Work Text:
The therapist's office smells faintly of citrus, softened by something lightly floral. Zoey notices it immediately. The couch dips when she sits, pulling her in more than she expects, and she straightens again, folding her hands as if posture might keep everything contained.
Mira doesn't sit back at all. She stays forward, ankle hooked over her knee, jacket still on. Zoey clocks that too, the way she always does — the armour never comes off first.
"Thank you for coming in," the therapist says, calm and even. She balances her clipboard against her thigh, pen poised but not moving. "I know starting can feel awkward."
Zoey offers a polite smile. "We've been talking about it for a bit."
Mira nods once. "Seemed like the right time."
"That's often how it starts," the therapist says. "What made you decide to book an appointment with me now?"
"Well…" Zoey draws in a breath she doesn't quite need. "Things have been… off. Between us lately."
Mira exhales through her nose. "That's one way to say it."
Zoey turns her head, sharp but quiet. The look lands; Mira lifts a hand in surrender, though the tension in her shoulders doesn't ease.
The therapist glances between them without comment. "Can you tell me what 'off' looks like for you?"
"A lot," Mira says. After a beat, she adds, "I suppose we having been properly communicating as much anymore."
Zoey blinks at her. "That's not all of it."
"No, you're right," Mira admits. "But it's part of it."
The therapist writes something down, then looks up again. "How does that make you feel?"
Zoey hesitates. She hates that the pause exists, hates that it says something on its own. "Like we're doing everything but actually meeting in the middle."
"That sounds exhausting," the therapist says gently.
Zoey lets out a quiet laugh. "It kind of is."
Mira shifts, gaze drifting briefly to the window before coming back. "I… don't think we're trying to hurt each other."
"That matters," the therapist says. "But intention isn't the only thing that shapes a relationship."
Mira nods, slower this time. "I know."
Silence settles, thin but present. Zoey presses her thumb against the side of her finger, grounding herself in the pressure.
"So, to get this out of the way now. Do either of you feel unsafe?" the therapist asks.
Zoey answers without thinking. "No."
Mira follows a moment later. "Never."
The therapist doesn't react immediately. "I want to be clear," she says. "I don't just mean physically."
Zoey swallows. "Well… sometimes I think I feel… unsteady?"
Mira turns fully toward her. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Zoey meets her eyes. There's love there, unmistakable, and something sharper beneath it that hasn't found words yet. "Because I didn't want you to think I was blaming you for it."
Mira's jaw flexes. "I would've listened."
"I know," Zoey says softly.
The therapist leans forward slightly. "When things feel unsteady, for both of you. What do you tend to do?"
"I… plan," Zoey says after a moment.
Mira doesn't hesitate. "I get defensive."
Their eyes meet again, this time with something like rueful understanding between them.
"And when you're afraid?" the therapist asks.
Mira answers first, looking over to Zoey. "I try to protect her."
Zoey's chest tightens and turns to meet Mira's eyes. "Me too."
The therapist smiles, small and sincere. "That tells me there's a foundation here."
Mira finally leans back, jacket creasing at the shoulders. Zoey lets herself sink into the couch again. Their knees brush — accidental, easy — and neither of them moves away.
Outside, the rain picks up, steady and patient, like it isn't going anywhere anytime soon.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
Groggy mornings always found Mira first.
Zoey could be dead asleep one second and awake the next purely because Mira shifted in bed—because she'd rolled onto her back, or reached for the edge of the blanket, or made that quiet little sound she made when she was deciding whether to get up now or in five minutes.
Today, Mira decided now.
Zoey didn't open her eyes right away. She stayed still, face pressed into their pillow, breathing slow on purpose, as if she could trick the morning into going away if she pretended hard enough. Mira leaned over her anyway and kissed the back of her shoulder, warm mouth against bare skin.
"Mm," Zoey hummed, letting it turn into something half-luxurious, half-complaining.
"I'm getting up," Mira murmured.
Zoey's hand slid out from under the blanket and caught Mira's wrist before she could escape. "No."
Mira laughed quietly, the kind of laugh that lived in her chest. "I have work."
"Call in sick." Zoey mumbled.
"I can't."
Zoey cracked one eye open. Mira's hair was a disaster, all sleep-soft and stubborn. Her face was still puffy at the edges in a way Zoey found unbearably cute. She looked like someone who belonged in this bed and nowhere else. She tightened her grip. "I'll fake your death."
Mira leaned down until her nose brushed Zoey's. "That sounds like a lot of paperwork."
"I'll do the paperwork," Zoey said solemnly, then shifted just enough to press a kiss to Mira's mouth. A real kiss. Not the quick morning kind. Mira's lips parted on instinct, and Zoey felt Mira smile into it. A little bit of morning breath, but after five years of marriage, who really cares?
When Mira finally pulled back, she did it reluctantly, like she had to strain herself to remember that time existed.
"Shower," Mira said.
Zoey made a face into the pillow. "Cruel woman, abandoning your wife to a morning of suffering without your warmth..."
Mira pinched Zoey's cheek, gentle. "Stay in bed if you want to."
Zoey's eyes narrowed. Mira kissed her again, softer this time. Zoey released Mira's wrist with a theatrical flourish. "Fine. Go oil the capitalist machine."
Mira slid out of bed, bare feet quiet on the floorboards. Zoey watched her cross the room, the morning light catching on her skin, and felt something warm settle behind her ribs. It was the same feeling she got when Mira laughed at her jokes. When Mira reached for her hand in public like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Mira disappeared into the en suite. A moment later, the shower turned on.
Zoey rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the water, letting herself float in the in-between. Her day off stretched ahead of her like a lazy promise.
Which meant, in Zoey's mind, that Mira obviously didn't have to rush either.
Zoey got up anyway, eventually. Not because she wanted to, but because she wanted to steal some of the hot water Mira always claimed she didn't hog. She padded into the bathroom and leaned against the doorframe.
Mira tilted her head back under the stream, eyes closed. One hand braced against the tile. The sight made Zoey's brain go quiet in a way it rarely did.
Mira opened her eyes, as if she felt the stare. "You're creeping."
Zoey widened her eyes, innocent. "I'm your wife."
"That doesn't make it less creepy."
Zoey hummed with a smirk. "It makes it more domesticated."
Mira snorted, then reached a hand out from behind the curtain in a wordless command.
Zoey stepped forward and placed her palm in Mira's, letting Mira tug her closer. The shower curtain stayed put. Mira didn't pull her into the water. She just kissed Zoey's knuckles, slow and deliberate, like she had nowhere else to be.
Zoey's throat tightened in that stupid, sweet way it always did when Mira was tender on purpose.
"You're going to make me late," Mira murmured against her skin.
Zoey's voice came out soft. "That's the idea."
Mira let go before Zoey could get too greedy. "Coffee?"
Zoey sighed dramatically. "Fine. I'll make coffee. Like a supportive wife."
Mira smiled. "You are a supportive wife."
Zoey narrowed her eyes. "Don't flatter me. It goes right to my hips."
"I'll keep doing it then."
"Good."
Mira's laugh followed her out of the bathroom.
In the kitchen, Zoey moved by memory. The little jar of grounds Mira insisted on buying because it "tasted better" that Zoey had insisted tasted like burnt dirt. She found Mira's favourite mug — the one with a chipped rim because Mira absolutely refused to throw it out (maybe because it had the words 'World's #1 wife' printed on it) — and put it on the counter anyway.
When the shower cut off, Zoey leaned against the island and attempted a whistle in preparation.
It came out like air through a badly sealed balloon.
Zoey tried again. Worse.
She scowled at the ceiling, as though she could intimidate the universe into granting her this one skill.
Footsteps approached behind her. Mira emerged with her hair wrapped in a towel, skin still damp at her collarbone. She wore one of Zoey's comfort shirts, one that was too big on her, the sleeves shoved up. Mira looked like the kind of woman people wrote poems about and then ruined themselves for.
Zoey tried to whistle a third time.
Mira paused mid-step. Her eyes flicked toward Zoey. "Are you… hissing at me?"
"I'm whistling," Zoey said tightly.
Mira's lips twitched. "You're… definitely trying."
Zoey bristled. "I can whistle."
"Sure," Mira said, tone so sweet it was obviously a lie.
Zoey pointed at her. "I can."
Mira crossed the kitchen, leaned into Zoey's space, and kissed her—brief, familiar, full of the kind of intimacy that didn't need fanfare. "Good morning again," Mira said against her mouth.
Zoey's irritation melted on contact, as it always did. "Good morning again."
Mira's fingers skimmed Zoey's waist as she stepped past, then lingered, like she couldn't help herself. Zoey's breath caught.
Mira glanced over her shoulder. "Coffee smells good."
"Of course it does," Zoey said, trying to regain dignity. "I made it with love. Well, love and your dirt."
"Mm." Mira opened a drawer and grabbed two plates. "Breakfast?"
Zoey raised a brow. "Do you have time for breakfast, Mrs. architect?"
Mira rolled her eyes. "I always have time for breakfast with you."
Zoey watched her move around the kitchen like she belonged there. Mira wasn't a morning person in the way Zoey was, but she still did this—this steady little ritual, the domestic choreography. It made their house feel lived in. It made Zoey feel like she'd won something just by being here.
Mira toasted bread. Zoey fried two eggs, then stole a piece of toast and ate it standing up. Mira smacked her hip with the dish towel and stole it back.
"You're an animal," Mira said.
Zoey chewed, unrepentant. "Your animal."
Mira's gaze softened in that way that still surprised Zoey sometimes, even years in. "Yeah. Mine."
They ate at the small table by the window. Mira sat with one knee tucked up, barefoot. Zoey sat sideways in her chair, socked feet hooked around the chair legs like she'd done since she was a child.
Zoey took a sip of coffee and stared at Mira over the rim of her mug.
Mira noticed. She always did. "What?"
Zoey tilted her head. "You look good today."
Mira snorted. "I look like a wet cat right now."
"A wet cat I love endlessly," Zoey said simply.
Mira's face did that thing where it tried to stay nonchalant and failed pathetically. "You're ridiculous."
"True. Say thank you."
Mira leaned across the table and kissed Zoey's mouth, then kissed her again simply because she could. "Thank you," she murmured.
Zoey's stomach flipped. She set her mug down and reached for Mira's hand, lacing their fingers together.
Mira squeezed once, then sighed like she was remembering something unpleasant. "I have to get dressed."
Zoey made a wounded noise. "Don't…"
Mira glanced at the clock. "Zoey."
"Just—" Zoey leaned back in her chair, still holding Mira's hand, and let her gaze drag slowly down Mira's body with the kind of obviousness that would've been embarrassing if Mira didn't love it. "Just call in."
Mira's eyebrows lifted. "Because you think I'm hot?"
Zoey smiled. "Because I want you… and yes."
Mira's mouth parted slightly, like Zoey's words had teeth. "You want me every day."
"Yes," Zoey said, absolutely unashamed. "I married you simply so I could want you."
Mira laughed, but it came out rougher than usual. "That's not what marriage is."
"That's what our marriage is," Zoey corrected, and tugged gently on Mira's hand, drawing her closer across the table. "Stay…"
Mira's eyes narrowed, pretending to think it over. "I have a meeting."
"Cancel it."
"I can't."
Zoey's thumb stroked over Mira's knuckles. "I can be very persuasive."
Mira's gaze dipped to Zoey's mouth again. Zoey saw the exact moment Mira's resolve wavered.
Zoey stood up, still holding Mira's hand, and moved into Mira's space. Mira tilted her face up automatically, like her body knew the pattern before her brain did.
Zoey kissed her. Not sweet. Not quick. A kiss that asked a question and already assumed the answer.
