htmlseye - Tumblr blog

htmlseye · 4 days ago

Text

　　　꣑ৎ　　　　𝓛OVE YOU ANYWAY　♱.　MM.B 　　　────　i'll keep your picture upon the wall 𓈒𓈒𓈒

🦇　( 𝓢 ) ﹕ 　word flew by through your school almost immediately that it girl manon bannerman—also your reclaimed public number one enemy—was publicly cheated on, making her world take a nosedive. using her popularity as leverage, she ropes you into a fake relationship to avoid any more public humiliation. at least, just for a few weeks. originally. who knew manon was in love with you and your sharp tongue?

𝓹airing. popular girl!meret manon bannerman x hockey player!reader　genre. ⓘ. fluff. rich kids au. fake dating trope. skinship ✦ 7547wc 　　notes 📼 ! 　 inspo. tatbilb series & the oc. hello… i finally locked in enough for this fic💔💔 if this is butt sorry love u guys (MASTERLIST)

now playing ⋆ i'm not in love by 10cc / crush by ethel cain / sugar! honey! love! by kali uchis / super rich kids by frank ocean / p.u.n.k. girl by heavenly / somethin' stupid by frank sinatra

THE RULES WERE AS SIMPLE AS THEY COULD BE to sell the lie and to make it convincing enough. no kissing (unless needed), no snitching on one-another, inside jokes, learning the little details that real couples would know of each other—all that stuff. most importantly, you have to attend all her parties and gala events, and she has to attend all your games.

"so, deal or no deal, yn?" manon barely glances up at you, tilting her head to the side. she watches you with a bored expression, sighing dramatically to taunt you, "time's ticking."

in the last two years of attending the same academy never has manon ever willingly talked to you, or spared you a glance in any way; it was the rare occasions where you two were grouped together for a class work assignment. and even then, she barely acknowledged you, merely passing snide remarks about you to her friends in the hallways. you had your world, and she had hers.

she didn't belong in your world for a myriad of reasons. hers consisted of oceans of bodies, with girls in bikinis, guys in linen, plaid shirts; everyone sun-kissed and high off of god-knows-what; rich-kids wrapped in luxury, diamonds, and joy rides in daddy's jaguar; and bodies bruised by designer clothing. bad decisions and ivy leagues were what her world revolves around, but that was just the life she was born into—super rich kids with nothing but loose ends. always the life of the party, always taking a new guy or girl home.

you shoot her a glare, finding it frustrating how overly-casual she was, especially when this new arrangement meant having to see each other daily for the next few weeks.

the same girl who, while at your first party, recorded and posted you vomiting your guts out from the spiked booze on one of the biggest school gossip accounts, wanted you to be her fake girlfriend? and all because she wanted to recover from being publicly humiliated, in her words.

you cross your arms and set your jaw, eyes narrowing, as you slightly grimace at picturing all the ways you'd waste your time with manon as her fake girlfriend. "what would i even get from this?" you eye her down, indignation rushing to the surface.

"you would be seen with me, and we both know how much that would help you," she mutters, almost like it was the most obvious thing in the world. you thought her arrogance was beyond insane, especially when she was the one who had to corner you to get you to talk to her.

"no," you mutter, crossing your arms against your chest.

"excuse me?"

"i'm not being your fake girlfriend."

manon's jaw clenches slightly, an incredulous expression washing over her features, "seriously? you're rejecting me?" she scoffs, shaking her head.

"you should be honored i was even asking you—not everybody gets to be my arm candy." she barely spares you a glance, as she adjusts her diamond bracelet.

and it wasn't like she was wrong necessarily; walking into a room with manon bannerman on your arm alone earns whispers, envy, and definitely more than a few stares.

you roll your eyes, collecting your books from the benches you two sat on, before her hand brushes over your wrist, preventing you from getting up. she quickly mutters out, "please, you're the only person who i wouldn't be so-disgusted to be seen with." and truth be told, manon was serious; she had her friends search for anybody who she could date that would piss her ex off.

"i need to find someone who pisses my ex off asap," manon declared, as she laid down on the lawn chair, sunglasses crooked on her face. she exhaled towards the sky, placing the glass of lemonade onto the table.

"if that helps you move on from him, sure," lara joked, leaning back in her lawn chair. she sighed, her gaze flickering to manon's face for a fleeting moment, "oh shit, you're serious about this?"

"i am not letting myself be played by that asshole," manon groaned out, rubbing her temple.

the smile on lara's face faltered due to disbelief, "don't you think that's too much? i mean, maybe your break up was a sign to take a break off dating. you can't really be with someone until you can be by yourself."

"i can be by myself if i wanted to," manon argued, rolling her eyes, "i just can't be humiliated by a man like that."

"so what, you already have somebody in mind? and don't tell me it's one of the guys on the basketball team."

"ew, no!" the ghanaian girl grimaced, "none of them are even tolerable, not even a little bit. way to ruin my mood, lara. plus, it has to be a girl."

a cunning smile tugged the corners of lara's face, "you could try the girl's hockey team. i know the captain."

dumbfounded, manon muttered, "we have a hockey team?" she lifted the prada sunglasses onto the top of her head, looking to her side. "hockey, really?" the ghanaian girl mumbled under her breath.

"give it a chance, some of them are cute," lara shrugged, "keyword though, some. a lot of them are uptight."

manon groaned, "only because it's my last resort." she grabbed her phone from the coffee table, swiping through the girls hockey team's instagram. her perfectly manicured fingers trailed through, her teeth gritted, "what about player 4?"

the indian girl glared at manon, her eyebrows furrowing slightly, as she peeked over at the latter's phone, "that's the girl you recorded vomiting," she mumbled through her teeth. lara tapped the tagged user, scrolling through your posts, the tapping of her nails audible. "i doubt she would forget that."

