POV: Nat
⸻
The first thing I notice when Max walks into the briefing room is that he won't look at me.
Not once.
Not even a glance.
He stands across the table like we didn't almost fight last night. Like he didn't burn holes through me with those dead-calm eyes. Like I don't still feel the tension clinging to my skin.
Cool. Cold. Closed.
Commander Lin doesn't notice — or maybe she does and doesn't care.
"New target," she says, sliding a folder across the desk. "High-value courier. We believe he's transporting intel for the mole. Extraction required. Quiet. Clean. No civilian casualties."
I flip the folder open.
Photo. Coordinates. Time.
It's a nightclub.
I blink. "Seriously?"
Lin raises an eyebrow. "You have a problem with tight spaces, Agent Nat?"
"No, ma'am. I just didn't pack glitter."
"Good," she says, like she didn't hear me. "You're going in as bait. Max will play your boyfriend. Eyes on the courier. Signal extraction when contact is made."
I feel my mouth go dry.
Boyfriend?
I glance at Max.
Still nothing. Not a flicker of reaction. He just nods once, robotic. Like she asked him to play sniper, not pretend we're sleeping together.
The meeting ends.
Max walks out without a word.
I follow.
We don't speak until we reach the weapons cache.
Even then, it's just Max's voice — flat, clipped. "You're wearing comms. Keep eye contact with the target as long as you can. Don't engage unless I give the word."
I try to joke, lighten the air between us. "You really know how to talk dirty."
He doesn't laugh.
Doesn't smile.
Just looks at me — finally — and says:
"This mission isn't about you."
And for some reason, that hurts more than I expect.
⸻
LATER THAT NIGHT – INSIDE THE NIGHTCLUB
Lights flicker. Bass pounds through the floor like a heartbeat with something to prove.
I'm pressed against Max near the bar. Too close for comfort. Too far for safety.
"Target's near the back," I whisper. "Brown jacket. Tall. Glasses."
"I see him," Max replies in my ear.
His hand rests lightly on my waist. It's all for show — the mission. The cover. The illusion.
But my skin still burns where he touches me.
He leans close, lips by my ear. "Smile. You're supposed to be in love."
My heart stutters.
I smile. Fake, maybe. But it feels too real.
He pulls me even closer. His breath is steady. His eyes scan the room.
He's not doing this to mess with me.
He's just good at his job.
So why does it feel like my chest is about to split open?
And why do I want him to hold me when this is over — even if it's just a little longer than necessary?