Mira made a sound into Zoey's mouth that wasn't a word, then caught Zoey's waist, fingers digging in like she needed something solid.
Zoey smiled against her lips. "Five minutes."
Mira's breath hitched. "You're evil."
Zoey kissed her again, softer this time, and let it linger. "You love me."
"I do," Mira said, and her voice cracked around it like it was too honest for a Tuesday morning.
Zoey's chest warmed. She leaned in and murmured, "Call. In."
Mira exhaled, long and shaky, like she was trying to hold onto her life for one more second. Then Mira stood so fast the chair scraped, and Zoey laughed, startled.
Mira's hands slid under Zoey's thighs with practiced ease.
Zoey yelped as Mira lifted her clean off the floor. "Mira—!"
Mira grinned up at her, eyes bright with mischief and devotion. "You are persuasive."
Zoey's giggle broke loose before she could stop it. She wrapped her legs around Mira's waist on instinct, arms sliding around Mira's neck like they'd done this a hundred times, probably because they had.
Mira held her like she weighed nothing, steady and strong.
Zoey pressed her forehead to Mira's. "You're going to get fired if you don't call in first..."
Mira's smile brushed against her lips. "Worth it."
Zoey's laugh softened into a sigh as Mira carried her down the hall, their house warm around them, the morning still theirs.
The bedroom doorway swallowed them, and the rest of the world—meetings, time, all the reasonable things—fell away with the quiet click of the door.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
The therapist's smile lingers for a moment after she says foundation, as if she wants it to somewhere solid. Zoey lets her shoulders drop a fraction. Mira's posture doesn't soften, but her knee shifts, the angle loosening in a way Zoey can read like confession.
"Okay," the therapist says while tapping the pen lightly against the clipboard. "What I'm hearing is that you both still care deeply."
Mira's mouth pulls into something almost like a grimace. "We didn't come here because we stopped loving each other."
Zoey's gaze flicks over to her. "No, of course not."
The therapist nods once, acknowledging the obvious without making it sentimental. "So if the love is still there, then maybe it's time we take a step back and look at the pattern we're dealing with. What happens between you two before things feel… off?"
Zoey thinks of mornings that start warm and end with Mira halfway out the door. Thinks of texts that don't get replied to until late, of excuses believable enough to accept and vague enough to itch. She keeps her hands folded in her lap anyway.
"I notice it first," Zoey says. "Usually at least."
Mira's eyes narrow slightly. "You always notice first."
Zoey gives her a small, helpless look. "I can't help it."
The therapist glances down as she writes, then looks up again. "When you notice it, what do you do?"
Zoey hesitates. "I… guess I try to make sense of it."
Mira's tone goes dry. "Meaning she investigates."
Zoey's head snaps toward her. "I do not—"
Mira lifts her brows. "You do, not in a bad way though."
Zoey's presses her lips together, fighting a smile she doesn't want to give in to. "Okay. I… ask a lot of questions."
Mira leans forward a touch. "You kinda interrogate."
Zoey's eyes widen. "That's not fair."
"You have a tone you use," Mira says, no malice in it, just a tired sort of honesty.
Zoey feels a heat rise in her face. "It's not like I'm trying to accuse you. I'm just trying to understand what's happening."
The therapist watches them for a beat, then speaks gently. "And when Zoey asks questions, Mira, what happens in you?"
Mira exhales, slow. Her gaze drops to the carpet, then returns. "I feel cornered."
Zoey's stomach twists. "I don't mean to—"
"I know," Mira says quickly, cutting her off before she can spiral. "I'm not saying that you do it on purpose. It's just… the way it feels."
The therapist nods. "What do you do when you feel cornered?"
Mira's jaw works once, like she's chewing on the answer.
Zoey's fingers tighten together, knuckles pressing. "You leave…"
Mira looks at her then. "Not like that."
"It feels like that," Zoey says, and her voice is steady, which is how you can tell she's putting effort into it. "Like you try to hide in yourself."
The therapist tilts her head. "Can we get specific? Tell me about the last time this happened."
Zoey's mind supplies a dozen options. She chooses one that won't make Mira flinch.
"A few nights ago," Zoey says. "You said you'd be home for dinner."
Mira's mouth opens, then shuts. She nods once. "I was late."
"You didn't text," Zoey adds. She keeps her tone neutral. "I didn't know if you were stuck at work, or if you were ignoring me, or—"
"Or dead?" Mira says, only half-joking. The attempt at humour is almost successful.
Zoey's eyes flicker.
Mira's expression shifts, a shadow crossing it too quickly to grab. "I didn't think. I should've texted."
Zoey nods. "I know you didn't do it to hurt me."
The therapist's pen pauses. "But it still does."
Zoey's throat tightens. "Yeah."
Mira's gaze is fixed on Zoey now, like she's trying to memorise the outline of what this costs her. "When I came home were… okay."
Zoey lets out a small breath. "I didn't want to start a fight."
Mira's laugh is quiet, humourless. "So you just… bottled it up?"
Zoey shrugs, then regrets it. "It didn't feel worth it."
Mira's eyes sharpen. "Your feelings aren't 'worth it'?"
Zoey looks down at her hands. "That's not what I meant."
The therapist steps in before the spark can catch. "Zoey, when you don't bring it up, what are you trying to protect?"
Zoey's first instinct is to say Mira. Her second instinct is to say us. She splits the difference.
"…The good parts," Zoey says.
Mira's shoulders ease slightly, as if that's the first reassuring thing she's heard all week.
"And Mira," the therapist asks, "when you don't text, or maybe when you go quiet in other ways, what are you trying to protect?"
Mira's eyes stay on Zoey. "I just don't want her worrying about me."
Zoey gives a soft, strained laugh. "That clearly doesn't work."
Mira's mouth tilts. "I know that now."
The therapist lets the silence sit for a moment. Not too long. Just long enough to make space.
"Let's try something," she says. "I want each of you to tell the other what story pops in your head when this silence happens. Not the most outrageous story—just the one that you think first."
Zoey's stomach clenches. She doesn't like admitting this part out loud.
When she looks up, Mira is watching her with that focused stillness she gets when she's bracing herself.
Zoey forces herself to be honest, but not cruel. "I tell myself you had a choice, and you didn't choose me."
Mira's face drops.
Zoey rushes on, because she hates the way that landed. "I don't think that it's true. I just… that's what my brain does first. I'm… not used to being someone's choice."
Mira swallows. Her voice comes out lower than before. "When you ask questions like that, I tell myself that you've already decided I did something wrong."
Zoey's eyes widen.
"I know," Mira says again, like she has to keep saying it to make it real. "But my brain goes there anyway."
The therapist nods, satisfied in a way that isn't cheerful. "Those are powerful stories. They make sense given your styles. Zoey, you plan. Mira, you act."
Zoey's lips part, then close again. She doesn't disagree.
Mira's gaze drops to Zoey's hands. Their knees touch on the couch, and Mira doesn't pull away.
Mira takes Zoey's hand in hers. "There is never a day I wouldn't choose you."
Zoey looks up at her. "And there's never a day I'd expect the worst from you."
The therapist's expression softens. "Here's the good news. Stories can change when you start naming them."
Mira gives a quiet, sceptical hum. "And the bad news?"
"The bad news is you'll both have to sit in that discomfort long enough to want to change those patterns," the therapist says.
Zoey exhales. "We can do that," she says, hopefully.
Mira glances at her, the corner of her mouth lifting. "She says, hopefully."
Zoey shoots her a look but her lips twitch into a soft smile. "Don't mock me in front of the professional."
The therapist's lips twitch, amused herself. "Humour helps. As long as it doesn't become an escape."
Mira nods once. "I'm not trying to dodge anything. I just like making her smile."
Zoey's chest loosens a fraction at that. She lets her knee press lightly into Mira's, a quiet, wordless choice to stay close.
The therapist looks down at her notes again, then back up. "I want to try one more thing with you both, while we've got this honesty on the table."
Zoey sits a little straighter. Mira's fingers tap once against her knee, restless.
"Don't overthink it," the therapist adds. "Like before. Just answer the firstthing that comes to mind."
She pauses, letting the question settle before she asks it.
"When was the last time you both wanted the same thing… but it still felt like you were competing?"
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
Zoey's handler didn't bother dressing it up. No pep talk. Just a message that arrived with the kind of subtlety that made Zoey's skin prickle.
Target: Park Hyun-jae.
Confirmation of elimination required. Payment on confirmation.
That last bit sat heavier than it should have. It wasn't about greed. It was principle. Zoey didn't like anyone turning her work into a competition, but she liked even less when her work became unpaid charity because someone else got there first.
A charity gala, a masquerade, the kind that moves money under the table for the less savoury members of society's members to get away with even more unsavoury deeds.
She locked her phone, stared at the black screen, and let herself go still. Then she opened the hard case supplied to her and became someone designed to be forgettable.
A wig that didn't belong to her personality. Contacts that turned her eyes into something colder. A mask that covered enough to be anonymous, and not enough to be suspicious especially at a masquerade. A dress that hugs curves influenced by a tightened corset and hip pads.
She practiced her voice once in the mirror.
A clean, trained placement that made her vowels sit differently in her mouth. The sort of voice you could swear you'd heard before and still never pin to a person.
Zoey left the building with her heart steady and her face calm.
Lights softened everything at the gala. Live string music slid under the chatter like a silk ribbon. Masks made people brave enough to be worse versions of themselves.
Zoey moved with the crowd until she wasn't moving with it at all, just through it. Her gaze did what it always did: exits, sight lines, security. She clocked the shape of the building without looking like she was clocking anything.
The target was easy to spot because the room practically bent around him.
He wore a white half-mask and a smile that showed too much teeth. Two men shadowed him with practiced distance. One scanned faces. The other scanned hands.
Zoey chose the bar first. It gave her cover, and it gave her time to plan.
She ordered something bright and stupid in case anyone remembered her later. She let the bartender flirt. She smiled as if she didn't have a single violent thought in her head.
Then she felt it. Not danger, exactly. A prickling of the hairs on the back of her neck. An instinct.
Competition?
A woman stepped into the room with the kind of posture you didn't learn at corporate retreats. Tall. Lean. Mask darker than most. Suit cut sharp enough to hurt.
Zoey watched her with her peripheral vision.
The woman's gaze didn't drift. It landed. It assessed. It moved on. Then it fixed on her target like a magnet had clicked into place. Zoey's mouth went dry, even as she kept smiling at the bartender.
Fucking great.
Her handler hadn't mentioned another agent. Perhaps they belonged to another agency? That was almost funny. Almost.
Zoey lifted her glass to her lips and pretended to sip while her brain recalculated. If there was another agent, there was another clock running.
The woman moved first.
Not toward the target directly. She started toward the staircase that curved up to the mezzanine, where private rooms and balconies gave you quieter angles.
Zoey's grip tightened on the stem of her glass. Just shy of breaking.
If this agent got elevation, she got options. Options meant confirmation. Confirmation meant money leaving Zoey's hands before it ever touched them. Not happening.
Zoey stepped away from the bar and drifted toward the centre of the room, threading between bodies with a lazy rhythm. She timed it so she reached a cluster of guests at the same moment the agent crossed behind them.
A waiter cut between them with a tray of champagne.
Zoey's foot "caught" the edge of his path. The waiter stumbled back into the agent.
The tray tilted. Glasses wobbled. A hiss of panic rippled through the cluster as champagne threatened expensive shoes. Zoey reached out, steadying the waiter's elbow with a practiced gentleness that read as concern.
"Oh — I'm so terribly sorry," she said, voice sweet as syrup.