"oh, i will make sure she forgets it."

"fine."

manon's eyes practically bulge out of her eye sockets, "really?"

you huff out a bit of air, "yes, really. just don't expect me to go all out for your black-tie events." she gives you a pointed look, and you glare at her back, making her sigh.

"cool, works for me." manon watches you collect your books from the bench, strutting away from her. and oddly enough, she watches your figure become farther and farther away, her gaze fixated on you.

lararaj: girl that was quick

manonbannerman: i'm js a girl who knows what she wants and gets it.

meganskiendiel: shes kinda cute tbh

manonbannerman: whatever. u can have her when im done w her.

lararaj: jealous much

"you so owe me for this, bannerman."

tonight was your debut—well, your debut as manon bannerman's girlfriend.

manon sends you a glare, as she quickly file her nails down, her reflection scrutinized under the flickering lights of the limo. "oh, please," she drawls, rolling her eyes, "you clean up better than i thought you would."

you scoff, straightening your tie, "how sweet." you flash a faux, exaggerated smile at the ghanaian girl, before it falters quickly at the sight of the grand ballroom. "jesus christ," you mumble under your breath.

the moment you stepped into it, the air shifts; chandeliers glow above the crowd of only california's most elite, their conversations growing quieter, as they take in the sight of manon bannerman… and you?

you hoped for this to simple, for you to just smile, hold her close to you, and to charm the rest of her friends to stay in their good graces. and you thought it could go your way, but it doesn't—not when manon's arms slip around your neck almost perfectly, locking her eyes with yours. a gentle yet faux smile tugs the corners of her lips during the first waltz, and she leans in, her lips brushing against your ear.

"i didn't think you'd suck this badly at the waltz," she teases, a tinge of affection laced in her tone. and really, in the back of her mind—far, far back—she wanted to tell you that you looked good tonight.

and luckily for manon, you don't notice the way her touch lingers slightly more than it should, the way her gaze is almost always drawn to your lips unconsciously, or the way her hand settles on the back of your neck, more naturally than it should.

this was just a game, she thought—a ploy to make her ex pissed off.

she was effortlessly graceful with the way she laughs at your horrible dad-jokes, her head tilting, and making sure every eye was on you two. only for a fleeting moment does manon remember her ex, noticing the way he watched from across the room, jaw clenched, and drinking swirling in his hand.

"go fetch me a drink, yeah?" she murmurs, her lips mere inches away from yours, and you reluctantly oblige, finding your way to the mini-bar. her gaze lingers on you a little too long, watching you try to avoid the questions from other guests bombarded in your face.

ordering two glasses of club soda, you tap your foot against the ground, leaning against the counter. you try to suppress a groan when you immediately spot lara skipping over, a grin on her face.

"you and manon."

lara's voice breaks through the loud, blaring chatter of the crowd, your head snapping towards her. you raise your eyebrow, as she repeats with a cheeky raise of her brows.

"lara." you mutter, knowing how much snarky remarks would fall from her lips, despite her being the most cordial with you out of manon's clique. tilting your head, you ask flatly, "what about manon and i?"

"dating, right?" she asks playfully.

your face grimaces slightly at the mention, and 'no, ew' parts your lips before you suddenly remember that you two were technically dating. a sigh falls from your lips shortly at her words, as you nod, clutching the two glasses of club soda in your hands tightly.

"yes," you mutter through your lips tightly, "we are dating."

"well, you don't seem so happy you two are," the dark-headed girl quips, a chuckle escaping her breath. she raises a brow, watching you tense slightly.

"i was just joking. lighten up." she playfully shoves past you, walking to the restroom.

you roll your eyes before walking away, finding your way back to manon like a puppy on a leash. you smile a bit as you approach the girl, handing her glass to her. and god does your smile make the ghanaian girl's heart pick up slightly. get a fucking grip.

she sets the glasses down onto a nearby table, grinning widely, and musing, "you sure took a while. hope you didn't hook up with someone in the mean time." her arm slips around your neck, while her other hand intertwines with yours.

you shoot manon a mocking look, as you raise your brows, "what, you jealous?"

"ew! no, you wish, freak."

"come on, not even a little?" your hand pokes her side to emphasize your words.

"god, i really did choose the wrong person to be in a fake relationship with," she glares at you, her lips pressed into a thin line. letting out an exasperated groan, she pinches your side playfully.

"shut up," you snap, unable to stop the look of irritation on your face, "and for the record, i only agreed because i felt bad for you."

her voice takes on a teasing tone, "really?" her eyes narrow, a grin forming on her lips. "so am i hearing that you like me?" she drawls, leaning lazily against you.

you blink at her, caught off guard, "no way, bannerman."

"whatever you say then," a faint smirk ghosts manon's lips, "just don't fall in love with me now, yn." her hand curls around the back of your neck, while the other slightly tugs on your collar, as if to challenge you.

