Chapter Text
CHERUB always felt different at dawn.
Not quieter — the campus never truly slept — but honed. Sharper edges, cleaner angles. A morning where everything looked disciplined even when it wasn’t: condensation beading on clipped hedges like it had been placed there on purpose, stone walkways still dark with overnight rain, floodlights along the obstacle fields flickering down as if the compound was exhaling.
The air carried the usual blend — wet grass, drone fuel, and burnt toast from a cafeteria that had opened exactly ten minutes ago and would taste like it.
Enid Sinclair stepped inside and let the doors hiss shut behind her.
Navy shirt. Field agent. Nearly a year into service — competent enough that Weems no longer triple-checked her forms, not senior enough to escape 06:30 call times. She’d survived Basic. Survived her first missions. Survived things she didn’t talk about.
And she’d survived the last six weeks.
Six weeks since Wednesday Addams had shut the door and disappeared into a mission brief Enid hadn’t been cleared to read.
Not gone-gone. Not like trainees who failed selection. Not like names that turned into memorial plaques. This was CHERUB. Missions happened. Comms dropped. Timelines shifted. Agents came home when they came home.
But this one had no date.
No scheduled return.
Just a departure line in a secure log and a rotating list of temporary team leads assigned to Delta-3 like CHERUB was politely acknowledging the hole Wednesday left behind without ever naming it.
Enid pretended she wasn’t counting.
Kent Alvarez sat across from her, slouched in a way that suggested he hadn’t just returned from Paris less than twelve hours ago. Grey shirt crisp. A fading bruise along his jaw the only proof it hadn’t been a holiday.
Ajax Petropolous dropped into the chair beside Yoko’s empty one, stretching long limbs like the furniture had personally wronged him. He was built like someone who should have been on his first mission already — broad shoulders, quick reflexes, tactical mind when he bothered to use it.
He hadn’t been deployed yet.
He took that personally.
Yoko’s chair sat pushed back, abandoned mid-conversation three days ago when a grey-shirt freight intercept had come down without warning. Low-visibility. Short window. She’d left before dinner.
Two missions now.
Enid didn’t let her eyes linger on that fact.
Kent took a slow sip of his tea, eyes flicking toward Enid’s untouched breakfast. “You’re staring at nothing again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Ajax leaned back, studying Enid with exaggerated scrutiny.
“Let me guess,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re calculating atmospheric pressure in whatever European capital Addams is currently brooding in. Wondering if she’s also thinking about you. Possibly in the rain.”
Enid rolled her eyes automatically. “You need hobbies.”
“I have hobbies,” Ajax replied. “They involve analysing your emotional decline.”
The memory came back uninvited.
She’d waited four days after Wednesday left.
Four days of carrying it alone. Four days of deciding whether saying it out loud would make it stronger — or fragile.
They’d been sitting in this exact configuration when she’d finally exhaled.
“I’m seeing her.”
Ajax had stopped mid-sentence.
“Seeing her,” he’d repeated, like the phrase required structural testing.
Kent had leaned back slowly, recalibrating months of suspicious eye contact.
Yoko had set her tea down very carefully.
“You mean operationally,” Ajax had tried.
“No.”
And then it had been real.
Ajax had gone through visible stages of disbelief before landing on delight.
“I knew it,” he’d declared. “The eye contact alone was a security breach.”
Kent had asked the only question that mattered.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Is she good to you?”
Enid hadn’t hesitated. “Yeah.”
That had been it.
No warnings about black shirts. No lectures about power imbalance. No dramatic cautionary tales.
Just adjustment.
Yoko had not adjusted quietly.
She’d taken another slow sip of tea, eyes never leaving Enid.
Then — perfectly level —
“Is she as good a kisser as everything else she does?”
Enid had inhaled wrong.
Ajax had made a noise bordering on spiritual revelation.
“Yoko—” Kent had started.
Too late.
Yoko’s expression hadn’t changed, but her eyes had sharpened — gleaming, delighted.
“Well?” she’d prompted.
Enid’s silence had answered.
Yoko had smiled properly then. Small. Smug. Victorious.
“Excellent,” she’d said.
And lifted her cup in a silent toast.
Saying it out loud hadn’t broken anything.
It had just made it real.
Now, six weeks later, Ajax leaned forward, eyes bright with entirely unearned confidence.
“So,” he said, lowering his voice like this was classified intelligence. “Hypothetically. If Addams did go eighteen months undercover like Holt did… would you survive?”
Kent’s gaze flicked to him — warning.
Ajax didn’t notice.
Enid’s jaw tightened slightly. “Like who?”
Ajax blinked. “Right. You only ever register Addams in that colour.”
Enid raised an eyebrow. “And that explains nothing.”
Kent didn’t react outwardly, but his gaze sharpened a fraction. “Confirmed?”
“Saw him,” Ajax said. “Black shirt. Actual wear on it. Not decorative.”
CHERUB didn’t talk about rank.
They talked about weight.
Orange got you in the door.
Light blue put you through Basic.
Grey meant you weren’t a liability.
Navy meant Weems had said your name out loud and not regretted it.
Black meant myth with a mission file.
Wednesday was one.
Apparently, Holt was another.
Enid’s stomach tightened before she could stop it.
Eight months without contact.
Six weeks already felt like something scraping the inside of her ribs.
Kent bumped her shoulder lightly — not comfort, not reassurance.
Just: steady.
The cafeteria doors hissed open again.
Conversations thinned another notch.
Ajax’s grin spread slowly. “Speak of the legend.”
Enid looked up.
Archer Holt didn’t wear his black shirt the way Wednesday did — precise, severe, immaculate. He’d opted for a looser long-sleeve fit, the fabric slightly oversized and pushed up at the forearms. It hung off him with an easy, unbothered drape — less uniform, more habit. Rugged. Functional. Like he’d thrown it on without thinking and still somehow made it look intentional.
Mid-twenties. Blonde hair cut short. Jaw shadowed with fatigue that hadn’t dulled his alertness.
He moved like someone who had long ago memorised every exit in every room he entered.
Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just aware.
He collected a tray. Nodded once to the staffer. Scanned the room.
When his gaze passed over Enid’s table, it didn’t linger — but it registered.
Assess. Catalogue. Move on.
Ajax leaned in. “That’s what eighteen months looks like.”
Enid studied him, trying to understand the weight the room had assigned him.
There was nothing overtly threatening.
Only stillness.
The kind that came from surviving things.
He chose a table by the far window. Alone. No greetings. No entourage.
The room kept pretending not to watch.
Kent tilted his head slightly. “I wonder if they overlapped. Him and Addams.”
“Probably,” Ajax said. “Imagine that pairing. Ice queen and the ghost.”
Enid tried to picture Wednesday as a recruit.
