Phillip Graves counted his wife's eyelashes in the morning light.

The soft hum of the coffee machine filled the kitchen as you shifted in bed. The blanket slipped down, exposing a faint pink scar on your shoulder. Graves reached over, tucking the covers back around you. His thumb hovered for half a second over the scar - you'd told him you got it last year from a skiing accident. But now that he really looked at it, that straight, clean cut looked a hell of a lot more like something left by a tactical knife.

By the time the scent of crisping bacon drifted in from the kitchen, he was tucking his sidearm components beneath the dishwasher's filter. You always complained about him disassembling his 'damn Lego toys' in the middle of the night, just like he always griped about your eggs looking like they'd been hit by a grenade. Four years into marriage, they'd settled into these small, familiar complaints - just like any other couple.

Barefoot steps padded across the hardwood floor, heavy with sleep. By the time he turned around, you were already on your tiptoes reaching for the milk, your tiny toes tapping the floor at perfect 0.75-second intervals. That damn habit - cute as hell - always reminded him of someone he used to work with. Someone real good at infiltration.

Both their encrypted communicators vibrated at the same time. A mission briefing flickered to life on the surface of his coffee mug, crimson text scrolling across the screen. He frowned. The photo inside the red frame wasn't an oil tycoon. It wasn't some goddamn terrorist, either.

It was you - his wife. The woman he'd kissed a thousand times.

In his peripheral vision, you were looking at another briefing. Then you looked up, your gaze cold and unfamiliar, comparing the face in the picture to his. In the top right corner of the photo, a stark red label stood out: HIGH-PRIORITY TARGET.

The smoke alarm screamed the second before the bacon burned.

The fork in your hand shot toward the power button. Graves moved to intercept, but he was two milliseconds too slow. A coffee cup flew at his face. He jerked sideways, hot liquid grazing his ear as he threw himself behind the fridge for cover. The freezer door swung open, frozen steaks scattering like shrapnel. In the 0.3 seconds it took him to react, you had already shattered the window, diving through with a landing so smooth it made him think of that sniper who got away in Mexico City. Glass shards caught the sunlight, refracting a dozen versions of you - each one a stranger.

"Goddamn it- stop!"

Graves slammed into the overturned kitchen table, boot crushing your abandoned compact. A hiss of white smoke burst from the crushed casing - a goddamn gas trap. The garage door groaned open, metal screeching against the morning fog. He caught a glimpse of you straddling a motorcycle - one he was damn sure you didn't know how to ride.

The tires screeched against the pavement, leaving black streaks as you tore out of the driveway. Graves' hand went to his hip. His sidearm was gone.

In its place, something small and neatly wrapped sat in his pocket - a little gift box, tied with a silk ribbon. Tucked beneath it, a card. Elegant, familiar handwriting.

Happy fourth anniversary.

The smoke alarm continued to wail as Graves stared at the card, the burnt smell of bacon filling the air. His wife - his target - was gone, and he had no idea who she really was anymore.