"as if."

hongseunghan: when tf was yn dating manon hongseunghan: im so lost?

zhouxinyu: WDYM YN TAPPED A BAD BITCH BEFORE ME

ln-yn: how do u guys even know wtf

choijisung: girl vids and pics of u w manon r all around the skls ig ???

hongseunghan: i didnt even know ur type was snobby rich kids dude

zhouxinyu: i thought wbk that… her fav character from gossip girl was blair 💔💔

ln-yn: ur so funny xinyu. watch ur back at 11:59 pm july 9th 2025.

choijisung: didnt manon film u vomiting freshman year LOL major aura loss there

zhouxinyu: that was her?? and ur still dating manon yn??

ln-yn: shes changed. i promise. ln-yn: i wouldnt have dated her if she didnt

hongseunghan: dickriding this hard 😭

"you know that kid, sunghoon, in our calc class," xinyu whistles, "crashed his jaguar." her gaze narrows, as she glares at the crowd surrounding the former. she rolls her eyes, whispering incoherent curses under her breath.

you snort, "daddy's jaguar, wasn't it?"

a chuckle falls shortly from seunghan's lips, as he hums in agreement, "he went to court to have the judge give him access to the jaguar early."

"you could do that?" you ask, shoving your books into your own locker. then you mutter, "god, i'd kill for that life."

xinyu shrugs before groaning against her locker, "yeah, but then you'd have to surround yourself with them, and become friends with them. that leaves me with nobody to mock," she dramatically groans.

you scoff, slowly drowning out xinyu's and seunghan's voices, as your eyes follow the movement of a certain dark-headed girl near sunghoon: manon. you bite down hard on your lower lip, trying to focus on your friends' conversation.

though, seunghan notices, shoving you with his elbow, which only earns a groan from you. "manon's cool 'n all, but i'd avoid getting sucked into that." he shrugs.

you roll your eyes, shoving the korean boy back, "sucked into what?"

"into… well, all that," xinyu teases, moving her head towards manon's direction.

before you could protest, the bell chimes throughout the hallway, and the two of them giggle, patting your shoulder, and waving good-bye. you huff, watching them leave, as you stuff everything into your locker. while they had class, you had a free period today.

bang! manon's hand hits the metal of your locker harshly, somewhat caging you in, with her other arm folded against her chest. you slightly shudder, your gaze darting to the other girl. your eyes slightly narrow in frustration.

"you couldn't have been normal and said hi?" you retort, heat slightly spreading to your cheeks. you nudge her shoulder playfully, swinging your backpack over your shoulder. she scoffs, and you roll your eyes, your own eyes betraying you, as they unconsciously trace over the ghanaian girl's features filtered in the sunlight from the windows.

she ignores your quip, "you didn't tell me you had a game tonight." a faux sense of annoyance washes over her features, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"i didn't know you wanted to go to my games in the first place," you tease, a half-smile curbing your lips. you lean against your locker, unconsciously leaning in closer towards manon.

shooting you a lethal glare, she shakes her head, muttering tightly through her lips, "it's just a part of our deal."

you sigh, giving her the same glance she gave you, "so you are coming?"

manon sucks in her teeth dramatically, "unfortunately i am. and you better win." her voice rings through your ear, and she shoots you a swift wink. you whistle playfully before she shoves past you playfully—thankfully, not too harsh. you smile just a bit at the gesture, and something in your heart flutters.

you exhale a soft response, as she turns to the corner, clearly not meant to be this late to class, "yeah." leaning against the wall, waiting for your free period to end, a strangled sigh falls shortly from your lips. you close your eyes, and a curse escapes from under your breath. get it together.

you swear up and down this isn't you, and that you were truly just mixing up bitter resentment for affection. heart fluttering more than usual, palms sweaty, hands rubbing nervously over your knees—you were too far lost.

the fact that a girl had made you feel this way was juvenile, considering it was manon bannerman—the most infuriating girl to ever face earth. getting into a fake relationship with her was, by far, the worst idea you ever engaged in.

the ice-glassed rink was alight with the excitement from the current game—almost every seat filled to the brink; you would have never expected packed bleachers for girl's hockey. clapping hands accompanied by roars of cheers were only a few out of many sounds that registered in your ears.

and manon, as expected, was in the crowd. your gaze lands on the ghanaian girl, eyes slightly widening. her arms were crossed, blank expression, and eyes narrowed, as if she was calculating your every move. you notice the way her jaw clenches when the opponent team gets a goal. the sound of hockey sticks scraping against the ice makes manon cringe, her eyes crinkling at the sight of you barely dodging the goalie. she watches the enemy team slam into the glass, causing a shake in the bleachers, the sound loud and jarring.

then your head tilts, and you see her friends, too. cool, cool, cool, cool, your fake girlfriend and her friends are watching you intensely, probably waiting for you to mess up any second now. though, corner of manon's mouth twitches enough to feel like a secret, like something meant only for you.

manon's and her friend's conversation is cut short by the last goal of the night from your team, as the score changes, from 1-2 to 1-3. the last swift shot solidifies your team's win, and cheers erupt. while your team finished celebrating, you made your way to manon, helmet still loosely fitted on your head.

"you came."

"it was a part of our deal," manon reiterates, her perfectly manicured hands tugging on your helmet. "and you won," she murmurs tightly through her lips. you unconsciously lean against the ghanaian girl, a sleazy, ear-to-ear grin tugging your lips.

you chuckle, your eyes twinkling with amusement, "you said i better win."

she inhales sharply, shoving you lightly, before lifting your helmet off, "because it would be embarrassing for me to date a loser." the other girl tilts her head to the right, eyes narrowing, and you'd think that she was plotting your murder—but no, her hand gently cups your face, her thumb swiping over your cheek, and 'wiping' some dirt off your face.

"what?" manon feigns innocence, and that wide grin on her face only sparks something unwelcoming in your chest. her arms rest on your shoulders, and you try to ignore the warmth of her body, but the feeling lingers. you tell yourself that this was all for show, that neither meret manon bannerman nor you actually enjoyed this arrangement.