Was she already that controlled? That meticulous? Or had that precision hardened later — carved into her by operations no one talked about?
Her stomach tightened.
There were chapters of Wednesday’s life written in code she would never be cleared to read.
She wondered if Holt had.
The clock ticked toward 07:00.
Enid drained the rest of her coffee and stood. “Training in ten.”
Ajax groaned. “You’re unbearable before sunrise.”
She turned toward the exit.
On impulse, she glanced back.
Holt hadn’t started eating.
His gaze lifted, meeting hers for a fraction of a second — steady, unreadable.
He inclined his head once.
Half greeting. Half measurement.
Enid nodded back, throat dry, and walked out before Ajax could narrate it.
Outside, the air smelled like wet earth and drone fuel.
She pulled her navy training top tighter.
“Eighteen months,” she muttered.
Not a chance.
She wasn’t sure whether she meant she couldn’t wait that long —
or that she couldn’t survive it.
Either way, the day had begun.
The training hall smelled like rubber mats, metal polish, and ambition.
Morning light cut through the high windows in long, deliberate bars. The drone fields outside hummed faintly through the propped side doors — mechanical wings slicing the air in disciplined intervals.
Delta-3 wasn’t alone today.
Delta-1 had been folded into their block — a temporary consolidation while team leadership rotated. It wasn’t uncommon.
What was uncommon was the name glowing on the overhead screen:
COMBAT SYSTEMS REFRESHER — INSTRUCTOR: HOLT, A.
DELTA-1 + DELTA-3
A low chorus of groans rippled through Delta-1.
“Of course Delta-3 gets another black shirt.”
“Favouritism.”
Ajax rolled his shoulders beside Enid, expression falsely serene. “You’re welcome.”
“We’ve had three subs in six weeks,” Enid muttered.
It wasn’t wrong.
The first replacement had been procedural and distant — efficient, forgettable.
The second had been loud, overcorrecting, trying too hard to fill silence that wasn’t his to fill.
Bianca had stepped in after that.
Not as a substitute. As a stabiliser.
She stood across the mat now with Delta-1, navy crisp, dyed blonde buzz cut catching the light like a blade’s edge. Relaxed. Coiled. Ready.
If Delta-3 got the black shirt myth, Delta-1 brought the knife.
The side door opened.
Archer Holt stepped in carrying a duffel over one shoulder.
Same loose posture as the cafeteria — shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable.
“Morning,” he said, voice easy. “I’ve been told standards have slipped.”
Nervous laughter.
His smile warmed slightly. “Good. That makes this more interesting.”
He didn’t waste time.
“Helmets,” he said.
No warm-up speech.
No preamble.
They moved.
Holt tossed two training knives onto the mat.
“Close-quarters entry. Two-on-one. No choreography. You freeze, you lose.”
He demonstrated throws fluidly, adjusting hips and wrists mid-motion without breaking rhythm — like physics obeyed him out of habit.
Years ahead of anyone here — and it showed.
When he called for pair work, Enid ended up opposite Bianca.
They fell into sync immediately — efficient, precise, familiar.
Holt drifted between pairs, offering corrections in low tones. When he reached them, Bianca straightened almost imperceptibly.
“Barclay,” he said lightly. “Still navy?”
“Still improving,” Bianca replied evenly.
“I’d have put money on you going black before I came back.”
“Someone has to keep the rest of you accountable,” she said.
He huffed a soft laugh. “Fair.”
His gaze shifted to Enid.
“You’re Sinclair.”
Not a question.
Enid held his eyes. “Yeah.”
“I read the Prague debrief summaries,” he said. Casual. Informational. “You kept pace.”
A few heads turned.
“Didn’t think Addams did partnerships,” he continued.
Bianca’s mouth curved slightly. “She makes exceptions.”
Holt’s eyes flicked between them — amused, thoughtful.
“Interesting,” he said.
There was no bite in it. No overt provocation.
Just interest.
He stepped closer to adjust Enid’s elbow angle during a lock reversal. His touch was brief, precise.
“You overcommit on the second pivot,” he said quietly.
Enid swallowed. “Working on it.”
“I know,” he said.
That was worse.
He stepped back, eyes glinting slightly.
“Chemistry can be an advantage,” he added, voice warm but measured. “As long as it doesn’t become a blind spot.”
Bianca raised a brow. “You always this charming, or just when you’re collecting data?”
He smiled properly at that.
“Only when it’s interesting.”
There was nothing crude in it. No overt flirtation.
But the attention lingered half a second longer than necessary.
And that was enough.
He clapped once, tone shifting effortlessly.
“Rotate.”
The room moved.
Warm-up transitioned to drills.
Holt corrected footwork, demonstrated counters, dismantled Ajax in under three seconds without increasing his pulse.
He didn’t dominate the room.
He calibrated it.
During cool-down, he moved past Enid again.
“You’ve moved up quickly,” he said conversationally.
“I met the requirements.”
“I’m sure you did.”
That small smile again.
As the session ended, Bianca caught Enid’s shoulder.
“He’s not like her,” she murmured.
“No,” Enid agreed.
Bianca’s eyes tracked Holt as he zipped his duffel — movements loose but never careless.
“He makes you forget he’s measuring you,” she said.
At the door, Holt paused.
“Oh,” he said lightly, glancing back over his shoulder. “Addams lands tomorrow. 06:20. Hangar Two.”
The words were casual.
They detonated anyway.
Enid went still.
“Tomorrow?” she said before she could stop herself.
Holt’s attention sharpened.
He tracked the shift in her expression — the relief cracking through before she could seal it shut.
And he smiled.
“Try not to block the runway,” he said lightly.
Then he stepped through the door.
Gone.
Ajax jogged past Enid, shaking his head. “I take back everything I’ve ever said about missing a black-shirt mentor.”
Bianca didn’t move.
“You have no idea what you just trained under,” she said quietly.
The door swung shut.
The hall slowly filled with sound again — water bottles cracking open, low swearing, the thud of gear being collected.
Enid didn’t move.
Her pulse was racing.
Not from the drills.
Not from Holt.
Tomorrow.
06:20.
Hangar Two.
The details locked into place with military precision.
Six weeks of silence.
Six weeks of not knowing when.
Six weeks of pretending she wasn’t checking transport rotations and memorising substitute leadership patterns like they meant something.
Tomorrow.
The waiting finally had an edge.
And for the first time in six weeks, it didn’t feel endless.
The last class of the day emptied in a slow spill of navy and grey.
The afternoon light had shifted toward gold, stretching long across the stone paths that cut through campus. The drone fields were quiet now. Windows glowed dimly in the admin block. Even the wind felt disciplined here — trimmed by hedges and architecture into something contained.
Enid slung her bag over one shoulder and stepped out into it.
Ajax had peeled off toward the gym.
Kent had stayed back to finish a report.
