.

The three rings were still sitting together on the table where you’d left them, platinum catching faintly in the light from the window. From the bed, they looked strangely small considering how much space they’d occupied in your head since the briefing.

Bucky lay beside you with one arm draped across your waist.

You traced an idle line over his chest.

“You know this doesn’t mean you were right about Marseille.”

His eyes opened.

“You’re bringing this up now?”

“I’m establishing the record.”

He stared at you for several seconds.

“You were right.”

You lifted your head. “That was suspiciously easy.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“Still counts.”

“Go to sleep.”

You smiled and settled back against him.

His arm tightened around you.

Neither of you mentioned the rings again.

For a few hours, neither of you had to be Aidan or Evelyn either.

Morning arrived with the quiet vibration of the secure comm on the bedside table.

You woke beneath unfamiliar sheets with Bucky’s arm around your waist. For several seconds, you didn’t remember where you were until your gaze landed on the three rings and Bucky’s glasses still sitting together on the table across the room.

Saint Armand, the children, the fight, and Marseille came rushing back.

Then Bucky.

The device vibrated again.

His eyes opened as you reached for it, his arm remaining around you while you read the message waiting on the screen.

COVER REMAINS ACTIVE. STAY WITH GUEST GROUP. FORMAL STATEMENTS AT 1000. DEPARTURE PENDING.

Bucky read it over your shoulder. “Guess we’re still married.”

Your gaze dropped pointedly to the arm around your waist. “Apparently.”

He didn’t move it.

Neither did you.

Eventually, you slipped out from beneath his arm and crossed to the table. The wedding band went on first, followed by the engagement ring above it.

Bucky joined you a moment later, picking up his own band and sliding it back onto his left hand.

Something about watching him put it on felt different after last night.

The rings had been props when you arrived at Saint Armand. Now you knew exactly what it felt like to choose each other without them.

You looked away before Bucky could catch you staring.

He reached for his glasses next and settled them back into place, restoring the last obvious piece of Aidan Sinclair before you left the suite.

By 1000, the guests from Saint Armand had been gathered in one of the resort’s conference rooms to give formal statements. You and Bucky sat together while investigators moved from couple to couple, asking where everyone had been when the shooting began, what they had seen, whether they recognized any of the armed men, and how they had ended up away from the guest floors.

You gave them the same story you’d already given the response officers.

Someone had been shouting for guests to get downstairs. You and Aidan had taken the service stairs, heard more gunfire, panicked, and hidden in a storage room until officers found you.

Bucky kept hold of your hand throughout the interview.

Nobody questioned it.

You weren’t entirely sure it was necessary.

The authorities kept everyone at the resort through early afternoon while identities were verified and the roads were cleared. Food and coffee were brought into the conference room, and the guests spent several hours trading increasingly elaborate theories about what had happened at Saint Armand.

You listened to a banking heir insist that Vey had been the target of an international assassination attempt while Bucky drank tea beside you and said absolutely nothing.

Beneath the table, his knee remained pressed against yours.

Nobody looked at either of you twice.

Shortly after 1400, the guests were finally released.

You and Bucky left with the others, your luggage loaded into a private car arranged for the Sinclairs. The Sinclair rings remained on your hands, the passports stayed in your bags, and Bucky’s fingers found yours as the car pulled away from the resort.

You remained Aidan and Evelyn Sinclair all the way to the airport. The car delivered you to the private aviation terminal listed on the Sinclairs’ itinerary, where anyone watching would have seen exactly what they expected: a wealthy couple leaving the mountains by charter after a disastrous weekend.

Only after you were through the restricted entrance did a task-force handler intercept you and lead you through a staff corridor toward a secured hangar.

Bucky’s hand was still around yours.

You looked down at it. “You can stop now.”

He followed your gaze. “I know.”

Neither of you moved.

You lifted an eyebrow.

His mouth twitched. “Operational requirement.”

“Nobody’s watching us anymore.”

“Slow transition.”

You let him keep holding your hand.