"nothing," you brush it off, and you push your feelings down. you weren't going to let a girl as materialistic and demanding as manon to make you feel this way. but then you watch her laugh, carefree and strangely vulnerable; it catches you off guard, because it was real. too real that your gaze softens, and that you have to attempt to suppress the smile that nonetheless ghosts your lips.

she shoots you a glare before relenting, "you still taking me on that date?" her hands fully wrap themselves around your neck now, while yours instinctively rest on her waist.

you raise a brow, huffing with mock irritation, "date? who said anything about one?"

"when i found out your teammates were gonna be hosting a party for your guys' win. tomorrow night, pick me up at seven sharp."

lararaj: manon caught in 4k all over her new gf😭 lararaj: attachment: 1 image

manonbannerman: funny. manonbannerman: she js won a game, that's it.

meganskiendiel: so u decide to bombard that poor girl??

manonbannerman: she should be grateful that i'm even giving her attention

zhouxinyu: yn after fumbling a bad bitch who, MIND YOU, came to her game wearing the team colors

ln-yn: why am i always catching strays now??? i did NOT fumble her wtf

hongseunghan: the videos say smth different 😂😂

ln-yn: ur catching this fade at 12am dont play w me ln-yn: u too jisung.

choijisung: I DIDNT EVEN SAY ANYTHING??

you thought you absolutely hated how demanding she was—so why were you outside her house, in your father's pristine lexus, half an hour early—with a bouquet of flowers clutched in your arms, too?

ln-yn: im here wya

and you were already a fool, for thinking that manon didn't have her clique over at her house, helping her get ready, and apparently 'sending her off,' in their words. you lean against the passenger side of the car, hands now tucked in your pockets. the golden streaks of the setting sun highlights the faint awkward smile on your face, as you shift around.

while you waited, manon and her clique were sprawled out in manon's walk-in closet, grabbing hangers after hangers. the ghanaian girl sat down on the ottoman, as lara and megan went through the options for an outfit.

"you don't have to try this hard to impress her," megan says without looking away from the piles of clothes laid out on manon's bed. "i'm sure she wouldn't mind just a plain top."

lara interjects, "except manz' practically in love with yn." she moves towards manon from her spot, nudging the other girl with her elbow. manon sends a glare in the indian girl's direction, as she exhales, dropping her head into her lap.

"not—i am not in love with yn, and i never will be," she asserts, making sure to enunciate her words, as she watches the two other girls throw dresses into the maybe pile.

"i could've sworn you fell asleep on call with her," the chinese girl chimes in, holding up a sequined top. "what made you buy this?" her face contorts into a grimace, dropping the top into the no pile.

"you fell asleep on call with yn, and you didn't bother to tell me?" lara gasps as if scandalized. she begins to croon, tilting her head in the ghanaian girl's direction, "you've got it bad, manon."

manon rubs her temples, scoffing, "she- we just needed to talk about the technicalities for this arrangement, and somewhere in between, she just kept talking on and on about the upcoming superman movie." she sighs dramatically, acting as if she wasn't the same one who tried everything in her power to keep her eyes open that night—as if she wasn't the one who pretended to not care about the movie.

the two other girls roll their eyes, giving the ghanaian girl a knowing look. though, they continue to pull out clothes from her closet, while manon begrudgingly tries on each clothing piece she was given. the moment she settles on a black, v-line halter top, both megan and lara fall silent.

lara and megan interject:

"that is definitely the one."

"she won't know what hit her!"

manon rolls her eyes, laughter bubbling in her chest, as she checks her phone, noticing the notifications sent from you. "she's here," she mutters, as she hastily 'fixes' herself, looking at herself through the mirror.

ln-yn: bro wya dont stand me up rn💔

manonbannerman: ive told you to stop calling me bro before manonbannerman: ill let u in rq im not done getting ready yet

the moment the girls open the front door, your breath catches at the sight of manon leaning against the wall. with a playful shove from megan, manon slightly stumbles, walking towards you. you wave briefly at the two other girls before straightening and meeting the ghanaian girl's gaze.

instead of a greeting, however, she mutters, "you don't look half as bad as what i expected." and you raise your eyebrows, an incredulous look washing over your features. before she continues, her gaze settles on the bouquet of flowers clutched in your arms, and a smile appears on her face,

"turns out you aren't just a stupid jock," she teases, but there's no bite behind her words, like there should be.

you roll your eyes, letting manon take the bouquet into her hands, and her unoccupied hand curls around your wrist, before you accept her hand—your hand interlocked with hers. her friends briefly say bye to manon, whispering something to her, which causes a grimace on the ghanaian girl's face. you wave at them too, watching them leave the driveway, only for them to circle back, and shout:

"she thinks slow dancing is cheesy but likes it anyway!"

the scorching heat practically eats you up limb by limb, as you lean against the the edge of the ghanaian girl's bed, checking your watch every few seconds. for somebody as well-off as manon, you expected that her air conditioner wasn't busted in the middle of a heatwave. you watch her come in and out of the bathroom attached to the room, each time complaining about something you could barely notice a change in.

she finally seems pleased with herself, as she leans over the mirror, touching up on her make-up, and spritzing her neck and wrists with perfume. "are you just gonna stand there and stare?" manon scoffs, giving you a twirl.

you mutter a curse under your breath inaudibly. as you walk towards manon, leaning against the dresser, you swear there's the faintest smirk on her face.

you quickly shove down the spiral threatening to start, and in response, you roll your eyes, crossing your arms against your chest, "you didn't even let me get a word out when i arrived. what do you expect? you spent all this time getting ready!" you look at her with faux disdain, but she reads right through you, grinning.

"well i'm sorry that i need to make sure i look good for this party," she nudges you, grabbing her purse from her bed, "and you will be introducing me to your friends."

