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You’re curled up on the sofa in front of the soft hum of the television when the door opens. Archie walks in, cheeks pink from the wind, coat half undone. His hair is its usual messy self - like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times. You hear the keys hit the table by the door, the thud of a briefcase, then his voice.
“Alright, love?”
You turn your head, beaming at him. “Hi, baby. You’re back early.”
“Early?” he says, tossing his coat over the back of a chair. “It’s quarter past ten.”
“Which is early compared to last time.”
He shrugs, heading into the kitchen. “What can I say? Kevin was whining, Malcolm got drunk, and I was starting to fantasise about coming back to yours.”
You roll your eyes and call after him, “What was the occasion this time?”
He hesitates for a beat. “Just catching up. Same old.”
You don’t question it. He’s always having dinner with his friends from the badminton club - sometimes a new name gets mentioned, sometimes “just Kevin and Malcolm again.” You don’t mind - not really. And you’ve not been together long enough to comment. Plus, he always comes back tasting like wine, kisses you like he’s missed you all day, and holds you until morning. You’re happy.
But tonight, something feels different. Archie steps back in with a glass of whiskey and doesn’t sit beside you. He paces, swirling his glass and staring into it like it might start talking. He mutters under his breath - nothing angry, just twitchy. Like his thoughts are racing too fast to catch even one.
You lower the volume on the TV. “You okay?”
He pauses mid-step, looks at you, then looks away. Takes a sip. Grimaces.
“I’ve got to tell you something,” he mutters. “And you’re not gonna like it. I just- I can’t keep things from you anymore”
You sit up slowly, heart starting to race. “Okay…”
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “You know all those dinners I go to?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah.”
“They’re not just dinners.”
He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Just stares at the floor like it’s personally wronged him.
“…What are they, then?” You ask, worry painted across your face.
He exhales through his nose, words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them. “We run this scam. At restaurants. Me, Kevin, Malcolm. We pick some posh twat - usually a southerner - and we stage a massive row over the bill.”
You blink. “Arch, I’m not following.”
“Right.” He starts pacing again. “I go off on one - proper full-on tantrum - Malcolm joins in, Kevin does this wide-eyed innocent act like he’s horrified by the conflict.”
You stare at him. “And then what?”
“Look - it gets a bit elaborate. Things get messy. But we’ve planned it down to every last bit. It ends with a fake murder and the mark stepping in. We usually go home with fifty grand each.“
You burst out laughing.
Archie freezes like he’s bracing for a slap in the face. “I’m being serious, love.”
“I know,” you say, grinning wide. “That’s why it’s so brilliant.”
He just blinks at you. “You’re not angry? Don’t wanna kill me?”
You get off the couch, walk over, and take the whiskey from his hand, setting it onto the wooden coffee table with a clink of finality.
“Archie,” you say, voice soft but amused, “you thought this was gonna scare me off?”
He shrugs helplessly. “Well, yeah. I’ve been lying to you. I go off with the lads, come back with a briefcase full of cash, pretend I’ve just had a crap tapas dinner.”
You slide your arms around his waist, under his blazer. “And here I was thinking you were just annoyingly social.”
He laughs - breathless. Relieved. “You’re not horrified?”
“Nah. I’m impressed. It’s practically theatre. Do you all have roles?”
“Of course,” he says, lighting up. “It’s choreographed down to the last detail. We’ve got timing, exit plans - we even cry if we need to.”
You bite your lip, feeling the spark light behind your eyes. “I wanna join.”
Archie stares. Blinks once. “You what?”
“I wanna join,” you echo, a little firmer now. “Let me help.”
“You want to be part of it?” he says, voice caught between awe and suspicion. “You, the sweet, clever girl who cries when they win on The Chase?”
You step closer, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips. He leans in, hungry for more, but you pull away with a smirk. “Me, the sweet, clever girl who’s been sat at home bored out of her mind while you run around playing Ocean’s Eleven.”
He laughs, low in his chest, and pulls you tight against him, eyes sparking. “Christ, you’re brilliant. I should marry you.”
You grin against his neck. “So can I?”
He tilts his head. “You’ve got good instincts. And you’re fit. That helps.”
“Wow.”
“I mean, it does. Posh men love a pretty waitress.”
“Ah, so you want me to play the help?”
“Hardly. You’d be the most important part. Guide us toward the bill.”
You smile. “Am I in?”
He kisses you, slow and deep, hand coming up to stroke your jaw. “You’ll need an apron.”
You squeal. A real, full-body, bounce-on-your-heels squeal that makes Archie blink in stunned delight.
Archie grins - big, blue-eyed, a bit breathless. "I didn't think you'd- God, look at you."
You bounce again, practically vibrating. “This is gonna be so hot."
"Christ, I love you," he says, pulling you in by the waist and kissing you hard - mouth warm, hands greedy. It's not a gentle kiss. It's adrenaline, need, pride.
You kiss back, just as needy, teeth grazing, lips parting. Your hands tangle in his hair. He groans softly, practically dazed.
"You being into this is," he murmurs against your mouth, "ridiculously sexy."
You grin, flushed. "You like my criminal side?"
"I love your criminal side." His hands slide down to your hips. "It's brand new and already my favourite."
You nudge your nose against his. "What, you've got a con artist kink now?"
"Oh, absolutely. You squealed. I'm never getting over that."
"Still. Jesus, Archie. You’re so clever."
He groans and kisses you again, deeper this time, hands pulling you against him like he can't get close enough. His cheeks are flushed now, pupils blown wide, unraveling in the best way.
"Come here," he mutters, backing you into the wall gently, breath warm against your cheek.
"You're joining the next job. You're in."
Your heart hammers against your chest. "What do I wear? Apart from the apron."
He chuckles, voice low. "Whatever you like. I'll just end up dragging you into a supply closet after anyway."
You laugh, breathless. "You're obsessed with me."
"I literally just told you I love you."
You kiss him. "Say it again."
"I love you."
"Again."
He grins against your lips. "I love you. And you're going to be the sexiest plant we've ever had. We're going to ruin some poor bastard’s night and make it beautiful."
Your head spins - from the kiss, the rush, the sudden knowledge that your boyfriend's a criminal mastermind and desperately into you joining the act.
You press your forehead to his, still breathless. “So when's the next con?"
"Friday."
"I'll clear my schedule."
He grins. "That's my girl."