The task force had taken over a private hangar on the far side of the airfield, well away from anyone who might have followed the Saint Armand guests. Only after you and Bucky were inside, the doors closed behind you, and the Sinclair identities were no longer required did anyone address you by your real names.

There was time to shed the last pieces of the cover before the debrief. Bucky disappeared with one of the cover technicians long enough to have the subtle prosthetics removed from his face and the cosmetic shell taken off his left arm. When he came back, the familiar lines of his jaw and nose had returned, along with the vibranium you were used to seeing.

Seeing him look entirely like himself again affected you more than it had any right to.

The formal debrief began late that afternoon.

By then, analysts had already started working through the recovered data. Ninety-one percent of the server had been enough. Investigators had obtained names, routes, accounts, safe houses, transport schedules, and records connecting Vey’s network to dozens of previous disappearances.

All seven children recovered at Saint Armand were safe. Relatives had already been identified and contacted for three of them, while the remaining four were in specialist care as investigators worked to trace their families.

Vey was in custody, along with two of the four other senior members who had attended the retreat.

Two remained missing.

The case officer closed the file in front of her. “They know Saint Armand is compromised. Every guest there is going to be scrutinized now, whether they were involved or not, which makes the Sinclair identities more liability than asset.”

“So that’s it?”

“For the two of you, yes. As far as anyone looking from the outside is concerned, Aidan and Evelyn boarded their charter this afternoon and left the region. The cover team will maintain their movements from there. You’re just done wearing them.”

Your fake passports went into a destruction envelope along with the phones, credit cards, keys, and identification attached to the cover.

Finally, the case officer held out her hand. “The rings.”

Bucky removed his first.

He turned the plain strip of platinum once between his fingers before dropping it into the evidence bag.

You looked down at your own hand.

You hadn’t worn the rings for long, and they belonged to a woman who had never existed and a marriage assembled from forged documents, invented memories, and whatever pieces of yourselves had slipped into the spaces between.

Still, something tightened unexpectedly as you pulled off the engagement ring and then the wedding band beneath it.

The case officer took them.

Your hand felt wrong afterward.

You curled your fingers into your palm.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

You didn’t get outside until evening.

The sun had dropped behind the mountains, leaving the airfield washed in the blue-gray light before dark. Two vehicles waited beyond the hangar to take the team to a secure hotel for the night before outbound flights resumed in the morning.

You stood beside Bucky beneath the overhang.

For the first time since the briefing, nobody expected either of you to touch.

He kept his hands in his coat pockets.

You almost missed his arm around you, which was ridiculous.

“So,” you said.

Bucky looked over. “So?”

“What happens now?”

His expression shifted. “Now?”

“We’re done being Aidan and Evelyn.”

“Good.”

You frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be.”

You looked down at your bare hand.

Bucky followed your gaze. “You miss them?”

“The fake marriage?”

“The rings.”

You considered lying. “A little.”

“Me too.”

That brought your eyes back to him.

One of his hands came out of his coat pocket and reached for yours, his fingers threading through them with the same easy familiarity he’d spent the mission pretending belonged to Aidan Sinclair.

Only this time, nobody was watching.

“Not the pretending,” he said.

His thumb brushed slowly over the bare skin where the rings had rested.

“Just having an excuse for this.”

Bucky leaned down and kissed you.

There was no cover story waiting afterward, no fabricated anniversary, invented house in Vermont, or four years of memories constructed behind a desk. You were done being Aidan and Evelyn. Now, it was just you and Bucky, all the way through.

There was only Bucky standing with you in the cold mountain air, holding your bare left hand because he wanted to.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

“You know,” he murmured, “Evelyn wasn’t that bad.”

You stared at him. “I’m leaving.”

His grip tightened before you could move.

“You’re riding with me.”

“Operational requirement?”

“No.”

The word settled warmly between you.

This time, when he started toward the waiting car, he took you with him.

You let him.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider ❤️💛

taglist: @twentytomidnight, @ferbiederbie, @dutifullyshamelesstrash, @seamlessepiphany, @fwrdsl4sh