"you are, by far, the most high-maintenance person i've ever met," you retaliate, grabbing your car keys from your pocket.

"you like it."

the sun was high in the sky, casting streaks over the bodies of people, and the sounds of waves crashing is disrupted by the blaring music from inside the beach house. you saunter in, your hand hooked with manon's.

the ghanaian girl could practically feel the worry emanating off of you, a grin on her lips. she turns around to face you, hands curling around your wrists to tuck them around her waist. "you haven't even told me how good i look tonight," she coaxes, looking up at you through her heavy-lidded eyes.

you swallow, and your chest tightens. "the top really suits you."

she's barely able to hold back a giggle, a wide smile replacing that previous stupid, stupid grin, and she nudges your shoulder. "that's all? you could do better, couldn't you?" the ghanaian girl lets her manicured nails trail down your arm.

"now you just want attention," you retort, and you watch her lips annoyingly curl,

"as if i didn't want it before."

the opening notes of somethin' stupid by frank sinatra fill the beach house. around you, couples swaying against each-other, and for a brief second, you hesitate.

but then, the ghanaian girl's hands find your waist, gentle and sure, pulling you in just enough for your lips to be mere inches away. your arms snake around her shoulder like second nature, fingertips brushing against the nape of her neck.

you swallow hard, trying to let yourself sink into this moment.

"do you want me to actually show you how to do this—so you don't hurt yourself and possibly others?" manon whispers against your ear, letting out a soft chuckle, as she watches you struggle to keep up with her footwork.

you nod, "good call."

she pulls you in closer, one hand intertwined with yours, the other resting on your side. you suck in a breath from her touch, trying to blink away the sudden warmth spreading at your chest. you shouldn't be doing this, not here, and certainly not with manon.

you try to ignore everything, focusing on the ghanaian girl's steps to distract yourself from the way your pulse betrays you. her lips curl into a smile, her eyes watching your eyebrows crease together as you try to immerse yourself. your gaze wander back to her face, and you notice something undeniably fond washing across her face.

your heartbeat goes haywire, and you pray that the other girl doesn't feel the way it practically pounds out your chest.

a second passes. then another.

you clear your throat, "you look crazy beautiful tonight—not that you always don't."

"i know," manon muses, humming in agreement. you snort, shoving her shoulder playfully. she rolls her eyes, but her grin doesn't waver—it only becomes wider. she lets her hands trail lazily over your torso, "i wanted to match you."

you halt your movements, brow raising, and heartbeat picking up rapidly. "you did?"

"it's our first party together, excluding the galas," she nods, leaning in just a little, breath warm against your ear. "and besides, i couldn't let a loser like you out-dress me." you wanted to believe she was serious, that there was actual venom laced in her tone, but there isn't—instead something akin to affection is there, and your knees almost go weak.

fortunately for you, though, frank sinatra stops playing, and it transitions back into electronic-dance music.

and instead of staying glued to one-another, manon had flitted away from your side the first moment she got, disappearing into the throng of the rich and wealthy. so now here you were, stuck getting high-fives from your teammates for 'scoring' a girl as gorgeous as manon. each time, your lips part in an attempt to mutter out 'she's not my girlfriend,' only to push down that thought.

the odor of beer and lavish cologne waffle through the beach house, as you walk through the crowd, trying not to trip over the students drinking on any possible surface. though, you give up the moment you see the ghanaian girl up against the wall, red solo-cup in her hand, as she watched her friends' hollow-headed boyfriends play beer pong.

you sigh, teeth biting the rim of your cup. "you're prancing around with your new girlfriend now?" you turn your head to the side, and you're met by xinyu. you roll your eyes, and you shove the chinese girl.

"i'm just saying! i've never seen you… this invested in someone like manon," she argues with a whine, rubbing her shoulder dramatically. you glance at her with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "hell, you even introduced her to seunghan. you never even introduced your last girlfriend to him."

you snicker softly, straightening your back, "she's just different, that's all." you cross your arms against your chest, hoping that your friend would just drop the topic altogether. xinyu shrugs, sighing, before leaning against you.

you sip your drink to push the bitter words down, "she just knows what she wants, and gets it." you pause before continuing, "and you know, there's really no one else's opinion i care more about than hers." there's sincerity laced in your tone, your ears slightly burning at your own admission.

the chinese girl beside you scoffs, and a chuckle slips past her lips. "whatever you say," she whistles, her hand reaching to your collar to flatten it. "you couldn't have at least fixed your collar for this so-called date with her?" she teases.

"fair enough," you relent, and you let your gaze slip to manon, the corners of her lips tugged into an ear-to-ear smile, with her eyes crinkled into crescents. though, you tear your gaze off of the ghanaian girl, now facing xinyu completely.

"if she's changed, then she's changed," the chinese girl mutters, and then she sighs, "maybe you're right. just be careful. promise me that you won't let her step all over you." you roll your eyes, but your pinky-finger still intertwines itself with xinyu's, pinky-promising her.

amidst the crowd though stood a jaw-clenched, eyes-narrowed manon sending glares to the back of your head. she tries and tries to distract herself from the image of you and another girl, but her gaze almost always wanders back to you. she swirls her drink in her hand miserably, watching her friends and their boyfriends play pool horrendously.

she couldn't hear what either you or xinyu were saying over the blaring music, but she curses herself for noticing the genuine smile on your lips and the laugh the chinese girl elicits from you. she shouldn't feel this way—not when she thought you were a nuisance to her life, something to keep her reputation at bay.

every time she talked to you, she felt a sense of annoyance radiating off of herself, yet she found herself tolerating you. everything you did was harmless payback—the snide remarks you made, to the relentless flirting, meant to keep manon on her toes. you drove her utterly insane—yet sometimes, she notices the way the warmth in her chest spreads just a little whenever you try to get on her nerves.

she shouldn't feel like this. this shouldn't feel real.