The waiter stammered gratitude.
Behind him, the agent's path broke. She adjusted fast, but the pause cost her a clean line to the stairs.
The agent's head turned.
Mask to mask, across a breath of distance.
Zoey let her eyes smile. Not friendly. Just… amused.
The agent's gaze narrowed. Then her mouth curved beneath the mask, the smallest tell of enjoyment. Zoey's pulse kicked.
Oh. You're enjoying this. Well so can I.
"Cute move," the agent murmured, accent smooth and unfamiliar in a way that felt just as engineered as her own.
Zoey didn't turn her head. "You're welcome," she replied, her own voice landing in a different register, crisp in a way it wasn't at home. "Try not to trip over any more waiters."
The agent's laugh was quiet. "You too."
Zoey released the waiter, patted his arm like she was the kind of woman who apologised sincerely, and kept walking. The game had started.
The target drifted toward a side corridor with his little orbit of donors, drawn toward quieter conversation and darker corners. His guards moved with him, forming a loose funnel.
Zoey followed at a distance that only just looked coincidental. The agent moved too, cutting the angle from the opposite side of the room. Zoey could feel her without seeing her. Like a second set of footsteps in the metaphorical snow.
The target paused near a set of tall double doors that led to the mezzanine stairwell. His guard glanced at his watch, said something low to him.
The agent was already close enough to make a move. Zoey made one first. She stepped up behind a pair of donors and laughed at a joke she hadn't heard, leaning in as if she belonged to the conversation. Her hand slipped to the small of one donor's back—polite, guiding—and she shifted them, just slightly, into the guard's path.
The guard had to adjust around them. That adjustment nudged the target away from the doors and toward the corridor instead. Zoey saw the agent clock it, even from across the room.
The agent's head tilted, like she was impressed with that move. A waiter approached the target with a fresh drink. The agent brushed past him, quick as a shadow.
The waiter's tray rocked. One glass tipped. Liquid splashed across the target's cuff with a dark stain. The target recoiled, irritated, attention snapping down to his sleeve.
His bodyguard swore under his breath, stepping closer.
The disturbance created a pocket of space. A moment where a gun hand could rise under cover of noise. Zoey watched the agent's shoulder shift, watched her elbow angle as if she was about to lift something hidden. Zoey stepped forward and clapped a hand to the target's bodyguard's shoulder with bright, useless enthusiasm.
"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry, I've been such a klutz tonight" she said, already pulling a napkin from a nearby table. "Here—here, let me—"
The bodyguard jerked instinctively away from her touch, body turning. That turn blocked the agent's line completely. The agent stopped, frozen mid-action. Zoey met her eyes again, napkin in hand.
The agent's stare sharpened, then softened into something that looked dangerously like a grin.
"You're really committed to being annoying," the agent said to herself, voice low.
The target yanked his arm back, irritated now. "It's fine."
His bodyguard moved him toward the corridor. Zoey stepped away, letting them pass, and felt the agent close in beside her. For a second, they walked parallel with the crowd between them, both wearing the same mask of ease.
"Let's be practical," the agent murmured, accent shifting again, just enough to keep it slippery. "I'm guessing that if you don't get confirmation, you don't get paid. Same for me."
Zoey's mouth curved. "Yes."
The agent's gaze flicked toward the corridor. "So why are you wasting time with… theatre?"
Zoey's eyes slid back to her. "Because it's fun."
The agent's laugh was immediate, like she couldn't help it. "You're horrible."
"True," Zoey said softly, "you seem to keep coming back though."
The agent's gaze dropped to Zoey's mouth for a heartbeat too long, then lifted again like it hadn't happened.
"Flirting won't distract me," the agent said.
Zoey's smile widened. "I'm not trying to distract you."
The agent's voice went drier. "Liar."
Zoey tilted her head. "Prove it."
The agent's eyes narrowed with delight, then she slipped away into the corridor before Zoey could decide whether she'd actually been challenged. Zoey followed, pulse humming.
The corridor was quieter, lined with framed photos and warm lighting that made everything feel private. The target's guards spread out, checking corners.
Zoey kept to the shadows near the wall, letting guests drift between her and the target. Ahead, the agent moved like she was part of the architecture. She slid into a doorway alcove and vanished.
Zoey slowed, watching.
A moment later, one of the target's bodyguards shifted position, as if he'd been pulled by something he couldn't ignore. His attention snapped toward a side hall. Zoey's gaze followed. A maintenance door had cracked open. Inside, the alarm panel blinked like a quiet invitation.
She's going to force an evacuation, Zoey realised. Flush him out. Separate him from the crowd.
Smart. Zoey didn't like smart, tonight. Not when it wasn't her being smart.
She stepped forward and reached up to the wall-mounted thermostat beside her, the kind that controlled a little side zone of heating. She adjusted it, not because she cared about temperature, but because it gave her an excuse to stand in exactly the spot she needed.
When the target moved again, his path would curve toward the private rooms.
Zoey shifted her weight, ready. The maintenance door creaked wider. The agent appeared in it, half-hidden, hand raised toward the alarm panel. Zoey didn't rush. She simply leaned her shoulder into the corridor wall and let her voice carry, bright and bored in her disguised accent.
"Oh no," she called, as if she'd just noticed. "Is someone messing with the alarm systems?"
A guard snapped his head toward the sound. The agent froze, hand inches from the alarm. Zoey met her eyes across the hall and smiled, gentle as a knife. The agent's stare burned. Then, very slowly, she lowered her hand from the panel. She stepped back into the maintenance closet, closed the door with exaggerated care. A beat later, she reappeared in the corridor behind a group of guests like she'd never been there at all.
As she passed Zoey, she murmured, "You're going to regret that."
Zoey murmured back, "We'll see."
They didn't look at each other. They didn't need to.
The target reached the private rooms. A guard paused at the door to the largest one, checking inside before allowing the target through. The agent angled toward the opposite side, trying to position herself with a clean line past the door frame.
Zoey moved in tandem, circling wide. The agent stepped closer to Zoey, shoulder brushing her arm like an accident. Zoey felt fingers slip into the clasp of her clutch. Zoey didn't move fast. She moved with precision. She caught the agent's wrist with two fingers, light as a touch you'd use in a dance, and held it still. The agent's hand paused inside Zoey's clutch, hovering over nothing useful. Zoey turned her head just enough to speak into the agent's ear, voice low and amused.
"If you want to steal from me," Zoey murmured, "at least take me to dinner first."
The agent's breath hitched, a laugh caught and swallowed. "I'm spoken for."
Zoey loosened her grip.
"Me too."
The agent withdrew her hand smoothly, as if she'd never tried.
Then she leaned in, close enough that Zoey felt the warmth of her breath through the mask.
"After you," the agent said. "Ladies first."
Zoey's eyes narrowed.
The agent's tone went innocent, which meant it certainly wasn't.
Zoey didn't answer. She watched the target step inside the private room.
The guard stayed outside.
The agent glanced at the guard, then at Zoey, and Zoey saw the decision form.
The agent moved like she was about to engage the guard directly.
Zoey beat her to it.
Zoey stepped toward the guard with a bright smile and a posture that said rich and impatient. She lifted her hand, showing a ring that looked expensive under the corridor lights.
"Excuse me," Zoey said, voice crisp. "I'm looking for my husband. Hyun."
The guard looked her up and down, unimpressed. Zoey didn't blink. "He said he'd be in here."
The guard hesitated. Zoey watched the hesitation like it was a lock she could pick with tone alone.
Behind her, the agent shifted, preparing to slide past.
Zoey angled her body, blocking the gap without making it obvious.
The agent tried to step right.
Zoey stepped right too.
The agent tried to step left.
Zoey stepped left too.
Their shoulders nearly brushed again.
The agent's voice dropped, sharp now. "Move."
Zoey's smile stayed fixed for the guard. Her reply to the agent was barely a whisper. "Or what?"
The agent's laughter was a breath of heat. "Want to find out?"
Zoey's pulse sparked. She hated that it did.
The guard cleared his throat. "Ma'am, you can't—"
Zoey looked at him like he'd said something embarrassing. "I can't what?"
The guard's attention wavered. The agent used the opening. She shifted, quick and clean, slipping behind Zoey's back toward the door. Zoey pivoted as if she was gesturing dramatically at the guard, and her elbow "accidentally" caught the agent's forearm.
The agent's hand slapped the wall with a soft thud instead of finding the doorknob. She hissed under her breath, delighted and furious at once. "You're playing dirty." she mouthed.
Zoey leaned closer, voice honeyed. "You started it."
The guard's patience finally snapped. "Ma'am. Step back."
Zoey's eyes held his, expression cool. "If you touch me, I'll scream."
The guard stiffened. He didn't want that. Zoey watched the calculation happen. The risk of a scene. The guard stepped away from the door by half a pace.
Zoey took the half a pace and turned it into the whole thing. Knocking the guard out in one swift, subtle movement. Managing to prop him up in such a way that made it look like he was still conscious. Combining that with a pair of sunglasses from his jacket slipped onto the bridge of his nose. Perfect.
She slipped into the private room in one smooth movement, door closing behind her.
The agent lunged for the handle.
Too late.
Inside, the room was dim, lit by a lamp and the city glow through the window. The target had turned toward the sound, eyes widening.
Zoey didn't speak to him. She didn't let him negotiate. She raised her gun and ended it with a single, controlled squeeze of her trigger finger.
The target collapsed, shock erasing the smugness from his face in an instant. Zoey caught him as he fell, lowering him so there wouldn't be a dramatic thump. The room stayed almost quiet.
On the other side of the door, the handle rattled once.
Zoey took a photo of confirmation as well as a breath, then stepped back out into the corridor as if she'd simply walked in to check her lipstick. The agent was there, standing close to the door, mask tilted toward Zoey like a question.
Zoey met her gaze.
The agent's eyes flicked to Zoey's hands, then to the door behind her. The agent's shoulders sank a fraction. Not defeat. Annoyance.
"You did it," the agent said, voice flat. The accent had shifted again, smoother now, like she'd lost interest in being anyone else for a second.
Zoey's grin turned bright, wicked. "Looks like."
The agent stared at her for a beat, then let out a quiet laugh that sounded like she hated how much she enjoyed this. Zoey lifted two fingers to her lips, exaggerated it like she was in an old spy movie, and blew a mocking kiss down the corridor.
The agent's head tipped back slightly, like she was rolling her eyes behind the mask. Then she leaned in as Zoey passed, voice low and warm with threat-that-wasn't-really-a-threat.
"Next time," the agent murmured, "I'm getting paid."
Zoey's smile held. "Then you should try harder."
She drifted back into the crowd, heart steady, face calm, already disappearing into noise and light. Behind her, the agent melted into shadow again.
Neither of them knew they'd just spent that night flirting with their wife.
Mira got home with her key already in her hand.
Not because she needed it—she never really did. The door was always unlocked by the time she got home. But tonight she held the key like an anchor anyway, fingers tight around the metal, as if the weight of it might keep her from shaking.
She was annoyed. After all, she hadn't gotten paid.
Zoey was in the kitchen, barefoot, hair up in a loose mess, wearing an oversized hoodie that Mira knew by feel alone. The sight hit Mira in the chest the way it always did: a small, quiet relief she didn't have to earn.
Zoey looked up the second Mira stepped in.
"Hey," Zoey said.
Mira let her shoulders drop one fraction. "Hey."
Zoey came to her without rushing, like she didn't want to spook her. Mira hated that she noticed things like that. She loved her for it too.
Zoey's hands slid to Mira's waist, warm through the fabric of her jacket. "Hmm… is that your 'long day' face?"