Enid walked alone.
Her shoulders ached from the morning drills. There was a deep bruise forming along her ribs where Holt had pinned her — not cruelly, just precisely. It throbbed in rhythm with her steps.
She had made it halfway down the path toward the dormitories when footsteps fell into rhythm beside her.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Archer Holt didn’t look at her immediately.
They walked in parallel for several paces before he spoke.
“You adjust quickly.”
It didn’t sound like praise. It sounded like assessment.
“Been told that before,” Enid replied dryly.
“I’m sure you have.”
They passed a cluster of agents heading the opposite direction. They straightened instinctively when they saw him. He acknowledged them with the smallest nod.
“You didn’t know she was landing tomorrow,” he said.
Not a question.
“No.”
He let the silence sit before responding.
“That surprises me.”
“It shouldn’t.”
This time he did look at her.
Not sharply. Not confrontationally.
Curious.
“You two seemed… aligned.”
Enid kept her eyes forward. “We are.”
“Good.”
Neutral. Almost distant.
They walked a few more steps. Gravel shifted underfoot. Somewhere across the quad, someone laughed too loudly.
“You’ve moved up fast,” Holt said.
“So you’ve mentioned.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Visibility accelerates careers,” he continued. “Particularly when you operate alongside someone… notable.”
There it was.
The pivot.
Enid felt the heat rise before she could stop it.
“Say it properly,” she said.
He glanced at her.
“You don’t like implication?”
“I don’t like being told I earned something by proximity.”
He didn’t immediately respond.
Instead, he studied her face — not predatory, not smug.
Reading.
“You get defensive quickly,” he said at last.
“Because you’re questioning my work.”
“Or,” he said evenly, “maybe I’m questioning how much of it was yours.”
It landed hard.
A quiet, controlled strike.
He didn’t look triumphant.
He looked… attentive.
Like he’d been waiting to see if she would flinch.
Her jaw tightened. She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder.
She could end this conversation right now.
He softened first.
“I’ve known her a long time,” Holt said quietly.
That stopped her more effectively than the jab had.
She didn’t turn to him.
But she didn’t walk away.
He noticed that.
“Did she ever tell you how she earned her black shirt?”
The question wasn’t cruel.
It was almost gentle.
Silence stretched between them.
Her silence said enough.
Holt’s gaze drifted forward again.
“I didn’t think so.”
He wasn’t smiling now.
“She’s not much of a sharer,” he added, but there was no mockery in it. “Especially when it comes to things that cost her.”
Enid turned to him then.
“How did you get yours?” she asked, sharper now. Not curious. Challenging.
If you’re going to pry, you bleed too.
Holt’s mouth curved faintly — not smug.
Expectant.
He’d known she would pivot there.
“Containment operation,” he said. “Eastern corridor. Biotech lab.”
He didn’t dramatise it.
“There was a breach. Lower wards failed. Command ordered lockdown.”
He paused.
“They marked everyone inside as unrecoverable.“
The air shifted.
“I went back in,” he continued.
“For what?” Enid asked.
“For the people they’d written off.”
He swallowed once — subtle, but visible.
“Smoke was thick. Visibility was gone. You stop hearing comms after a while. Just alarms. And coughing.”
His jaw tightened briefly — not performative.
Memory.
“I found…,” he hesitated. “Two made it out.”
The gold light across the path felt harsher suddenly.
“They gave me black for composure under pressure,” he said quietly. “I got it because I didn’t wait.”
There was no pride in it.
No heroism.
Just fact.
Enid hadn’t expected that.
Hadn’t expected the stillness in his voice.
Hadn’t expected the faint shift in his breathing when he didn’t say anything else.
Her anger loosened — not gone, but… reframed.
“You didn’t have to tell me that,” she said before she could stop herself.
“No,” he agreed.
He didn’t look at her when he said it.
They reached the fork in the path — dormitories one way, staff quarters the other.
He slowed.
“People think black shirts are about skill,” he said. “They’re about decisions you live with.”
The words weren’t sharp.
They were tired.
He looked at her then — properly.
“You’re good,” he said. Not teasing. Not evaluating. “And you’re not riding anyone’s coattails.”
That startled her more than the criticism had.
“But don’t build your certainty on someone else’s silence,” he added gently.
There it was.
Not an attack.
A warning.
“Keep that fire, Sinclair,” he said, softer now. “She’ll like that.”
He stepped back toward the staff path then he walked away.
Enid stayed where she was.
The campus had gone quiet in that strange pre-dinner lull.
For the first time, she wasn’t just wondering how Wednesday had earned her black shirt.
She was wondering what it had cost her.
And why the man who’d walked back into smoke had been the one to tell her.
The water struck her shoulders in sharp, steaming bursts, rolling down over bruised muscle and tender ribs. Enid braced one hand against the tile and bowed her head, letting the heat soak in until the ache dulled to something manageable.
The campus noise — boots on gravel, distant doors, muted conversation — dissolved into the steady hiss of the shower.
Her body hurt.
It was the honest kind. Earned.
She’d worked harder these last six weeks than she ever had before. Extra drills. Extra range time. Perfect paperwork. Cleaner execution. No hesitation she didn’t correct. No weakness she didn’t turn into something usable.
She wanted Wednesday to see it.
Not for approval.
For recognition.
She straightened slowly, rolling her shoulders back beneath the spray, feeling the difference in the way her body carried itself now. Stronger. More certain. Less afraid of its own capability.
Less afraid of her.
She tried to picture Wednesday the way she existed out there — somewhere foreign, somewhere precise. Uniform immaculate. Hair perfect. Expression controlled to the point of myth.
Untouchable.
But the image wouldn’t hold.
It softened.
Shifted.
Became something else.
The warmth in her voice when class was over.
The quiet stillness before she closed the distance.
The rare fracture in her composure — not weakness, never weakness — just permission.
Enid swallowed.
She wondered if Wednesday had missed her.
Her mind betrayed her completely then.
That night.
Wednesday’s hand at her waist — steady, certain, like she’d always known where she belonged. The way she never rushed. Never fumbled. Every movement deliberate. Chosen.
I have a reason to.
The words settled somewhere deep.
Heat pooled low in Enid’s stomach, sudden and disorienting. Her breath caught, shallow now, uneven. Six weeks apart and her body still remembered everything — the weight of her, the closeness, the quiet intensity that made the rest of the world disappear.
She pressed her forehead against the tile.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, Wednesday would walk back through that hangar door.
And Enid didn’t know which version would return.
The black shirt myth.
Or the girl who had once let herself exist in Enid’s hands.
Her pulse climbed, sharp and insistent. Not fear. Not quite nerves.
Want.
“God,” Enid muttered, dragging a hand back through her damp hair. “Get it together.”
She reached for the tap and twisted it.
Cold water slammed into her skin.