"what's got your panties in a bunch, manon?" one of her friends tease, and then another whines, "help us finish these shots, won't you?"

"it's just one shot! what damage could that do?" another grins, clicking their glass against her drink cup. she rolls her eyes, and her grip on the cup becomes overbearing. she crushes the plastic cup, her drink spilling onto the ground.

manon shakes her head, muttering through gritted teeth "maybe next time." she turns her heel, and makes way upstairs, which was certainly off-limits to party guests, but she nonetheless enters.

you're still leaned against the wall, nodding your head at whatever xinyu was rambling on about, only for her to interrupt herself and jerk her head. "your girlfriend's headin' up, you should check on her." you whip your head in her direction, eyes narrowing, as you trace manon's figure through the dim lighting; the ghanaian girl's lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyebrows etched together.

"definitely," you mutter, waving the chinese girl good-bye hurriedly, and immediately rushing through the crowd. you barely manage to dodge a stray elbow in the sea of bodies. you finally catch up to manon on the second floor, in some vacant throwaway room's balcony. her back was turned against the door, and you pause in your movements.

then, you speak up, "glad i found where the rejects were." you lean against the door, and it wasn't difficult for manon to deduce it was you. a slight pout juts her lips, as she turns her head in your direction. she doesn't expect you to apologize for your words, but you do anyway, a quiet 'sorry' escaping from your lips.

"what's up with you tonight?" you murmur, as you slowly walk towards the other girl who settled on leaning against the balcony's railing. "not that you aren't always moody, but you're literally brooding right now." her gaze flickers to meet yours, her eyes slightly hooded and narrow, before you playfully raise your hands to gesture surrender.

"i'm just saying. you seemed happy earlier to be here, like when you were teaching me how to waltz." you explain.

she doesn't muster up the strength to say anything, barely sparing you a glance. your hand instinctively reaches for hers, and it felt like muscle memory, holding her hand whenever you two were in public, to pretend to be the perfect couple—except this time, you held her hand like you meant it. your thumb brushes over her knuckles repeatedly, and she tenses slightly.

silence.

you use the beat of silence to your advantage, completely fixating your gaze on her, and your eyes catch the way her shoulders were slump, the natural confidence she exuded now gone, and her jaw clenched. you sigh, staring out into dusk eating away at the light streaks that were previously in the sky, and the trees leaves rustling. you were about to give up on her, until she leans against your body unconsciously, lips quirked into a slight smile, before she quickly suppresses it.

"you know you can't ignore me forever, right? sooner or later, you have to talk to me. we both know you couldn't bear the pain of not talking to me." a gentle smile replaces the previous shit-eating grin on your lips. usually, that would elicit a playful shove and a venom-laced quip from manon, but tonight she only stills in her movements, refusing to answer.

she relents, though, and her hand that you were once drawing patterns on, reaches for your hand. your gaze darts to your guys' intertwined hands, and it was shameful how easy it was for the ghanaian girl to make heat tint your cheeks. her eyebrows flatten from a crease, and her nose scrunches.

you wished that it wasn't so easy for manon to make you break, to make you putty in her hands. the warmth in your chest spreads just a little, and you shift slightly. get a grip on yourself. you hated her stupidly perfect side-profile, the way her lips part just before she drags her nails down your hand.

your breath hitches, and she notices.

everything fades into the background; the world spins around you and manon. her gaze droops down to your lips for a fleeting moment. and then she realizes, you've always looked at her—waiting, watching, as if you needed the right time to come by. her hand rests on top of yours, wanting to reach for you even more. then it trails up to your shoulder, and she properly faces you now.

"why are you looking at me like that?" manon suddenly speaks up, voice quivering. you freeze, your gaze still on her lips. your fingers tug her closer almost instinctively. though, your hands were loose enough for her to slip away, but she doesn't. why won't she?

"like what?"

"like you tolerate me, like you actually like me." she answers.

"what, i can't find you tolerable all of the sudden?" you try to play it off, a faux grin on your lips, as you try to ease the tension.

"you know what i mean."

you want to bite back, to downplay it, but it was no use. it was futile, considering that the ghanaian girl could practically bend you to her every beck and call. you swallow, and you meet her gaze.

then your heart twists.

"so what if i do look at you like that?"

"don't say that," manon immediately cuts in, her voice barely a whisper. "you— we can't. this isn't real." she gestures the space between you two, eyebrows knitted together. her hands reach up to your chest, pushing you away. your fingers curl into fists. and you swallow, hard. you're unable to mutter anything out, hands now stuck at your side.

your face falls, and manon couldn't bring herself to look at you. but she continues, her words meant to sting—meant to intentionally hurt you, meant to force you to walk away. "this wasn't meant to escalate into anything real; this was an accident, yn." her voice trembles, and she tries to believe her own words; but everything is like a punch to the gut for the both of you.

her skin burns at your gaze, and her breathing gets heavy. you stare at her, lips pressed into a thin-line, and your lips part in an attempt to argue. you want to tell her it's not like that, at least for you, because up until now, everything felt real to you, the lines blurring. it was real, and it was sharp, and it was cruel—the way manon filled every hollow space in your heart.

"why?" you search her eyes, and finally do hers meet with yours. it was a look—fleeting and bruised.

the ghanaian girl's throat runs dry, and it gets harder to pretend. she knows, deep in her bones, that you're right. then one of her hands trail down to your waist, almost as if she was attempting to memorize every inch of you. you take it as a cue to speak.