Mira could've said yes. Mira could've said nothing. Mira could've said the truth, in a different life. Instead she leaned forward and kissed Zoey, slow and familiar, letting it answer for her. Zoey made a quiet sound into her mouth, pleased and relieved at the same time, and Mira felt something in her chest loosen, like a strap unfastening.
When they broke apart, Zoey kept her hands on Mira's sides. Grounding her.
Mira rested her forehead against Zoey's for a beat. "Yeah," she admitted, finally.
Zoey's thumb brushed along Mira's ribs, gentle. "You want to talk about it?"
Mira laughed softly, a single breath. "Not really. Not tonight at least"
Zoey nodded immediately, accepting it without pressure. "Okay."
Her gaze flicked over Mira's face again, quick, then softened. "Did you eat? Proper food I mean, not those spicy noodles that leave you on the toilet for aaagggeeesss."
Mira let out a soft, warm chuckle, her first instinct was to say yes, even if it was a lie. Then she remembered who she was talking to.
"No," Mira said.
Zoey's expression turned sympathetic in that tiny, fierce way. "Okay, then we're ordering in."
Mira blinked. "Do we not have food?"
"We have ingredients," Zoey corrected, already pivoting back toward the kitchen like she was done negotiating. "You look like you've had to use your brain all day. I'm gonna focus all of my attention on you tonight, someone else can cook for us."
Mira watched her move. The light caught the curve of Zoey's jaw, the soft edge of her smile as she pulled her phone off the counter. Zoey looked calm. Not just calm—content.
Mira's stomach turned, a flash of resentment she didn't want to aim at anything. Not at Zoey. Never at Zoey. She swallowed it down. She let herself breathe.
Zoey turned, phone in hand. "Thai? Or burgers?"
Mira's mouth twitched despite herself.
Zoey's grin widened. "I can hear you thinking. They're both food."
Mira rolled her eyes, but it came with a quieter exhale. "Thai."
Zoey clicked her tongue as if she'd expected that. "Knew it."
Mira stepped out of her shoes and toed them into place by the door. She hung her jacket on the hook, then hesitated—her hand hovering at the collar as if she didn't trust herself to let the armour go all the way. Zoey pretended not to notice, which was another kindness granted. She just tapped at her phone.
"What kind of day was it?" Zoey asked, casually.
Mira snorted. "People."
Zoey's brows lifted. "Ooh. Worse than buildings."
"Always worse than buildings," Mira agreed.
Zoey's face softened. Mira pictured that other agent's eyes across the corridor, the way she'd blocked Mira's angle with a napkin and a smile. The way she'd stolen the kill with the elegance of a thief. Mira could still hear the suppressor in her head like a cough. Still feel the cold bite of losing in her gut. Nothing to show for it except bruised pride and the knowledge that her own organisation would see it as failure.
Mira forced her voice into something normal. "Something important… changed. Last minute."
Zoey made an empathetic noise like she'd been squeezed. Mira's mouth pulled into something that almost looked like a smile. "Yeah."
Zoey nodded, decisive. "Okay. Then I'm definitely not cooking. You're definitely not cleaning. You're not doing anything except existing."
Mira stepped closer, drawn by the warmth of that. "Existing?"
Zoey looked up at her. "Well… existing with me."
Mira's throat tightened. She didn't let it show. She just leaned down and kissed Zoey again, quick this time, like she needed the contact the way she needed air. "I like existing with you."
Zoey's hands slid up Mira's arms, pulling her in properly. Mira felt the heat of Zoey's body and, embarrassingly, the tension in her spine eased.
Zoey murmured against her lips, "There she is…"
Mira's voice came out low. "Where else would I be?"
Zoey's smile faded into something more serious for a heartbeat. "Not here," she said, very softly. "Sometimes you… feel not here."
Mira froze.
Zoey immediately kissed her again, a gentle interruption, like she didn't want to make it heavy. "Sorry," she whispered. "Ignore me. I'm… being me."
Mira swallowed hard. Her hands slid around Zoey's waist, tighter than she meant. "I'm here, I promise," she said, and she meant it. "I'm just tired."
Zoey nodded, accepting it, and rested her cheek against Mira's chest for a second. Mira's heart thudded beneath it. Zoey lifted her head again, eyes bright with sudden mischief—as if she'd decided the best way to fix a bad day was to distract Mira into joy.
"Also," Zoey said, "I have a solution. A way to get your mind off today."
Mira's brows lifted. "Do you?"
Zoey stepped closer until Mira's back brushed the kitchen counter. "Mmhm."
Mira's pulse stuttered. "Is it… a reasonable solution?"
Zoey's grin turned wicked. "No…"
Before Mira could respond, Zoey kissed her—deep enough to make Mira's thoughts scatter, warm enough to make her forget everything that went wrong tonight. Mira's hands found Zoey's hips like they were made for her touch. Zoey made a pleased little sound and shifted closer, pressing her body in, as if she was trying to replace Mira's stress with her warmth.
Mira kissed her back a little harder than she meant to.
Zoey's hands slid up Mira's sides, under her shirt, fingers warm against skin. Mira's breath hitched. She pulled back a fraction, eyes half-lidded.
Zoey watched her, smug. "See? Better already."
Mira laughed under her breath, the sound rough. Zoey kissed the corner of Mira's mouth. Mira's hands tightened, then loosened, not trusting themselves. She tipped her head back slightly as Zoey's mouth found her neck. Zoey's teeth grazed skin, playful, not biting enough to hurt, just enough to leave an easy to hide mark.
Mira exhaled, the tension in her shoulders melting into heat.
Zoey murmured, "We could take our time…"
Mira's mouth parted. She could feel herself tipping—into comfort, into softness, into the safe kind of surrender Zoey always offered her without asking anything in return. Then a sharp, cheerful ping came from Zoey's phone. Zoey froze mid-kiss, eyes flicking sideways. Mira blinked, breath still caught. "What—"
Zoey pulled back like she'd been electrocuted. "Yay! Food's here!"
Mira stared at her. Zoey's face was completely serious, as if the laws of the universe demanded immediate compliance with food delivery. Mira let out a disbelieving laugh. "Zoey."
Zoey pointed at her with one hand while already moving. "Don't judge me. I'm hungry."
"You were literally—"
Zoey was halfway to the door, bare feet slapping lightly on the wood. "I can multitask! We can make out when we're fuelled."
Mira leaned back against the counter, still warm, still dizzy, watching Zoey hurry like a cat who'd heard an automatic feeder turn on.
Zoey yanked the door open with a bright, practiced smile. "Hi!"
Mira heard a muffled voice outside. A bag rustled. Coins or a card tap. Normal sounds. Mira forced herself to breathe normally. To let her face settle. Zoey shut the door and turned back, holding the bag up like a trophy. "Okay. Crisis solved."
Mira's eyes flicked to Zoey's mouth, swollen from kissing, then to her bright expression. Mira felt that earlier resentment fade into something else—something softer, more dangerous.
Love. The kind that made you stupid. The kind that made you want to stay. To give everything up, and just bask in it.
Zoey set the food down on the counter and immediately started pulling containers out. "Plates or straight out of the box?"
Mira stepped in behind her and slid her arms around Zoey's waist. Zoey relaxed into her instantly, like her body had been waiting for it.
Mira pressed her mouth to Zoey's temple. "Straight out of the box."
Zoey hummed, satisfied. "Thought so."
Mira held her tighter for a second, letting the warmth of her fill the hollow spaces. Zoey leaned back into her and said softly, like it was an afterthought, "Tomorrow can be better."
Mira closed her eyes.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Tomorrow."
And for a moment, standing there in their kitchen with takeout and quiet laughter and Zoey's hands moving confidently through ordinary life, Mira let herself pretend that was true.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
Zoey doesn't answer straight away.
Mira's fingers stop tapping. Zoey's hands tighten where they're folded. The therapist doesn't rush them; she just watches, patient in that way that makes silence feel like something you're doing, not something that happens to you.
Zoey clears her throat. "Do you want… a real example?"
"I want your example," the therapist says. "Whatever you're comfortable bringing in here."
Mira's gaze flicks to Zoey's face, then away again, as if looking at her too directly might make something spill.
Zoey gives a small, careful nod. "Okay." She inhales. "We… hosted dinner for friends. A couple weeks ago. It wasn't anything too dramatic."
Mira's mouth twitches. "It was... a lot."
Zoey shoots her a look. "It was pasta."
"It was your 'simple pasta,'" Mira says, and the air of her voice softens as she says it, fondness trying to elbow its way in. "And then you acted like I was going to ruin it by… existing."
Zoey's cheeks warm. "I wasn't acting like you were going to ruin it. I was trying to make the night go well."
"I was trying to make it go well too," Mira says, and her tone sharpens on the last word. "So we… kinda collided."
The therapist nods slowly. "What did the collision look like?"
Zoey's eyes drop to her hands. "Me… taking over."
Mira adds, quietly, "Me… refusing to let myself be managed."
Zoey's throat moves. "It wasn't about the pasta."
Mira looks at her then, really looks. "No."
The therapist's pen moves once, then stops. "So what was it about?"
Zoey's voice is soft enough that it's almost private. "I just wanted it to feel… normal for once. Good. Like we were okay."
Mira's jaw flexes. "And I wanted to feel like you trusted me to be part of it..."
Zoey turns her head, eyes bright with the sting of it. "I do trust you."
"I know," Mira says, quick, like she doesn't want that to be the fight. "I'm not saying that you don't. I'm just… saying my brain doesn't exactly hear 'trust' when you go into that mode."
The therapist leans forward a fraction. "What mode?"
Zoey's shoulders lift in a tiny shrug. "Probably my 'fix it' mode..."
Mira's gaze slides toward the window, then back. "She gets… very calm."
Zoey blinks. "That's not a bad thing, is it?"
"No. It's not," Mira says. "It's just—" She exhales, frustrated at herself more than Zoey. "It makes me feel like... like you'd be fine without me."
Zoey's face changes immediately, like Mira's words hit somewhere deep. "That's not true."
Mira's laugh is small and humourless. "I know."
The therapist nods. "And Mira, when you feel that story start to play out in your mind, what do you do?"
Mira's answer comes too fast. "I get competitive." She glances at Zoey, something almost apologetic in her eyes. "Because… I don't know… if I'm not… useful, then I don't know what my place is."
Zoey swallows. She shifts slightly, their knees pressing together again, this time on purpose.
The therapist watches the movement and lets it stand. "So, I'm hoping it's obvious that the competition isn't really about dinner," she says. "It's about belonging."
She taps the pen once against the clipboard, a soft sound. "You both describe this push-pull where one of you gets tighter and the other pushes back. That's a pattern. Patterns don't mean anyone's the villain. They mean you're trying to protect something."
Zoey's fingers flex. "We're not trying to hurt each other."
"I believe it," the therapist says. "But I'd like to ask you another question, if that's okay."
Zoey nods. Mira gives a small, reluctant nod too.
The therapist's gaze stays gentle, but direct. "When you feel like you're competing—when it's not about the thing—what do you think you're trying to win?"
Zoey's mouth opens, then closes. She hates how quickly her mind offers an answer.
Mira says it first, voice rough around the edges. "Proof."
Zoey's eyes turn to her.
Mira doesn't look away. "That I matter."
Zoey's throat tightens. "Mira…"
Mira's shoulders lift, like she's bracing. "Don't make it a big thing."
Zoey's laugh is soft and broken at once. "You just said you're trying to win proof that you matter."
Mira's lips twitch. "Yeah. So?"
Zoey reaches for her hand, fingers sliding into Mira's like it's instinct. "You matter," Zoey says, steady as she can make it. "You always have."