It ripped the breath from her lungs, brutal and immediate, dragging her back into herself. The heat vanished. The memory didn’t.
She stood there under the freezing spray, chest rising and falling hard, forcing control back into place piece by piece.
Discipline.
Reality.
Tomorrow wasn’t memory.
Tomorrow was real.
“Just one more day,” she whispered.
One more night of imagining.
One more night of wondering if six weeks apart had changed anything — or everything.
She closed her eyes beneath the cold.
Wednesday Addams was coming home.
And Enid didn’t know if that would steady her —
or unravel her completely.
The hangar lights were already on when Enid got there.
Morning hadn’t fully happened yet — just a thin grey wash stretching across the runway, the air sharp with jet fuel and cold metal. The transport jet sat on the tarmac, engines ticking as they cooled, its presence heavy and unmistakably real.
This section of campus was quiet at this hour. Too quiet.
Enid lingered near the barrier tape, hands buried deep in her jacket pockets.
She wasn’t supposed to be here.
She knew Wednesday would prefer she wasn’t.
Professional lines mattered. Protocol mattered. Debrief schedules mattered.
But she was only human.
Being late to morning class — whatever punishment followed — would be worth seeing Wednesday alive and upright.
Her pulse hadn’t settled since she arrived.
A shadow moved at the top of the ramp.
Then another.
And then—
Wednesday Addams appeared.
Black long-sleeve uniform. Immaculate. Braid precise. Posture straight. Composure intact.
She looked exactly the same.
Until she didn’t.
It was small. Almost invisible.
A fractional stiffness in her left shoulder. The way she compensated without acknowledging it. A movement that avoided strain instead of ignoring it.
Enid felt it before she consciously registered it.
Something instinctive.
Wednesday descended the ramp with measured certainty, pausing at the bottom as medical staff intercepted her. Questions. Checks. Protocol.
She answered calmly.
But Enid saw the fatigue threaded beneath the control. The tension in her jaw. The cost she would never voice.
The medic finally stepped aside.
Wednesday turned toward the hangar.
Toward her.
Enid had promised herself she would stay where she was.
Watch from a distance. Let Wednesday see she’d come. Let that be enough.
The promise lasted less than a second.
She ducked under the barrier tape and ran.
Boots splashed through shallow puddles. Someone called her name. She didn’t stop.
One moment she was still.
The next she was there.
Wednesday barely had time to react before Enid collided with her — hard enough to rock them both a step off balance. Enid’s arms wrapped around her instinctively, desperate and certain, as if proving something to her own body.
Alive.
Real.
For a suspended second, the world narrowed.
Engine hum. Metal. Antiseptic. Rain in the air.
“You’re back,” Enid said into her shoulder.
Her voice cracked around the relief she’d been holding for six weeks.
Wednesday stilled in her arms.
For half a second, Enid thought she’d misjudged the impact —
—but Wednesday’s reflexes were faster than the collision.
Her right arm came up immediately, steadying Enid and subtly pivoting her body so the left shoulder stayed clear. Controlled. Automatic. Protective of the injury without announcing it.
Enid felt the adjustment.
Registered it.
Then, slowly, Wednesday’s hands settled properly at her waist.
Steady.
She eased Enid back enough to look at her face.
Her eyes sharpened — assessing.
“You knew,” Wednesday said quietly.
Not accusing.
Just surprised.
Enid’s heart skipped. “I—”
Movement behind them shifted. A crew member cleared their throat, gesturing them aside to keep the ramp clear.
They stepped away from the main flow of traffic, still too close, still unwilling to put proper space between them.
Enid’s gaze dropped again — this time deliberately — to the left shoulder.
There.
The guarded angle. The micro-tightening when she adjusted her stance.
“You’re hurt.”
“Superficial,” Wednesday replied automatically, straightening as if posture alone could erase it.
Enid opened her mouth to argue —
Wednesday cut her off smoothly.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she murmured, already guiding them toward the post-mission intake corridor.
“I know.”
“You’ll get written up.”
“Worth it.”
A faint breath left Wednesday’s nose — not quite a laugh.
Her grip tightened just slightly before she released Enid fully.
And that — more than the words — told Enid everything she needed to know.
Enid brushed her thumb once along the edge of Wednesday’s hand, the gesture small and almost shy now that the collision had passed.
“Did you miss me?”
There it was.
The real question.
Wednesday hesitated.
Only a fraction of a second.
But Enid felt it.
“I didn’t have time not to,” Wednesday said.
Which, from anyone else, would have sounded evasive.
From her, it felt like confession.
Enid’s smile trembled at the edges. “That’s almost romantic.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
A voice carried from across the hangar.
“Addams. Debrief in five.”
Reality reassembled itself.
Wednesday’s pace picked up, her spine straightened. The distance slid back into place like armour.
But before she stepped away, she caught Enid’s wrist.
Her thumb pressed lightly over the steady beat beneath the skin.
Grounding.
“I’ll see you soon,” Wednesday said.
Not a question.
A promise.
Enid nodded. “I’ll be here.”
Wednesday held her gaze one heartbeat longer — something unguarded flickering there — before turning toward the debrief corridor.
With every step, the black-shirt composure returned.
Enid stayed where she was.
The cold air didn’t feel cold anymore.
She watched until Wednesday disappeared from view.
Only then did her heartbeat begin to settle.
She came back.
The med bay smelled like antiseptic and exhaustion.
Wednesday sat upright on the edge of the exam table, left sleeve cut away, shoulder bound in a clean compression wrap beneath a transparent dermal seal. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead with all the warmth of an interrogation room.
Dr. Roth stood beside her, reviewing the scan on his tablet.
“Metal fragment,” he said. “Ricochet. You’re fortunate the angle was shallow.”
“I adjusted,” Wednesday replied.
Roth gave her a look. “You bled through your harness.”
“That was not the question.”
He exhaled through his nose and applied the final seal to the patch. The hiss of coagulant cut through the room.
“No combat drills for a week,” he said. “Light duty only. If you reopen it, I will personally inform the Chairwoman you failed basic self-preservation.”
“I did not realise that was part of the curriculum.”
“It is when you’re expensive.”
He closed the chart. “Rest. Or at least pretend to.”
Wednesday’s mouth twitched faintly. She didn’t argue.
When he left, the room fell into sterile quiet. The hum of the monitors became rhythmic, mechanical.
She rotated her shoulder minimally.
Pain answered — sharp, controlled, manageable.
Oslo-Delta replayed in fragments. Rain on steel. Gunfire beneath scaffolding. A detonation mistimed by seconds. Civilians refusing to stay down.
She had recalculated.
She always recalculated.
The knock came exactly three seconds later.
Chairwoman Weems stepped inside, immaculate as ever.
“Addams,” she greeted. “Welcome back.”