"i didn't want to care about the girl who recorded me throwing up in freshman year. but i did—i do," you swallow, "and now, i'm here, in this fake relationship with you. and somewhere in between the playful fights and pretending to be actual girlfriends in front of people, i realized i wasn't faking it."

manon feels the guilt in her chest, like she was being squeezed from inside out. the thoughts in her head discombobulate, and she wants to tell you to stop talking, and to forget all about it.

she doesn't say anything, and your stomach twists into knots. her arm moves on its own, and it slings around your neck, her thumb lingering on your cheek for far too long.

"i'm in love with you," she finally whispers, and she exhales. the two of you fall quiet again. and her body moves autonomously, her hand twitching before tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

then, you lean in towards her, voice breathy, "can i?"

she doesn't respond immediately, staring at you like you were delicate, afraid that one haste, frantic touch from her would break you. you swallow, waiting for her response, and before you could apologize—

she leans in, too—her lips on yours frantically.

it happens fast.

her hair tickles the side of your face, and your body shivers. your nose bumps against hers, while her hand entangles itself in your hair, somehow pulling you even closer. your arms instinctively snake around manon's waist, keeping her stabilized. you pull away slightly to regain your breath, only for her to pull you back in for a kiss fervently.

your hand slightly fists into her dress, and you know that if you two weren't already kissing, she'd scold you for 'ruining' her dress. she nips lightly at your lower lip, and you could taste the bitter sensation of spiked punch on her lips. you exhale sharply, and you both finally pull away—both breathless and flushed.

"that wasn't bad at all," a smile ghosts over manon's lips, as her thumb wipes off the lipgloss residue from the corner of your lips.

you shove her playfully, "not bad? how flattering to hear." you bite back, your hands moving to flatten out manon's dress after you bunched it up.

"for someone who's so sloppy at dancing a waltz," she chuckles softly, her eyes still lingering in your lips. her hands find your shoulders, resting on them. "and for someone who messed up my dress."

you roll your eyes, leaning in once more, and you kiss her again—this time, slower, drawing it out, like you wanted to memorize how she felt against you, to reassure yourself that this was all real.

"you were right, and i'm sorry for being too stubborn to even notice that i care about you, a lot," she murmurs against your lips, the soft look in her eyes making your heart flutter and your knees buckle slightly. her voice slightly falters, and a small, broken laugh escapes her lips.

"i thought this was a silly phase," the ghanaian girl admits, "the calling you up in the middle of the night thing, listening to you ramble about superman, and- and actually enjoying your presence, even when you're just, so dead-set on pushing my buttons every second."

she exhales, taking your hand into hers, and a smile ghosts her lips. then, she presses a kiss against your jaw, and at that point, you think you would be more than content to die in her arms right now.

"you push my buttons even more," you manage to mutter out, and your voice cracks. "and even then, you're everything i've ever wanted." your hand trembles against hers, and you try to discern her expression. her thumb draws circles on your knuckles, as a way to calm you down—the same way you did before.

her lips curl into a smile, and she cranks her head down to plant a kiss onto one of your knuckles. "so are you gonna ask the million-dollar question?" she drawls out, that familiar smug lilt present.

you sigh exasperatedly, rolling your eyes. but you clear your voice, "will you, meret manon bannerman, be my girlfriend?" your heart almost pounds out of your chest at your own words.

manon nods teasingly, eyes crinkling into crescent moons, "only if you agree to be my personal chauffeur." you nudge her shoulder, scoffing in response.

"fine."

one simple word, and she was already all over you.

lararaj: manon wya lararaj: hello??

meganskiendiel: do u think she bagged yn

lararaj: perchance perchance…

meganskiendiel: a girl could only hope… and pray

manonbannerman: so why do u guys have absolutely no hope in me❓❓

lararaj: i said perchance not a solid no!!!

zhouxinyu: bro yn done ditched me at a party last night

hongseunghan: thats #friendshipgoals💝

choijisung: hg ditched u for her gf LMFAOAO

ln-yn: BRO xinyu told me to follow manon WDYM ditched❓

day i met you babe, freed me from my fear,

you put the blood back to my heart.

current 𝓽aglist : ( open. ♱ 2 be added, read this post. )

@kisshae @sed7ction @beomniiz @yeetaberry127 @vrtualstar @jellaaa @jaythegirlkisser @falling-intoo-deep @c-yerim @bulgik @gtfoiydlyj @rinapomu @meganskiendielsbtc

#to read #(🥥) — reblogs #(📸) — amber's recs

791 notes · View notes

htmlseye · 6 days ago

Text

With Hostile Intent [18+]

✧ genre/au: manon bannerman x reader [she/her]. spy thriller au. enemies-to-lovers. handler x field agent tension. slowburn → eventual smut. dom!manon. rough sex. oral (r!receiving). fingering. pinning & grinding. orgasm control, denial, overstim. praise & degradation. unresolved feelings, possessive undertones. [MDNI 18+]

✧ word count: 15k+

𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙𖦹

summary: you’re her handler—too mouthy, too rule-bound, too intent on keeping her in line. she’s katseye’s most volatile operative, and the last person you want in your orbit. but when the mission collapses and you’re forced into close quarters, hate turns combustible. sharp words give way to sharper touches, and suddenly the line between control and surrender is one you can’t stop crossing.

this is a work of fiction — the people and events depicted are not real.