Mira's gaze drops to their hands. She squeezes once, hard. It's the only way she lets it land.
The therapist watches, then asks quietly, "And you, Zoey?"
Zoey stares at the wall for a second, like the answer might be written there.
"I'm trying to win… proof too," she says finally. "That I'm not being fooled."
Mira stills.
Zoey feels it happen and rushes to soften it before it becomes a wound. "Not by you," she says quickly. "Not like—" She stops, frustrated, because there isn't a clean way to say it. "It's not rational. It's just a fear that shows up."
The therapist's voice stays calm. "Where does that fear take you?"
Zoey's fingers tighten around Mira's hand. "It makes me like if I'm not paying attention, I'll miss something important. That there will be a moment where I realise I didn't know the person I married as well as I thought I did."
Mira's jaw works, controlled. "So you watch."
Zoey nods once. "I watch."
Mira's voice comes lower. "And when you watch me like that, I feel like I'm under a microscope."
Zoey's eyes flick to her. "I'm not trying to..."
"I know." Mira holds her gaze. "But sometimes it feels like you are."
The therapist lets the tension breathe for a moment, then shifts her posture slightly, as if changing the angle changes the possibility.
"I want to say something carefully," she says. "It's normal to have privacy in a marriage. It's healthy, even. But secrecy — especially from both sides — can make your nervous systems do very strange things."
Zoey's stomach turns, because her nervous system has been doing strange things for years. She just thought she hid it better.
Mira's gaze drops again. Her thumb rubs Zoey's knuckle, absent and grounding.
The therapist continues, "When there's an unknown, both of you attempt to fill it. Zoey fills it with thoughts. Mira fills it with actions. One tries to get closer through questions. The other tries to get breathing room by pulling away."
Zoey nods, slow. Mira nods too, slower.
"And here's where it gets important," the therapist says, voice still even. "The story you fill that gap with—about why your partner keeps something private—will shape everything you do about it next."
Zoey's chest tightens. She doesn't like how true that sounds.
Mira's gaze lifts. "What are you saying?"
"I'm asking," the therapist replies, "what your first assumption is."
Zoey's heart beats once, hard. Mira's fingers tighten around hers.
The therapist looks between them. "If you discovered there was a part of your partner's life you didn't know—something significant—what would your mind tell you first?"
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
Mira left the bathroom with her hair still damp, towelling it roughly like she was trying to erase the day before it even started.
Zoey was at the kitchen counter in socks, leaning over her coffee like it was going to give her answers. She tried to whistle when Mira appeared in the doorway and scowled when it came out as air and failure.
Mira's mouth tipped, fond. "You and your imaginary whistle."
"It's real in my heart," Zoey muttered, then softened when Mira crossed the room and hooked an arm around her waist. "I'll get it one day."
Mira kissed the side of Zoey's neck. Slow. Familiar. The kind of contact that made Zoey's shoulders drop even if she hadn't noticed they were tense.
"Morning," Mira murmured.
Zoey turned in her arms and kissed her properly. "Morning." Mira's hands stayed at Zoey's hips like she was anchoring herself.
Breakfast was quick and ordinary—toast, fruit, Mira stealing bites off Zoey's plate and acting like she wasn't. Mira's "work" bag sat by the door, neat and ready. Zoey leaned against the bench and watched Mira move through the routine with her usual competence, a little too sharp at the edges today.
"You're doing the thing," Zoey said as Mira pulled on her jacket.
Mira paused mid-zip. "What thing?"
"The jacket thing," Zoey repeated, pointing.
Mira huffed, amused despite herself. "It's cold."
"It's summer."
Mira's eyes narrowed. "You're supposed to be on my side."
Zoey giggled, walked over and tugged the jacket zipper down an inch, then kissed Mira's mouth like it was a bribe for allowing her a peek. "I am."
Mira's expression flickered—love, then something quieter. "I'll be home for dinner," she said, like she was promising it to herself as much as to Zoey.
Zoey nodded. "I'll make something."
"You'll try to," Mira corrected.
Zoey gasped, scandalised. "Excuse me. I am a culinary artist."
Mira leaned in, nose brushing Zoey's. "You set off the smoke alarm making toast."
"That was one time."
"It was last week."
Zoey grinned. "Still only one time."
Mira laughed under her breath, then stole one more kiss and headed for the door. Halfway down the hall she looked back.
Zoey lifted her hand in a small wave. "Text me when you get there."
Mira's smile was quick and bright. "Bossy."
"Loved," Zoey corrected.
Mira's eyes softened. "Yeah. Loved."
The door shut.
Zoey stood in the quiet for a while, holding onto the warmth of her like it was something physical.
She decided she'd get in a quick shower. Quick mostly because Mira has a habit of using up all the hot water.
Then her phone lit up. Not her normal phone, her burner. She unlocked it.
URGENT: COVER COMPROMISED.
SOURCE CONFIRMED. THIRD-PARTY DROP.
REMEDIATION REQUIRED. PAYMENT UPON PROOF.
TARGET: KANG MIRA.
Zoey's vision narrowed.
What?
Her thumb hovered over the screen as if she could press hard enough to break the words.
A second ping slid in behind it, like the message wanted to make sure the knife went in clean.
ADDITIONAL INTEL:
Rival operative confirmed present at gala operation.
Zoey's breath caught.
Last night flashed behind her eyes—masked faces, soft music, a corridor, and a tall woman in a sharp suit who'd leaned close and murmured Cute move like it was foreplay.
That was… Mira?
Zoey's hand clenched around her phone.
"No," she whispered, and didn't know who she was saying it to.
The call came through before she could think.
Zoey answered and didn't bother with hello.
"You were compromised. They have your face. Your voice. Your patterns," the voice said, filtered to nothing human.
Zoey's jaw tightened. "Who?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
A pause. Then: "Another agency. We'll handle it."
Zoey's throat went tight. "You're telling me my wife is—"
"An operative," the voice cut in. "Your connection is likely not a coincidence."
Zoey's heart thudded once, hard enough to hurt. "She didn't know it was me."
"You want to believe that," the voice replied, flat. "Complete remediation required."
Zoey swallowed, bloodless. "And if I don't?"
"Then we assume you've chosen the breach and deal with you as well."
The call ended. Zoey stared at the blank screen and could've sworn she'd felt the house tilt.
Mira had kissed her barely half an hour ago. Mira had promised dinner. Mira had laughed at Zoey's stupid whistling. And last night, a masked stranger had flirted with Zoey while actively trying to steal her pay.
Mira.
Zoey pressed her fingers to her wedding ring until the metal bit. She knew. She got close on purpose. None of it was real. Zoey hated how quickly that story made her feel steady.
She hated that it made the pain make sense.
Then she picked up her phone and texted Mira like nothing was wrong.
Zoey:
Hope work's not too gross today. Eat lunch, okay?
Mira made it to her "office" on time.
She sat at her desk, opened a set of plans she didn't care about, and smiled at a coworker who asked how her weekend was. Her answers came easy because her cover had years of rehearsal.
Everything was normal.
Until her burner woke up. A soft light warming her palm.
Mira stood before anyone could look too long at her face and walked to the stairwell.
URGENT: COVER COMPROMISED.
SOURCE CONFIRMED. THIRD-PARTY DROP.
REMEDIATION REQUIRED. PAYMENT UPON PROOF.
TARGET: KANG ZOEY.
Mira's breath stopped.
Her eyes tracked the letters like they were going to change if she stared hard enough.
A second messageslid in.
ADDITIONAL INTEL:
Rival operative confirmed at previous operation.
Mira's vision blurred with heat.
Last night—her view of the corridor, her angle ruined by a napkin and a smile, the other operative stepping in like she belonged there. The sound of a suppressed shot she hadn't fired. The mocking kiss blown down the hall like a joke.
That was Zoey?
Mira's grip tightened on her phone until her knuckles ached.
"That was you," she whispered, and didn't know if it was rage or heartbreak in her voice.
Her call came through immediately, like someone had been watching her clock the truth.
"Agent," the voice said, filtered and neutral.
Mira's throat worked. "Tell me it's wrong."
"It's confirmed," the voice replied. "Your cover was exposed during last night's operation. A third-party intelligence drop identified you and your spouse. Full names. Full trace."
Mira's mouth went numb. "Who?"
"Unsure. We only know it's correct. There was a third operative at the gala, one that tailed both you and your wife afterwards."
Mira's eyes squeezed shut for half a second. When she opened them, the stairwell looked too bright. "You're telling me Zoey is a—"
"Yes."
"And me she knew who I was?"
"We are telling you that it is highly unlikely that she didn't," the voice corrected. "Elimination is required to maintain your cover."
Mira's jaw clenched. "If I don't?"
"Then we deal with you as well."
The call ended.
Mira stood in the stairwell long enough to feel the cold seep into her back.
Zoey, who kissed her like sunlight. Zoey, who tried to whistle and failed and looked offended by her own lungs. Zoey, who said Loved like it was the only thing Mira needed to hear. Zoey, who—if the info was right—had stood across from Mira last night and played with her like a toy while she stole the kill.
Mira's mind offered the story it always offered when the world got too sharp. She never loved you. She chose you because you were useful. That story hurt. It also made the order easier to hold.
Mira hated herself for that too.
Her phone buzzed—an ordinary buzz this time.
Zoey.
Zoey:
Hope work's not too gross today. Eat lunch, okay?
Mira stared at it, stomach twisting.
It was so… Zoey.
It was also, now, suspiciously perfect.
A normal-wife text. A cover-wife text.
Mira forced her fingers to move and typed back something neutral.
Mira:
Busy. I'll try. You okay?
Mira:
Busy. I'll try. You okay?
Zoey stared at the words.
A simple question. Zoey's chest tightened anyway. Because now everything Mira said had two shadows: the one Zoey thought she knew, and the other one.
Zoey typed:
Zoey:
I'm fine. Just a bored :p
Still good for dinner?
Then she put her phone down and went out.
She kept her day normal on the surface—errands, a walk, a stop at a café where nobody knew her. Underneath it, she was doing geometry: routes, exits, timings, where in the house she could end a life without letting the neighbours hear.
Zoey hated that the place with the cleanest angles was the one she loved most.
By evening, she was back on their street. She took the long way, checked reflections, watched for anyone watching her. The porch light was off.
Zoey's fingers brushed the familiar weight at her hip and her chest ached with the thought that she needed it at all.
She stepped onto the porch. Her key was cold in her hand.
Her mind however, couldn't stop repeating the same question, one that burned into her brain with a scalding brand.
Have you ever loved me?
Mira got home first for once. Not because she was eager. Because she needed control of the space before she let the unknown walk into it.
She let herself in quietly, didn't turn on the overheads, and moved through the rooms with the ease of someone who knew every creak.
The house smelled like them—laundry soap, that overly citrusy candle she insisted wasn't too strong, the ghost of dinners in the wood. It should've soothed her.
Mira's hands shook once when she opened the closet panel where her backup sat. She hated that her body knew how to do this even while her heart refused. She set herself in the living room where the streetlamp glow would silhouette her just enough. Jacket on. Holster hidden, but not really.
Then she waited, listening to the quiet like it was holding its breath.
A sound at the door. A key turning in the lock.
Mira swallowed.
Have you ever loved me?
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
Zoey's fingers stay laced with Mira's. Mira's grip looks casual if you don't know her; it isn't.
Zoey swallows. "My first assumption?" she repeats, like she's buying time.
"Yes," the therapist says, gentle but firm. "Not the version you arrive at after an hour of thinking. The first one."
Zoey's laugh is small and brittle. "That she did it on purpose."
Mira's head turns so fast it's almost sharp. "Zoey."