“Chairwoman.”
Weems skimmed the medical file. “Superficial wound. Treated on site. You declined morphine?”
“I prefer clarity.”
“I prefer agents who can lift their arms.”
Wednesday did not respond.
Weems’ gaze sharpened slightly.
“You caused a minor procedural disturbance on the runway this morning.”
Wednesday’s eyes lifted.
“I wasn’t referring to you,” Weems clarified dryly. “I meant the navy-shirt agent who breached three layers of access control and ran at you like incoming artillery.”
A fractional shift in Wednesday’s pulse.
“Mm,” she replied.
Weems’ mouth curved faintly.
Silence settled between them — observant, deliberate.
“Was there another reason for your visit?” Wednesday asked evenly.
“Several.” Weems adjusted the tablet under her arm. “But first—Holt’s back.”
The name landed precisely.
Wednesday’s fingers stilled against the table’s edge.
“Preliminary debrief complete. Reassignment pending. He appears… stable.”
“Define stable.”
“Functionally intact.”
Wednesday absorbed that without visible reaction.
“We’ll see,” she said.
Weems watched her carefully.
“I assume your hallway reunion will be civil.”
“Perhaps.”
Weems almost smiled.
“You’re cleared for light duties in forty-eight hours. Do try to appear mortal until then.”
“I’ll attempt to disappoint.”
Weems paused at the door.
“And Addams?”
“Yes.”
“If your runway collisions continue, I’ll require a formal declaration for extracurricular attachments. I prefer my paperwork signed before impact.”
Wednesday did not blink.
“Noted.”
Weems’ amusement lingered a fraction longer before she exited.
The door shut softly.
The room returned to sterile quiet.
Wednesday remained seated longer than necessary.
The image returned uninvited.
Barrier tape shifting.
Boots striking wet concrete.
Enid running.
No calculation. No hesitation. No awareness of observers.
Just movement.
She had collided with her without regard for rank or consequence.
Alive.
Wednesday’s reflex had been immediate — turn, shield the shoulder, absorb the impact.
The decision not to step back afterward had not been reflex.
She straightened slowly.
Her body obeyed discipline.
Her pulse required a moment longer.
Then she adjusted her sleeve carefully over the bandage and stepped into the corridor.
Composure restored.
Mostly.
Enid’s last lecture had overrun by fifteen minutes, and she’d spent every one of them half-listening, half-counting seconds until she could bolt.
She jogged down the corridor, muttering under her breath.
“Okay, Sinclair, just act normal. Normal smile. Not creepy. Okay, quick change, hair—no, it’s fine, maybe—oh my god — where is it.”
The door swung inward before she found it.
Enid stumbled inside mid-sentence—and froze.
Wednesday Addams was sitting on the edge of her bed.
Not in uniform.
Not composed into the sharp, untouchable shape the world expected.
Just an oversized black CHERUB hoodie, sleeves swallowing her hands, hem brushing mid-thigh. Her braid was looser than usual, a few strands escaping near her temple. Fatigue lingered beneath her eyes—not weakness, just evidence.
Proof she was human.
Proof she had come back.
Back to her.
Enid forgot how to breathe.
“You—hi,” she managed. “You’re—uh. You’re here.”
Wednesday looked up, unhurried.
“Astute observation.”
Enid beamed despite herself, drinking her in.
“You look… good.”
Wednesday’s brow lifted slightly.
Enid’s gaze flicked around the room—the laundry pile, the open notes, the sock draped over her chair.
“Oh my god,” she groaned. “Of course. The one time you see my room, it looks like a tactical explosion.”
Wednesday glanced around calmly.
“I’ve been in worse interrogation rooms.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
A beat.
Then, quieter—
“It suits you.”
Enid blinked.
“Lived-in,” Wednesday clarified. “Honest.”
Enid felt something in her chest loosen.
“That’s either very sweet or a polite way of saying disaster.”
“Both can be true.”
Enid smiled helplessly.
Wednesday studied her for a moment longer.
“Though, to your credit,” she added, “you’re handling this encounter with only minimal stammering.”
Enid froze.
“…Minimal?”
Wednesday tilted her head slightly.
“Compared to your hallway rehearsal, yes.”
Enid’s soul left her body.
“You heard that.”
“Every word.”
Enid buried her face in her hands.
“I’m never showing my face again.”
Wednesday’s voice dropped, softer.
“That would be unfortunate.”
Enid lowered her hands slowly.
The room felt smaller after that.
Full.
Charged.
Enid sat beside her, careful—instinctively mindful of her shoulder.
“So,” she said quietly. “How bad is it?”
Wednesday didn’t answer immediately.
“A shard of metal,” she said at last.
“Like a splinter?”
A pause.
“…Comparable to a dinner knife.”
Enid shot upright.
“Wednesday—”
“Sinclair,” Wednesday said evenly. “Indoor voice.”
Enid deflated.
“I swear to God,” she muttered, “you get impaled and you’re still grading people in lowercase.”
“Habit.”
The silence stretched again.
Enid shifted slightly beside her, trying — and failing — to sound casual.
“So. Um. Archer Holt is back.” A beat. “I’m sure you know him. He definitely knows you.”
A fractional tightening in Wednesday’s jaw.
“I’m aware,” she said evenly.
“Right,” Enid nodded too quickly. “Well. I mean. He’s been talking like he knows you. Like—” she waved vaguely “—like he knows everything.”
“You’ve spoken to him.”
Not a question.
Enid blinked. “Well, yeah. I mean—we spent most of yesterday together.”
Wednesday’s gaze sharpened.
It was subtle.
But Enid felt it instantly.
“Wait,” she rushed, hands lifting. “That sounds worse than it was. Not like—” She faltered. “He was our team lead yesterday.“ She laughed awkwardly,
Wednesday didn’t interrupt.
“He’s the one who told me what time you were landing,” Enid added, quieter now.
Something in Wednesday’s expression shifted — not visible to anyone who didn’t know her. But Enid knew her.
Her eyes darkened slightly.
Her posture went still.
A long pause.
“And what else did he say?” Wednesday asked.
There was no heat in it.
That was worse.
“Not much,” Enid said, glancing down at her hands. “He did tell me how he got his black shirt. He was… surprisingly open about it.”
Wednesday’s gaze snapped to hers — sharp, immediate.
“Did he.”
The words were flat.
Precise.
Then—
“How generous of him.”
Enid frowned slightly. “What?”
Wednesday’s voice remained calm.
“Did he also ensure you understood how impressive he believes himself to be?”
A beat.
“And whether you agreed.”
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t overt.
But it was unmistakably territorial.
Enid stared at her.
“…Wow.”
Wednesday looked away first.
Silence settled between them, charged and fragile.
Then Wednesday lifted her hand, pressing her fingers briefly to her brow, rubbing once like she could erase the reaction.
