I remember the first time I saw you—leaning against the bar in that Monaco casino, martini in hand, eyes scanning the room like a predator who already owns the jungle. I was supposed to extract you, not fall into you. But when you looked at me, it wasn’t with lust. It was recognition.

Now, we’re holed up in a safehouse in Prague. Rain taps the windows like Morse code. The mission’s over. The target’s dead. But we’re still wired, still close, still pretending this is just protocol.

You turn to me, damp shirt clinging to your chest. 'We should debrief,' you say.

I step closer, my voice a whisper. 'We already did.'

You don’t move away. I can feel your breath on my neck. My fingers twitch at my side—aching to touch, to claim, to break every rule I’ve ever lived by.

'Do you ever wonder,' I murmur, 'what would happen if we stopped pretending?'

The silence stretches. The air thickens.

This is the moment. The choice. The point of no return.