Zoey doesn't look away. "Not—" She exhales, frustrated, because she can feel herself stepping toward a cliff edge. "Not like… malicious. Just… intentional. Like there was a plan I wasn't part of."
The therapist nods once, like she's heard that sentence in a hundred different shapes. "And when you believe that?"
Zoey's mouth tightens. "I start looking for anything that proves me right..."
Mira's thumb rubs over Zoey's knuckle, absent and grounding, even as her jaw works.
The therapist shifts her gaze to Mira. "What about you?"
Mira's eyes drop to their hands. She's quiet long enough that it stops being a pause and starts being restraint.
"My first assumption is that I'm already late," Mira says finally.
Zoey blinks. "Late?"
Mira's mouth pulls into something that isn't quite a smile. "Late to the part where she's done with me."
Zoey's chest does something painful and stupid. "Mira…"
Mira lifts her chin, stubborn even now. "I know it's dramatic."
"It's honest," the therapist corrects, soft. "And when you believe she's already on her way out?"
Mira's answer is immediate, like a reflex. "I don't beg."
Zoey's eyes flicker, wet with it. "You don't ask."
Mira looks at her then, really looks. "Because if I ask and the answer is yes—" Her voice catches, and she forces it steady. "I can't unhear it."
Zoey squeezes her hand, hard, like she can physically keep Mira from falling into that story.
The therapist watches the squeeze, then speaks into the space it opens. "So Zoey's fear says, I'm being played, and Mira's fear says, I'm being left."
Mira exhales through her nose, like she hates how accurate that sounds.
Zoey's voice is quieter. "Yeah."
The therapist's tone stays calm. "Both of those fears make sense with what you've already told me. And both of those fears can push you into protective behaviour that looks, from the outside, like aggression."
Mira's gaze sharpens. "We're not—"
"I'm not labelling you," the therapist says quickly. "I'm describing the nervous system. When you feel threatened, you move to safety. For you two, safety looks different. Zoey tries to know. Mira tries to act."
Zoey nods, once.
Mira doesn't nod, but she doesn't argue either.
The therapist taps her pen against the clipboard, once, then sets it down. "I want to get practical for a minute," she says. "When that first assumption shows up—I'm being played, I'm being left—do you tell each other that's what you're hearing in your head?"
Zoey's lips part. Close again. "No."
Mira's answer is blunt. "No."
"What do you do instead?" the therapist asks.
Zoey's eyes lower to the rug. "I… guess I try to… manage the environment."
Mira snorts, but it's soft. "She pretty much controls the temperature of the room with her face."
Zoey shoots her a look that's half offended, half caught. "That's not—"
"It kind of is," Mira says, and there's no malice in it. Just recognition.
The therapist's mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "And Mira?"
Mira's jaw tightens. "I prepare."
Zoey's gaze lifts, sharp now. "You disappear."
Mira's eyes hold hers. "I just… try to make sure I'm not caught off guard."
The therapist nods slowly. "So instead of reaching for each other, you both reach for control."
Zoey's throat moves. "That sounds bad."
"It's certainly protective," the therapist says. "It's also lonely."
Silence settles again. Mira's thumb keeps moving over Zoey's knuckle, like she's trying to sand something down.
The therapist leans forward a fraction. "I'm going to ask you both to pick one moment where that fear took over. Doesn't have to be the whole story. Just the moment it felt like it switched from we to me versus you."
Zoey's breath catches.
Mira's shoulders go tight.
The therapist notices, of course. She keeps her voice ssteady. "You don't have to give me details you don't want to give. I'm not here to interrogate you. I'm here to help you understand what happens inside you, so you can catch it sooner next time."
Zoey swallows. "Okay."
Mira's eyes flick to Zoey, then back to the therapist. "Okay."
The therapist nods once. "Zoey—can we start with you?"
Zoey's fingers tighten around Mira's hand. She looks at the wall for a second like she's lining up a door in her head.
"…It was at home," Zoey says quietly. "At night."
Mira stills. Zoey feels it, but she doesn't stop.
The therapist's voice stays gentle. "Take me to the very beginning of that moment."
Zoey inhales through her nose.
"The first thing I noticed," she says, "was the smell."
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
The house smelled the same as it always did at night. It should've been comforting. Instead it felt more like a stage set. Like someone had rebuilt her life with perfect accuracy and forgotten to add the warmth.
Zoey slid her shoes off by the mat out of habit anyway. Her fingers shook once, then stilled. She let her coat hang on the hook. She didn't turn on the overhead light.
The living room sat in a pool of streetlamp glow, all edges and shadows. Their couch. Their throw blanket. The stupid framed print Mira had insisted on buying because it "looked expensive" that Zoey had teased her for for two weeks because the frame was cheap plastic.
She'd done a hundred hits in strange places. She'd never done one inside her own marital home.
Zoey swallowed hard, then breathed through it. Her hand drifted to her waistband, where the weight sat familiar against her hip. Insurance.
She moved through the dark like she belonged there, because quite simply, she did. Every floorboard had a personality. Every creak had a name. She knew which step near the kitchen needed a little extra care if you didn't want it to complain.
The kettle was still on the stove, washed and upside down. A dish towel lay folded over the oven handle at the precise angle Mira did that would've made Zoey smile on any other night.
Mira had been home earlier.
Zoey paused at the hallway mirror, the one they always checked before leaving. The hook at its edge held Mira's keys and Zoey's hair tie. Above it, in the corner of the ceiling, was the smoke alarm. Amazing how such a simple thing can bring back memories.
Nothing looked disturbed.
That was the problem.
She took another step, slow, quiet, and something moved behind her in the reflection—just a shift of shadow, a reshaping of darkness into a body.
Zoey didn't turn around.
"Mira," she said softly, like she was calling her in for tea.
A beat.
Then, from the living room, Mira's voice. Too casual. Too warm. Like a lie wearing Mira's skin.
"Hey, Zo."
Zoey let her eyes close for a second. She forced them open again.
"You're late," Zoey said.
"I actually got her early for once." Mira stepped into view in the doorway, half-lit by the streetlamp glow. Her hair was down. Her jacket was still on. The line of her shoulders looked wrong, tight in a way Mira never was at home.
Zoey saw the outline under Mira's jacket, the slight angle at her ribs. A holster.
Mira saw Zoey clock it. The corner of her mouth lifted anyway, like she couldn't help it.
"You're not even gonna kiss me hello?" Mira asked.
Zoey gave her a smile that felt like wading through broken glass. "You first."
Mira's eyes held hers for a second too long, and in that tiny stretch of time Zoey swore she could hear the same question moving through Mira's head.
Why?
Then Mira's gaze dipped. Not to Zoey's face. To her hip.
Zoey's hand went for her weapon the same moment Mira moved.
The first shot cracked through the quiet and buried itself in drywall. The sound slammed into the house like a slammed door. Plaster dust puffed into the air.
Zoey flinched anyway, more at the fact that Mira had fired in their home than at the bullet itself.
Mira's shot had been angled wide. A warning shot.
Zoey fired back without thinking, and her bullet tore a neat hole through the framed print on the wall, dead-centre—destroying the "expensive" illusion in one perfect circle.
Mira froze, eyes widening with offended disbelief.
Zoey couldn't help it and let out a snort. "I'm sorry. It was ugly."
Mira's laugh came out sharp, almost breathless. "You can't shoot my decor and then insult it."
Zoey ducked behind the hallway corner as Mira fired again, the bullet punching into the banister with a splintering crack. The wood flaked and fell like bad dandruff.
"Careful!" Zoey called. "We rent!"
"We own!" Mira shouted back, then hissed as Zoey's next shot took out a light fixture above her, showering Mira with glass that glittered as it fell.
"We have a mortgage! That's just renting from the bank." Zoey giggled.
Mira threw an arm over her head. "Oh my god—"
Zoey pressed her back to the wall, heart hammering. Her fingers were steady now. Her breathing was controlled. Her aim could've been lethal. It wasn't. It couldn't be. Not when it's Mira.
She leaned out, fired once more, and clipped the edge of their breakfast table instead of Mira's shoulder. The table toppled with a dramatic crash.
Mira stared at it. "That table was from my mother."
Zoey's mouth opened. Then she remembered, with sick clarity, that Mira's mum wasn't the kind of mum you spoke about fondly. Mira had said that once in a rare soft moment, and Zoey had held her tighter, and the table had just been a table.
Zoey swallowed. "I'll buy a new one."
Mira's next shot ricocheted off the kitchen counter and screamed into tile. Zoey moved, sprinting across the open space with a burst of speed that felt like pure instinct. Her bare feet slapped the floor. The house became a map she knew with her eyes shut.
She slid behind the kitchen island and felt Mira's presence follow, fast and sure. Mira had always been terrifyingly athletic. Zoey had always loved that about her, that and her stamina.
She only had one more magazine left for the gun from her holster. Not enough. So she stowed it back for later.
So she reached for the drawer beneath the island—her drawer, the one Mira never used because she said Zoey "organised like a serial killer." Her fingers found the false bottom with no hesitation.
A second gun sat there, oiled and ready. Plus a few magazines stored earlier.
Of course Zoey had stashed one in the heart of the kitchen. She cooked more than Mira did. She spent more time here. It made sense.
The absurdity of that thought hit her so hard she almost laughed.
She slid the gun free and rose—
—and Mira vaulted the island.
Zoey barely had time to lift her arms before Mira hit her, hard. Their bodies collided. Zoey stumbled back. Mira drove her into the fridge with a thud that rattled magnets to the floor.
Zoey's gun clattered away, skidding across tile.
Mira's hands were on Zoey's wrists, pinning them high against the cold metal. Mira's thigh slotted between Zoey's legs for balance, and Zoey's brain did something profoundly unhelpful for the current situation.
Oh.
Mira was close enough that Zoey could see the fine line of her eyeliner, the way her lips parted with breath. Mira's eyes were dark, furious, bright with something that wasn't just rage.
Zoey twisted, tried to break the hold. Mira tightened it, leaned in like she was about to kiss her—
—and instead smashed her forehead forward, catching Zoey's brow with just enough force to hurt without doing too much damage. Clearly intending to stun.
Zoey hissed. "Ow!"
Mira's grin was mean. "You flinch."
Zoey shoved upward, using the fridge as leverage, and Mira's hold broke just long enough for Zoey to slip her wrists free. Zoey's palm came up and caught Mira's jaw, turning her face aside. A redirection.
Mira caught Zoey's wrist and pulled, flipping Zoey around, and suddenly Zoey was pinned again—this time face-first into the fridge, Mira's chest at her back.
The position was ridiculous and so fucking familiar.
Zoey felt Mira's breath against her neck and had the insane thought that Mira's soap smelled like oranges.
"You know. If you wanted me to take the trash out more," Mira said, voice right at Zoey's ear, "you could've just asked."
Zoey choked on a laugh that wanted to become a sob. "You do take the trash out."
"Not enough apparently," Mira snapped.
Zoey bucked hard, freeing herself by inches. Mira adjusted, fluid and trained, and Zoey could feel the control in it—the discipline, the hours, the same kind of work Zoey had done.
So she really is—
Zoey twisted, caught Mira's elbow, and rolled them, breaking the hold in a clean movement that made Mira's eyes flash with approval even as she tried to recover.
They separated by a step. Just a step.
Both of them breathing harder now.
Mira's hair had fallen loose around her face. Zoey's pulse was loud in her ears. The kitchen looked like a crime scene already—holes in drywall, glass on tile, a chair half-tipped like it had tried to escape.
Zoey lifted her hands, palms open, a heartbeat of hesitation. "We don't have to—"
Mira lunged.