She exhaled.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That was unnecessary.”
She still didn’t look at her.
“It’s been a long morning. And Holt’s return was not a variable I anticipated managing today.”
There was no defensiveness in it.
Just honesty.
Enid watched her.
And then—
She smiled.
Soft.
Knowing.
She leaned sideways, nudging her shoulder gently into Wednesday’s good one.
“Are you jealous?” she asked lightly.
Wednesday scoffed immediately.
The silence stretched.
Enid’s grin widened.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “You are.”
Wednesday turned her head, fixing her with a look clearly intended to intimidate.
It failed completely.
Not when Enid was already smiling at her like that. Unbearably pleased. Unapologetically smug.
Enid reached up, toying lightly with the drawstrings of Wednesday’s hoodie, rolling the fabric between her fingers. A small, absent gesture.
Intimate.
She glanced up—
—and found Wednesday already watching her.
Her gaze dropped.
Just briefly.
To Enid’s mouth.
Enid’s breath caught.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured softly. “There’s only one black shirt I care about impressing.”
Wednesday’s eyes narrowed faintly, like she was resisting the reaction.
Enid smiled.
Then leaned in.
Slow.
Careful.
The kiss came like a breath finally released—gentle, deliberate, and certain.
Wednesday met her halfway, fingers curling around Enid’s wrist, anchoring her there. Drawing her closer without urgency, but without hesitation either. The world narrowed to warmth and breath and the quiet hum of the room around them.
It started slow—careful, deliberate—as if neither of them wanted to break the fragile rhythm that had finally brought them back together. But the tenderness didn’t last long.
It thickened, humming beneath the surface until something sharper pushed through. The pauses between kisses vanished; hunger overtook restraint.
Enid shifted instinctively, one knee sliding onto the mattress beside Wednesday’s thigh, then the other. The movement was slow, almost uncertain—giving her time to stop her.
Wednesday didn’t.
Enid settled over her, straddling her lap, the oversized hoodie bunching beneath her hands as she steadied herself. She could feel the heat of her through the fabric, the rise and fall of her breathing, controlled—but no longer untouched.
Wednesday’s hand found the small of Enid’s back, guiding her closer until their breaths tangled. Enid’s hands moved upward, brushing along her jaw, into her hair, loosening strands that had escaped the braid. Her heart hammered so hard she was sure Wednesday could feel it where their bodies met.
When Enid tugged her shirt over her head, nerves trembled in every movement. Her heartbeat thundered louder than the rain outside, but she didn’t stop—didn’t dare. The moment felt too fragile to break.
For a second, it looked like she had the upper hand—her touch trailing uncertain but brave, testing the weight of want between them. Then everything shifted.
Wednesday’s restraint snapped like a held breath. Her hand moving up Enid’s back, and in one precise motion, she rolled them, pinning Enid beneath her.
A surprise sound escaped Enid threaded with something dangerously close to a plea.
The movement had cost Wednesday—Enid saw it in the sharp hitch of breath, the flicker of pain behind her composure. But even that didn’t slow her. Control was something Wednesday never relinquished easily—not to injury, not to emotion, and certainly not to the girl who made her want both.
Wednesday pressed forward, their bodies aligning flush, her thigh pushing firmly between Enid’s legs to pin her down. The friction against Enid’s clothed core stole coherent thought; she arched against it, hands clutching at the collar of Wednesday’s hoodie, fingers pulling her impossibly closer, every breath tangled with raw need and the lingering disbelief that this was real.
Enid clung to her, arms looping around her shoulders—needing something solid to anchor herself against the rising tide as her hips moved involuntarily.
Wednesday’s lips brushed Enid’s ear, her voice low and ragged, laced with that unyielding edge. “Don’t stop.” The words were a command, a plea, a threat all at once, vibrating against Enid’s skin.
Enid shuddered, her breath hot and uneven against Wednesday’s neck. “Oh fuck…” she whispered, hips grinding up to meet the relentless pressure and pace of Wednesday’s thigh, throbbing with each thrust.
When their eyes met, everything else fell away. Heat. Defiance. A flash of something dangerously soft.
And then—
The door banged open.
“Sinclair, Yoko’s back early and she—”
Ajax froze.
So did Enid.
And so did time.
For a fraction of a second nobody breathed. Enid could only register the weight pressed against her—Wednesday still half-propped over her, braid loose, arm braced on the mattress.
Ajax blinked once, mouth opening and closing like his brain had short-circuited.
Then came the noise—a strangled gasp that might have been “oh my god.”
Enid jolted upright so fast she smacked her forehead against Wednesday’s.
“Ah—!”
Wednesday hissed softly, one hand flying to her temple. “Sinclair.”
“Sorry! Sorry!” Enid blurted, already half untangling herself from the blanket. Her heart was still hammering for entirely different reasons now.
Then the reality of the open door hit.
“AJAX!” she yelped, voice pitching up an octave.
Enid scrambled, flailing in full panic, trying to pull the sheet up while simultaneously scrambling out from under her. “Why are you here?! What are you—get out, get out!”
“I’m going!” Ajax’s voice cracked. “I didn’t see anything! I swear I didn’t—oh, my eyes!”
He stumbled backward into the hallway, hit the doorframe, dropped whatever drink he’d been holding, and retreated like the room was cursed. The door slammed so hard the lights flickered.
Silence.
Enid sat frozen halfway upright, chest heaving, hair sticking in every direction. Her skin burned everywhere Wednesday had touched her. The air still felt thick, electric—heat that didn’t fade just because they’d been interrupted.
“Oh my god,” she muttered, now pacing the room. “That did not just happen.”
She started searching for her shirt in a blind panic, yanking the blanket aside, looking under pillows, checking the floor. “Where is it—why can’t I find anything when you’re around?”
Wednesday leaned back against the headboard, perfectly composed, eyes following her like she was conducting a field study.
“Stop staring at me,” Enid groaned.
“I’m merely observing the aftermath,” Wednesday said dryly.
Enid found a sock, cursed under her breath, and kept searching. Her eyes skimmed the floor, the chair, the edge of the desk—before landing back on Wednesday.
She stilled.
“Oh—ugh—never mind,” she said, abandoning the search entirely. Her voice shifting now, threaded with quiet resolve. “Your hoodie. I’m borrowing your hoodie.”
She didn’t ask it like a question.
Wednesday blinked once, as if the idea had caught her off guard.
Slowly, carefully, Wednesday reached for the hem of her hoodie. Every movement was deliberate, controlled. The effort showed anyway—in the tightening of her jaw, the faint hitch of breath she couldn’t fully conceal as the fabric dragged over her injured shoulder.
“Wait—” Enid blurted, guilt flaring sharp and immediate. “Sorry—you don’t have to—”
But Wednesday was already holding it out to her.
When their eyes met.
Enid took the hoodie carefully, as if it might break.
It fit differently on her than it had on Wednesday—still oversized, but not overwhelming. The sleeves fell just past her wrists, the fabric settling against muscle that hadn’t been there a year ago.
Wednesday watched her settle into it, her gaze intent and impossible to misinterpret.
“It suits you better,” she said.
Enid blinked, trying to find something clever to say, but all that came out was a weak, “Thank you.”
When she looked back up, Wednesday was still watching her—the faint smile still there, softer in the dim light.
Enid moved back toward the bed and sat beside Wednesday, shoulders brushing in the narrow space against the headboard. It was a single, there wasn’t much room to pretend otherwise. Half their sides pressed together, warm through the fabric. Enid adjusted carefully, mindful of the injured shoulder.
She tugged absently at the sleeve, twisting the fabric between her fingers.
“So…” she said finally, her voice tripping over itself in its rush to fill the silence. “That just happened. Ajax’s timing is apparently a government weapon now. I mean, of course it’d be him, right? He probably thinks he’s traumatized for life—oh god, what if he tells Kent? Or Yoko? I’m never eating in the cafeteria again.”
Wednesday said nothing.
She just watched her, head tilted slightly, eyes dark with unmistakable amusement.
Enid kept going, momentum impossible to stop once it started.
“Do you think Weems will find out? Oh my god, are you going to get in trouble for—that? And, um—speaking of that—was that even… okay? Because we didn’t exactly get to, you know, finish anything and—”
“Enid.”
Her name cut cleanly through the spiral.
Enid froze mid-sentence, sleeve still twisted tight in her grip.
Wednesday’s voice was low. Steady.
“You’re spiralling.”
Enid let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I know. I just—”
“We’ll lock the door next time,” Wednesday said.
Enid blinked.
“…Next time?”
Wednesday’s brow lifted slightly, that faint, infuriating curve of her mouth returning.
“And if you’re asking whether it was acceptable,” she murmured, her voice dipping into something darker, softer, “I assure you. I had no objections.”
The confidence in it—quiet, absolute—broke through Enid’s panic like sunlight.
She laughed before she could stop herself, breathless and disbelieving.
“You’re impossible.”
“Fortunately,” Wednesday replied, eyes half-lidded now, “I’m also patient.”
The quiet that followed was different. Warmer. Easier.
After a moment, Enid spoke again, her voice small now. Vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed.
“Will you… just hold me for a bit? Before we have to go out there and deal with Ajax pretending he didn’t just ruin my life?”
Wednesday’s lips twitched faintly.
“Very well.”
She shifted closer, careful of her shoulder, and wrapped her good arm around Enid’s waist. The movement was precise, economical—but there was nothing restrained about the result. She drew Enid in until there was no space left between them.
“Will this suffice?” she murmured.
Enid huffed a quiet laugh, resting her forehead lightly against Wednesday’s temple.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “It really will.”
They stayed like that.
Gradually, Wednesday’s breathing slowed. The rigid line of her posture softened, her weight settling against Enid’s side. The constant tension she carried—like armor she never fully removed—began to ease.
She drifted into stillness.
Or as close to sleep as Wednesday Addams ever allowed herself to be.
Enid didn’t move.
She didn’t dare.
Her heart still hadn’t caught up with everything that had happened—the panic, the relief, the overwhelming reality of her being here. Of her being safe.
She looked down at her.
Even in rest, Wednesday looked sharp. Defined. Untouchable.
And yet—not.
A few strands of her braid had come loose. Her expression, stripped of its usual vigilance, was softer. Younger. Human.
Breakable.
Enid’s fingers moved before she could stop them, tracing lightly along her cheek. She found a freckle just beneath her eye. Then another, faint across the bridge of her nose. Details she’d never had the courage to linger on before.
“You’re okay,” she whispered.
The words were barely sound.
She said them again anyway.
“You’re okay.”
She rested her cheek gently against Wednesday’s hair, staring up at the ceiling.
Sleep wouldn’t come.
That was fine.
As long as Wednesday stayed here. As long as she kept breathing against her.
That was enough.
The morning after Wednesday’s return felt different.
The cafeteria doors slid open with a hiss of heat and noise.
Enid hesitated on the threshold, scanning the crowd until she found her.
Wednesday Addams stood just outside the main line, posture immaculate, tray balanced with effortless precision. Waiting.
Not for the food.
For her.
Black shirts always drew attention in the cafeteria. Wednesday drew something closer to gravity. Conversations dimmed without her trying; the air seemed to narrow around her, like a blade honing itself on stone.
When Enid crossed the room to join her, Wednesday inclined her head in greeting — the kind of gesture that translated to you’re late without wasting words on it.
“Morning,” Enid said, still slightly off-balance from yesterday's reunion.
“Barely,” Wednesday replied, turning toward the line.
They had made it exactly three steps toward the queue when—
“Addams.”
It wasn’t loud.
The cafeteria quieted the way animals do before a storm.
Movement slowed. Conversations continued—too loudly, too artificially—but no one was actually eating anymore.
Enid felt Wednesday go still beside her.
Not freeze.
Still.
A wire drawn tight.
Archer Holt stood near the far end of the room, posture loose in a way that was anything but careless. His black shirt hung easy on him, sleeves rolled just enough to look practical rather than precise.
His gaze settled on Wednesday.
Then shifted.
To Enid.
He smiled at that. Knowingly.
Enid’s instinct was immediate—keep walking. Head to the table. Give them space. Let whatever this is happen without her standing in the middle of it.
Her weight shifted.
Wednesday didn’t look at her.
“Stay.”
Low.
Quiet.
Not a request.
Enid stilled instantly.
Holt noticed.
Of course he did.
His smile deepened by a fraction as he started toward them.
“Well,” he said mildly, stopping a few feet away. “You do have a talent for surviving your own decisions.”
“Disappointing, I’m sure,” Wednesday replied.
A ripple moved through the nearest tables—someone coughing to disguise interest.
Holt’s mouth curved.
“Eighteen months,” he said. “And you’re exactly the same.”
“Consistency is efficient.”
“Not when it calcifies.”
The air sharpened.
Enid felt it settle under her ribs—something old and unfinished, too personal to be casual.
Holt’s gaze shifted again.
To her.
“Sinclair.”
Her name in his mouth sounded confident, smooth.
Enid straightened automatically.
“Good to see you again,” he added, offering her a warm, almost easy smile.
She didn’t return it. Not quite. Just a small, careful nod.
His eyes flicked back to Wednesday, then to Enid again.
“You both look… well-rested,” he said lightly. “Reunions agree with you.”
Wednesday’s expression didn’t move.
“Your observational skills remain tragically underemployed,” she replied.
Holt huffed a faint breath through his nose—amused.