Zoey met her halfway.
They came together again in a blur of motion—Mira's fist, Zoey's block, Zoey's knee rising, Mira twisting aside. It was practiced. It was vicious and careful at the same time.
Mira swung a punch that would've shattered Zoey's cheekbone if it landed. It stopped short instead, the air of it brushing Zoey's skin like a threat.
Why?
Zoey's counter came in fast, aimed at Mira's throat.
She pulled it at the last second and hit Mira's shoulder instead. Hard enough to sting. Soft enough to keep her alive.
Why?
Mira felt it. Zoey saw the exact moment she did. Mira's eyes narrowed, then widened with something like furious confusion.
Zoey didn't give her time. She grabbed a dish towel from the oven handle and snapped it toward Mira's face like a whip. The fabric cracked against Mira's cheek.
Mira blinked, offended.
"You did not just—" Mira started.
Zoey seized the moment, stepped in, hooked the towel around Mira's wrist, and yanked. Mira stumbled forward. Zoey used the pull to spin her, slamming Mira's back lightly against the counter.
Lightly. Zoey hated herself for how much her body enjoyed the closeness.
Mira's laugh was breathy. "You're getting creative."
Zoey leaned in, close enough that their noses nearly touched. "You said you like it when I try new things in the kitchen."
Mira's gaze dipped to Zoey's mouth. Zoey felt it like a static shock.
Then Mira's hand shot out, grabbed Zoey's collar, and dragged her into the living room with a sudden burst of strength. Zoey stumbled, recovered, and reached for whatever she could—
Her fingers closed around a throw pillow.
She hit Mira in the face with it.
Mira froze.
Zoey blinked. "I panicked. Happy?"
Mira stared at her then snatched the pillow and swung it back, hard enough to make Zoey stagger. Feathers puffed out in a pathetic little cloud.
They both paused, looking at the drifting fluff.
Zoey's lips twitched. Then she sneezed.
Mira's shoulders shook once, like she was trying not to laugh. "Are you serious?"
Zoey lifted her hands, still holding the torn pillowcase. "You broke my pillow."
Mira's voice went sharp. "You hit me with it!"
"You were trying to kill me!"
Mira stepped closer, eyes blazing. "So were you!"
Zoey's mouth opened, and nothing came out because the accusation hurt in a way bullets didn't.
Mira must've seen it on her face. A flicker crossed Mira's expression—something softer that didn't belong here.
Zoey's spare lay somewhere in the kitchen. Mira's gun was still on her body, and Zoey could see the shape under Mira's jacket. Mira could see Zoey's holster. Neither of them reached.
Instead, Mira grabbed Zoey's wrist and yanked her forward again, and Zoey went with it, momentum carrying them into the dining room.
The dining table loomed between them like a referee.
Mira hopped onto it without breaking eye contact.
Zoey stared. "Get off the table! We eat there!"
Mira spread her arms, balancing easily. "Make me."
Zoey's laugh burst out, sharp and disbelieving. "You're insane."
Mira's grin softened at the edges. "You married me."
Zoey stepped in, caught Mira's ankle as Mira kicked, and yanked. Mira dropped, rolled, came up close—so close Zoey could smell her again, that familiar citrus combined with sweat and adrenaline.
Mira's leg hooked around Zoey's waist. Zoey's hands landed on Mira's hips to steady herself, and for one suspended second the world narrowed to heat and breath and the line of Mira's mouth.
Mira's voice came out low. "You're hesitating."
Zoey's throat tightened. "So are you."
Mira's eyes searched hers, fast and hungry, like she was trying to find where the truth sat between the lies.
Zoey moved first, because if she didn't she'd say something she couldn't take back. She shoved Mira backward onto the table, using her own body to pin her there.
Mira arched, a sharp inhale leaving her. Her hands grabbed Zoey's arms, not pushing away so much as holding on.
Zoey was above her, knees braced on either side of Mira's thighs. Close enough to feel Mira's heartbeat through fabric. Close enough to realise, with a hollow kind of wonder, that Mira had never once actually tried to end her.
Mira's voice shook with anger that sounded suspiciously like fear. "I still can't believe that you're an assassin."
Zoey's breath hitched. "Me? Pot meet kettle don't you think?"
Mira's hands tightened.
Zoey stared down at her, caught between fury and heartbreak. "I… thought you wanted me dead… isn't that why you—"
Mira's laugh came out broken. "If I wanted you dead, Zoey, I'd never have married you…"
She stopped. Her eyes widened, as if the words had nearly revealed too much. As if she'd just admitted what she was capable of.
Zoey's pulse thundered. "Then why—?"
Why did you marry me?
Mira's gaze snapped to Zoey's mouth again, and Zoey felt the answer in it.
Because you're here. Because you're mine. Because I don't know how to think about losing you without wanting to tear my skin off. Because I love you.
Zoey's hands slid, not to hurt, not to restrain properly. Just to hold.
Mira's breath shuddered. Her anger didn't vanish, but it shifted. It became something else, something with teeth and heat.
Zoey lowered herself slowly, until their faces were inches apart. Mira didn't move away.
Zoey whispered, "You're… not actually trying to kill me…"
"No," Mira's voice was rough. "Neither are you, apparently."
"You… you didn't know, did you?"
"No. Guessing that you didn't either…"
Zoey's mouth trembled into a smile that didn't feel quite safe yet. "We should talk about that…" Zoey giggled softly. "…Therapy?"
Mira's eyes flicked up and down Zoey's face like she wanted to memorise it all over again. "After?"
"After."
Mira's grip on Zoey's arms loosened. Her palms slid up, fingers curling at Zoey's shoulders. She pulled—just enough to bring Zoey down.
Zoey met her halfway.
The kiss hit like a punch they'd both been holding back for too long. It wasn't gentle. It was desperate, sharp at the edges, full of everything they hadn't said and couldn't afford to say in the middle of a destroyed dining room.
Mira's mouth moved against hers like it was claiming proof of something. Zoey's hands cradled Mira's jaw like she was afraid she'd disappear if Zoey let go.
For a moment, the house stopped being a battlefield. It was just home again. It was just them.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
Mira's thumb stills against Zoey's knuckle.
The therapist nods, encouraging without pushing. "Okay. Stay with that. What did the smell tell you?"
"That it was… normal," Zoey says, and her voice tightens on the last word. "That everything looked the way it always looks. Like nothing had happened."
Mira's jaw works, controlled.
Zoey keeps going anyway, eyes fixed somewhere just past the therapist's shoulder. "I took my shoes off. I—" She pauses, and you can see her decide how honest she can afford to be. "I guess I moved carefully."
The therapist's gaze stays steady. "Because you felt like something was wrong?"
"Yes," Zoey says, quietly.
Mira exhales, almost soundless.
Zoey turns her head. Their eyes meet.
For a second, neither of them looks angry. They just look… wrecked by how well they understand each other when they stop pretending they don't.
The therapist lets the silence sit. Then, gently: "Mira, what was happening for you at the beginning of that moment?"
Mira's shoulders lift in a small shrug "I was waiting."
Zoey's fingers tighten around hers.
Mira's gaze drops to their hands, then lifts again. "I got there first. I didn't know what Zoey was going to walk through the door." Her throat moves. "So I… set myself up to not be surprised."
Zoey swallows. "You were bracing for me?"
Mira's mouth twitches, but there's no humour in it. "Yeah."
The therapist nods once. "So both of you walked into that moment carrying a story. Zoey's story sounded like: Something isn't adding up right now. I need to pay attention. Mira's story sounded like: If I get caught off guard here, I lose."
Mira's eyes narrow slightly. "Lose what?"
The therapist's voice stays calm. "Each other."
Zoey blinks fast, like she's trying not to let that hit her heart too hard.
Mira's grip on her hand tightens.
"And the problem," the therapist continues, "is that those stories don't make room for softness. They make you behave like you're alone."
Zoey's voice goes small. "I wasn't alone."
"I know," the therapist says. "But you felt like you were."
Mira's gaze flicks to Zoey, then away again. "So what are we supposed to do? Pretend we don't have instincts?"
"No," the therapist replies. "More like… naming them. Out loud."
Zoey's brows pinch. "Like… 'I'm spinning'?"
"Exactly like that," the therapist says. "Or, 'My brain is telling me a story right now.'"
Mira shifts, restless. "That sounds… corny."
Zoey's mouth twitches despite herself. "It's therapy. We're literally paying for corny."
Mira huffs a laugh, brief and reluctant. "Okay."
The therapist chuckles along with quiet approval. She glances at the clock on the wall. "We're close to time." She looks back at them. "Before we end today, I want to ask something simple. Not easy. Simple."
Zoey's shoulders rise a fraction.
Mira's posture goes still, bracing again—then she forces it to soften, just a little, like she's choosing to stay in the room.
The therapist asks, "Are you both still in this?"
Zoey answers immediately. "Yes."
Mira's answer comes a beat later, but it lands heavier. "Yes."
The therapist's gaze doesn't leave them. "Okay. Then I want each of you to tell the other—directly—why you're still in it. What's true."
Zoey's voice is steady when she speaks, even though her eyes aren't. "I married you because I love you. That hasn't changed." She swallows. "What's changed is… I'm done trying to protect myself from you. I don't want to live like that."
Mira's eyes flicker, something raw crossing her face. She looks like she's about to deflect. Then she doesn't.
"I married you because you're my home," Mira says, and the words come out rough, like they had to fight their way past pride. She squeezes Zoey's hand once, hard. "I don't want to win. I want… us. I want to stop acting like I'm going to be replaced if I'm not perfect."
Zoey's breath catches. "You're not replaceable."
Mira's mouth twists. "I know. I just… forget that sometimes."
Zoey leans closer, forehead almost to Mira's temple. "Then I'll remind you every day."
The therapist lets that sit for a beat.
Zoey wipes at the corner of one eye with her free hand, annoyed at herself. "So what now?"
"Now," the therapist says, "you practice catching the moment earlier." She lifts her pen again. "This week, I want you to try establishing a check-in. Short. No deep dive. Just two questions."
Mira raises her brows. "Here we go."
Zoey nudges her knee, warning.
The therapist doesn't smile, but there's warmth in her eyes. "Whenever you feel those stories rising back up, I want you to ask each other these. Question one: 'What story is your brain telling you right now?' Question two: 'What do you need from me in the next ten minutes?'"
Zoey nods slowly, like she can see it. "Okay."
Mira exhales. "Ten minutes feels… doable."
"Good," the therapist says. "And if one of you can't answer, that's okay. It means you're flooded. Then the goal here is not to solve. It's to regulate."
Zoey's shoulders drop a fraction. Mira's do too.
The therapist begins to gather her clipboard. "Same time next week?"
Zoey glances at Mira. Mira glances back.
"We'll make it work," Mira says.
Zoey's thumb strokes over Mira's knuckle. "Yeah."
They stand. Zoey is the one who reaches first, tugging Mira in by the sleeve. Mira resists for half a second out of habit, then gives in and presses a brief kiss to Zoey's hairline—small, private, like a promise.
The therapist watches them with an expression that's professionally neutral.
Still, her gaze lingers a fraction too long.
As they head toward the door, she steps around her desk and holds out a card. "Here. In case either of you need to reschedule, or if something comes up before next session."
Zoey takes it without thinking.
The name on the card catches the light when she tilts it.
Dr. Ryu Rumi…
Zoey's eyes pause on it for a heartbeat longer than they need to.
Mira sees the pause. "What?"
"Nothing," Zoey says, too quick, slipping the card into her pocket. "Just… I dunno."
The therapist's voice is calm, polite. "Take care of each other."