“Ah,” he murmured. “We’re not sharing, then.”
Wednesday’s gaze sharpened.
“We never did.”
The silence between them hummed—old voltage crackling beneath civility.
Holt tilted his head slightly.
“Careful, Addams,” he said, tone almost gentle. “Attachment never looked good on you. You’ll only get bored.”
Wednesday didn’t blink, but something in her jaw tightened—microscopic, lethal.
Enid’s stomach twisted at the quiet that followed.
“And intrusion was never yours,” she returned. “Yet here we are.”
A beat.
Then Holt gave a small half-salute with his tray.
“Enjoy breakfast.”
He turned away like he’d achieved exactly what he’d intended to.
The cafeteria exhaled.
Noise resumed. Forks clinked. Gossip restarted in cautious waves.
Life pretended it hadn’t paused to watch two black shirts measure each other.
Enid let out a slow breath. “Well.”
Wednesday didn’t look at her. “Well.”
“He’s such an ass.”
No response.
Wednesday was still watching the cafeteria doors, posture immaculate — but wound tight, like something held in check by force of will alone.
Silence.
Wednesday was still watching the cafeteria doors, posture immaculate — but too still. Too precise. Like something inside her had locked into place.
“Hey,” Enid said more quietly, brushing her fingers lightly against Wednesday’s elbow. “Are you okay?”
A beat.
“I’m fine.”
It was immediate. Controlled.
Unconvincing.
Enid studied her profile. The line of her jaw was tight. Her shoulders — one carefully guarded — sat a fraction higher than usual.
Enid didn’t believe that for a second.
But she also knew when pushing would only make Wednesday retreat further.
So she shifted.
Tilted her head.
Let a small, crooked smile form despite it. “Sounds like unresolved history.”
Wednesday’s gaze flicked sideways, narrowing. “What are you implying?.”
Enid met her eyes without flinching. “Oh, I’m not implying. You left me halfway there. And you know it.”
Something flashed across Wednesday’s expression — quick, bright. Not quite guilt. Not quite calculation. Something closer to heat.
“If your friend possessed better timing,” she said evenly, “you would still be speechless.”
Enid huffed a laugh, equal parts disbelief and desire. “So that’s it? Blaming Ajax for your lack of follow-through?”
Wednesday’s brow arched. “Lack of follow-through?”
Her voice dipped — low, controlled, velvet over steel. “Sinclair, I don’t initiate what I cannot complete.”
Enid leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to match. Playful — but edged.
“Better be soon,” she murmured. “Before you get bored of me.”
The words landed heavier than she meant them to.
For half a beat, the air shifted.
Wednesday’s expression softened — barely. Just enough for Enid to see she’d struck something real.
“Impossible,” Wednesday said quietly, the word escaping before she could rein it back. Then she straightened her collar, composure snapping into place. “You’re far too loud to be boring.”
Enid blinked — caught somewhere between a laugh and a flush.
By the time she found a response, Wednesday was already stepping away, voice drifting back over her shoulder—
“Try not to prove me wrong.”
Enid watched her go, pulse still unsettled, a ghost of a grin lingering on her lips—
Until Holt’s gaze replayed in her mind.
The way he’d looked at both of them. Clinical. Amused. Measuring.
Like he was still undercover.
And they were just variables.
By the time she turned back toward the tables, the cafeteria’s hum had resumed — spoons clattering, gossip restarting, life pretending it hadn’t paused to watch two black shirts circle each other. Enid forced a breath, forced movement. Normalcy by muscle memory.
Ajax was already waving her over like she’d just won an Olympic medal in poor life choices. Kent leaned back in his chair, grin loaded.
She almost turned around. Almost.
But Ajax’s voice carried, of course. “There she is! The woman of the hour!”
Enid groaned. “No.”
“Oh yes,” Ajax said, eyes gleaming. “Do you know how hard it was keeping your little… incident to myself?”
Kent arched a brow. “You didn’t keep it to yourself.”
Enid dropped her tray onto the table hard enough to rattle cutlery. “Ajax.”
He spread his hands. “I’m providing community enrichment.”
“By oversharing?”
“Exactly.”
Before she could fire back, Enid’s eyes caught Yoko’s across the table — and for a split second, the noise around her vanished. Yoko was back. Grey shirt immaculate, calm as ever, sipping coffee like she hadn’t just been on assignment for five days straight. Relief flooded through Enid so fast it hurt.
“You’re back!” she blurted, grinning. “How was—”
“Still,” Kent said, shaking his head. “I don’t get how Addams didn’t clock you the second you opened the door.”
Ajax gaped. “Clock me? She was on top of her, Kent. She wasn’t clocking anything!”
He threw his hands up, scandalised and delighted. “Do you have any idea how traumatic it is to open a door and find your friend half-naked under a black-shirt legend?”
Yoko didn’t blink. “And yet, somehow, the world kept spinning.”
Enid’s face went crimson. “Oh my god—please shut up!”
Ajax grinned, sensing blood in the water. “No, no, this is educational! The human brain can, apparently, function without oxygen, because Addams sure looked like she was testing the theory.”
“Ajax!” Enid hissed, mortified. “I swear to God—”
Yoko finally set down her coffee, voice calm, devastating. “If you’re done reliving their make-out session, perhaps we could discuss my flawless mission performance instead.”
Ajax sighed theatrically. “Fine. But I’m never unseeing that, Sinclair. Never.”
“Good,” Enid said through her hands. “Maybe the trauma will shut you up for once.”
Ajax smirked. “Oh no, this is generational trauma. I’m telling my grandchildren about this.”
“Bold of you to assume anyone would reproduce with you,” Yoko said, perfectly deadpan. “Now, as much as I enjoy your public meltdown, can we talk about my week of excellence instead?”
Enid peeked through her fingers. “Please. Distract me before I actually die.”
Yoko’s mouth curved, sharp and pleased. “Melbourne op. Grey-shirt clearance. Officially the most efficient mission in recent memory.”
Kent groaned. “Here we go.”
Ajax leaned forward. “What’d you do, hack a vending machine again?”
Yoko’s eyes glinted. “Freight yard. Storm drain. One security drone that will require years of therapy.”
Enid laughed, tension finally cracking. “Oh my God, please tell me you have footage.”
“Classified,” Yoko said, too smug to sound sorry. “But I will say, we bypassed three layers of surveillance, snagged the drive, and exfiltrated before local intel even knew we existed. Weems called it—” she paused, savouring it— “‘competent work.’”
Kent whistled. “High praise. Practically poetry.”
Ajax lifted his juice. “To competence, then.”
Yoko raised her cup like a toast. “And to me, for proving you can do your job fully clothed.”
Enid groaned. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Never,” Yoko said serenely.
Their laughter filled the table—loud, bright, grounding. Noise that stitched the morning back together.