Zoey nods. "We will."
Mira's hand finds Zoey's again as they step out into the hall. Their fingers lace like it's instinct.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
The house is quieter now. Though there are still patched sections of drywall that don't quite match, and the banister has a new, cleaner strip of wood where the old one splintered. Mira's framed print is gone entirely, replaced by an empty hook that makes Zoey feel guilty for half a second before she remembers Mira laughed about it later and called it "interior design."
Zoey drops her keys into the bowl by the door and watches Mira do a slow scan of the room out of habit.
Mira catches her looking. "What?"
"You're doing the thing."
Mira's mouth twitches.
Zoey toes her shoes off and walks in, closing the distance like she's claiming it back. "You're allowed to breathe."
Mira makes a sound like she's going to argue, then she doesn't. She lets Zoey tuck herself into her space, warm and familiar, and her shoulders loosen a fraction like they remembered how.
"So," Zoey says into Mira's collarbone, voice muffled. "Long haul."
Mira's hand slides up Zoey's back. "Yeah."
Zoey tilts her head up, eyes bright with something that isn't quite laughter. "That means we can't let ourselves get killed by our employers. Former employers."
Mira stares at her for a beat. Then she snorts. "Love that that's where your brain went."
"It's a very practical brain," Zoey says, offended on principle.
Mira's gaze softens. "It's also a paranoid brain."
"Then let's meet in the middle and call it an accurate brain."
Mira exhales, then leans in and kisses Zoey once—quick, steadying. "Okay."
Zoey steps back, already moving toward the kitchen like she needs something to do with her hands. The overhead light stays off. Streetlamp glow paints everything in soft edges.
Mira follows. "We both failed our missions."
Zoey opens a drawer and pulls out a tea towel, then pauses like she's remembering the last time a tea towel became a weapon. "Technically, I completed my job."
Mira lifts a brow. "You didn't complete the job that matters."
Zoey points the tea towel at her like a gavel. "I would not complete a contract on my wife."
Mira's mouth pulls into something sharp. "Neither did I. Which is why we're both burned now."
Zoey drapes the towel over the oven handle, neat. Her voice goes lighter to keep it from shaking. "So. What's the timeline from your end?"
Mira doesn't answer immediately. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out her phone, and sets it on the counter face-down like it's radioactive.
"After the gala," Mira says, "they didn't know I'd been burned until the next morning."
Zoey's jaw tightens. "Same."
Mira's eyes flick up. "They told you?"
Zoey nods once. "My handler didn't even pretend to be subtle. 'You were compromised. They have your face. Your voice. Your patterns.'" She laughs once, humourless. "Which is funny, because I worked very hard on those patterns."
Mira's gaze hardens. "And then they handed you my name."
Zoey's throat moves. "Yeah."
Mira's fingers curl against the counter. "And they handed me yours."
They stare at each other across the kitchen island, both of them in the same place at the same time, and the fact that they're still standing together feels like a quiet act of violence.
Zoey breaks the silence first, because she refuses to let it rot. "Okay. So we agree: our agencies are going to come for us."
Mira's mouth twists. "They already have."
Zoey freezes. "What do you mean, already?"
"I got a message on the secure line."
Zoey's eyes narrow. "A recall?"
"A warning," Mira says flatly. "Which means they only want me alive long enough to answer questions. They probably both think we were double agents."
Zoey's expression turns sharp. "I'm not letting them—"
"I know." Mira's voice softens by a degree. "That's why I didn't answer."
Zoey exhales, slow. Her hands flex, then still. "Okay. So we're really doing this."
Mira's eyes lock onto hers. "We're doing this."
Zoey nods like she's sealing a deal with herself. "Go-bags. Cash. Documents."
Mira's mouth twitches. "Let me guess… you have three passports hidden in the pantry."
Zoey looks innocent. "Two sets."
Mira blinks. "Zoey."
"What?" Zoey spreads her hands. "Two for me, two for yours. It's considerate."
Mira stares at her, then lets out a short laugh that sounds like relief trying to pretend it's annoyance.
Zoey steps closer, fingers catching Mira's wrist. "You married me."
Mira's gaze drops to Zoey's hand. She turns it, presses her mouth to Zoey's knuckles—soft, deliberate. Zoey's smile flashes.
Mira lets her go, then moves with purpose, heading down the hall. "Bedroom. Closet. Left panel along the bottom."
Zoey follows without thinking, because this is what they are when the world turns hostile: a team that doesn't need to explain itself.
Mira kneels by the baseboard, fingers finding a seam that isn't visible unless you already know it exists. The panel gives with a gentle click. Inside: a hard case, clean and matte.
Zoey crouches beside her. "God, I love you."
Mira opens the case without looking up. "Because?"
"Because you're hot," Zoey smirks.
Mira snorts. "I'm literally opening a box."
Zoey's grin widens. "Exactly, but hotly."
Mira rolls her eyes, but her ears go faintly pink. She pulls out bundles wrapped tight, stacks of clean currency sealed in plastic, a slim folder of documents, and a second smaller case.
Zoey's gaze flicks over it, assessing. "How much is that?"
"More than enough," Mira says. "Plus what's in the safe."
Zoey's voice goes almost reverent. "We're rich."
"We're not rich," Mira says, deadpan. "We're… illegally well-resourced."
Zoey leans in and kisses her cheek. "Same thing."
Mira shifts her head just enough to catch Zoey's mouth properly, a kiss that lingers. When they break apart, Mira's eyes are steady again.
"Route," Mira says.
Zoey's brain snaps into motion. "Airport is a trap. Way too many cameras, too many points of failure."
Mira nods. "Agreed."
Zoey points toward the window. "We go ground first. Change plates. Switch cars. Then we decide."
Mira's mouth quirks. "Look at you. Planning."
Zoey lifts her chin. "Look at you. Not running headfirst into a wall."
Mira's smile is small. "Therapy's working."
Zoey huffs a laugh, then sobers. "We've had one session. Anyway, e need to assume they'll send someone who knows how we move."
Mira's eyes harden. "And we need to assume the person who burned our covers is still out there."
Zoey's stomach twists. "Yeah. I can't believe there was another operative at the gala… I didn't even sense that."
"Me neither, whoever they are, they're good." Mira says as she closes the case with a soft snap, then reaches out and pulls Zoey in by the waist, forehead touching Zoey's temple for half a second. A quiet, private reset.
"We can deal with them later," Mira murmurs. "When we're not the ones being hunted."
Zoey closes her eyes, breathing in that familiar citrus soap like it's an anchor. "Promise?"
Mira's hand tightens. "Promise."
Zoey opens her eyes again. "Okay."
She pulls back, just enough to look at Mira properly. "We leave tonight."
Mira nods. "Tonight."
Zoey's mouth twitches like humour is the only thing keeping her from shaking. "Do we… tell the neighbours we're going on holiday?"
Mira's stare is flat. "Zoey."
Zoey shrugs. "What? It's polite."
Mira leans in, kisses her once—quick, firm. "Pack."
Zoey salutes. "Yes, ma'am."
Mira starts moving again. Zoey follows, grabbing her own hidden case from the spot Mira pretends she doesn't know about. They cross paths in the hallway, bump shoulders, exchange a look that says a hundred things without saying anything at all.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
Rumi closed the door gently behind them, standing with her hand on the handle for a beat longer than necessary, listening to the hallway settle. Footsteps fade. An elevator dings somewhere down the corridor.
When she's sure they're gone, she crosses the room and unclips the small white-noise machine from the underside of the desk. The hum dies. The air changes with it.
Her smile disappears next.
Rumi slides the clipboard into a locked drawer, tucks the pen into its slot, and straightens the cushion on the couch with a movement that reads thoughtful—until you notice how fast she does it. How exact.
She taps her phone twice. A different interface blooms—clean and minimal. No contact names listed. Just numbers and encrypted tags.
She selects one.
The call connects on the first ring.
"Report," Celine says.
No greeting. No softness. Hers is a voice shaped to make space for nothing except results.
Rumi sits behind the desk and folds her hands in front of her like she's about to start another session. "Session concluded," she answers.
A pause, not doubt—processing. "Continue."
"They affirmed commitment," Rumi says. "As expected."
"Good." The faintest sound of paper turning on Celine's end. "Status of separation?"
"Successful," Rumi replies. "Both agencies have moved to containment protocols. Each has labelled their asset compromised. Recall orders were issued."
"And the assets refused."
"They will," Rumi says, calm. "I'm certain. I doubt anything could really drive them apart from each other."
Celine exhales once, quiet. Satisfaction, but clipped. "So they're off leash."
"Yes."
Another pause. "Any indication they suspect a third party?"
Rumi's gaze drifts to the window. Rain has started again, drawing thin lines down the glass. "Only in being the source of the burn."
"Good. Walk me through."
Rumi doesn't hesitate. "I confirmed identities in the field. Both operatives maintained masks and voice placements, but pattern tells remain consistent, they're good, but not flawless."
"You were close enough to confirm visually."
"Yes," Rumi says.
"Clean?"
"Clean."
Celine's voice stays level. "Then I take it you delivered Mira's identity to Zoey's agency?"
"Discreetly," Rumi says. "And Zoey's identity to Mira's."
Celine makes a sound that could be approval if she let herself have it. "And they were then handed each other."
Rumi's mouth curves a millimetre. Not humour. Recognition. "It did what it was meant to. Their agencies forced the conflict. The marriage blocked it. Now the agencies can't reclaim them without breaking them."
"And breaking them makes them useless," Celine says.
"Or dead," Rumi replies.
Celine's silence this time is longer. It carries weight, then releases it. "You didn't overplay it?"
"No," Rumi says. "The gala exposure wasn't obvious. Simple recon."
"Excellent." Celine's tone stays professional. "And the therapy cover?"
Rumi's eyes flick to the door. "Effective. They trust 'Dr Ryu Rumi.'"
Celine hums once. "That makes Phase Two easier."
Rumi doesn't speak. She waits.
On the other end, Celine's voice cools even further, becoming instruction. "We don't approach them immediately. Let the agencies chase. Let the pressure narrow their options. When they're tired of being hunted, we give them an offer."
Rumi nods, even though Celine can't see it. "Recruitment terms?"
"Protection," Celine says. "Autonomy. A target list they can live with and more money than they could dream of."
Rumi's gaze sharpens. "They'll ask what it costs."
"They'll likely assume it costs their marriage," Celine replies, matter-of-fact. "So we'll make it clear it doesn't."
Rumi's fingers tighten once against each other, then relax. "Understood."
Celine's voice shifts, almost imperceptibly—still professional, but fractionally closer to the surface. "Any instability?"
"In-session," Rumi says. "They're shaken a little after, clearly, but they're still functional."
"Good." A beat. "And you?"
Rumi's face doesn't move. "Operational."
"Sleep," Celine says, too quick. Like she didn't mean to say it at all.
Rumi's eyes lift. There's the smallest pause before she answers. "After."
On the line, Celine returns to steel. "File the transcript summary. Remove anything that could identify anyone."
"Already done," Rumi says. "I've also taken the time to narrow down where they'll likely go next, it's highly unlikely they'll remain where they are for long."
"Then you'll stand down," Celine orders. "You'll remain available, but you will not engage again unless I tell you to."
Rumi's voice stays even. "Acknowledged."
Celine exhales once more. "Last question."
"Yes."
"If they discover you—"
"They won't," Rumi says simply. "You know me better than that."
A pause.
"…If they do," Celine corrects, because to her, contingency may as well be religion. "What is your move?"
"There's only one move I'd have left. Be honest with them." Rumi sighs. "If Gwi-ma continues to advance… we're going to need them on our side."