You barely have time to process the blur of motion before your back hits the wall. The impact knocks a grunt out of you, and a framed map on the adjacent concrete vibrates from the force. Pain blossoms across your shoulders, but you clamp your jaw to bite it back. Manon’s forearm presses against your collarbone, pinning you in place. Her face is close—too close—amber eyes blazing with a fury that sets your nerves on edge.

“You compromised the mission,” Manon spits, each word a razor-sharp accusation. A curl of her dark hair has come loose, hanging wild across her forehead. You glare up at her, adrenaline still surging from the night’s chaos.

It’s a dim back corridor of the safe house, concrete walls still echoing with the aftermath of shouted orders. Distantly, you’re aware of the others in the main room, their voices muffled through the heavy door. But right here, right now, it’s just you and Manon and the thunder of your heart in your ears.

“I saved your life,” you snap back, forcing your voice to stay level despite the way your pulse is skittering. You plant your palms against her chest in a show of resistance, but her stance doesn’t budge. The solid weight of her pinning you is unyielding, the heat of her body seeping through the thin fabric of your tactical suit.

Manon’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t need saving.” Her tone is ice-cold, but her breath is hot on your cheek. “What I needed was for you to follow the plan. My plan.”

You narrow your eyes. Anger flares, overriding the sliver of instinct that tells you being trapped like this should scare you. “Your plan was going to get you killed,” you hiss. “Going dark and storming in alone? We lost all visual on you—”

“I had it under control,” she growls. Her forearm presses a fraction harder, and you catch yourself sucking in a breath. Not from fear, you tell yourself, but from frustration at her bullheaded arrogance. “Interfering was not your call to make, Handler.”

She practically spits your title like it’s an insult. In the dim light, her eyes burn with challenge, daring you to contradict her. Fine. Two can play that game.

“No, it was my call to make,” you retort. “The second things went south, extraction became the priority. Or would you rather be a corpse in there along with everyone else?”

Her lip curls in disdain. “I had the target in my sights. Another second, and I would have secured him.”

“Another second,” you echo bitterly, “and Anton Marković’s men would have secured you in a body bag.” The words hang between you, heavy and acrid. You can feel the thunder of Manon’s heartbeat where your palms still press against her, matching the tempo of your own racing pulse. She must notice it too, because abruptly, she releases you and steps back.

The sudden loss of contact leaves you cold against the wall. You exhale shakily, rolling your shoulders now that her weight is gone. Manon runs a hand over her face, composing herself, but fury still radiates off her taut frame.

In the silence that follows, you straighten and smooth the front of your tactical vest with trembling fingers. You hate that they’re trembling, that she noticed—they always notice—but you square your chin.

“This isn’t the first time, Manon,” you say quietly but firmly. “You can’t keep ignoring protocols. I’m your handler. We’re supposed to trust each other.”

Manon lets out a sharp bark of laughter at that, devoid of any humor. “Trust?” She paces away a few steps, then spins on her heel to face you again. “How can I trust someone who doesn’t trust me to do my job? Every chance you get, you’re in my ear, second-guessing, pulling me out the moment things heat up.”

Your own anger, held in check by training until now, finally boils over. “Maybe if you actually listened to me once in a while, I wouldn’t have to! Damn it, you went completely radio silent in there. We had no idea if you were alive or dead. The whole team was on edge.”

“I work better alone,” she snaps. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Funny,” you shoot back, acid in your tone, “because from where I stood, you looked about two seconds from being overrun until I called in the extraction.”

Manon’s eyes flash, and for a heartbeat you think she might slam you into the wall again or do something equally dramatic. Your pulse spikes at the possibility—a confusing mix of apprehension and an adrenaline-fueled heat coiling in your stomach at the memory of just how closely she’d pressed against you. But she doesn’t touch you again. Instead, she takes a long breath through her nose, visibly forcing restraint on herself.

When she speaks, her voice is low and tightly controlled. “You cost me the target. Marković was right there. Months of intel, all the careful work to corner him, gone because you panicked.”

You bristle. “I didn’t panic. I made a judgment call—one that our team leader agreed with.” You tilt your head toward the door. “Or do you think Sophia’s an idiot too for green-lighting the abort?”

At the mention of Sophia, Manon’s glare falters just a fraction. The tension in the air shifts as a new voice, calm but firm, cuts through the thick silence.

“That’s enough, both of you,” comes Sophia’s voice from the doorway. You glance over to see Sophia standing with arms crossed, her expression stern. Behind her, the glow of the safe house’s command center throws long shadows. “We have bigger issues right now.”

You swallow and push off the wall, smoothing your ruffled demeanor. Manon just scowls and looks away, jaw clenched. Even now, she holds herself like a coiled spring, barely restrained.

Sophia steps forward, positioning herself between you two with the authority that made her team leader. Her dark eyes flick between you and Manon. “I know you’re both upset. But our mission isn’t over.”

You take a steadying breath, nodding to Sophia. Manon’s silence is pointed, but at least she’s listening.

Sophia continues, her tone measured. “Marković slipped away, yes, but we recovered partial intel. Daniela and Yoonchae are working on the drives you retrieved,” she says, giving you an acknowledging nod. Right—the flash drives. You had almost forgotten in the haze of anger; while Manon had been in the thick of it, you managed to extract some data from Marković’s network when things started to fall apart.

Manon crosses her arms over her chest, clearly still seething but now focused on Sophia’s words. “If he’s gone, the trail goes cold. We’ve lost our chance at the biometric device.”

“Not necessarily,” Sophia counters. “That data you pulled, Y/N”—she nods at you again, and you straighten at the unexpected note of appreciation in her voice—“includes Marković’s recent communications. We’ve got a lead.”

“What lead?” you ask, your voice still a bit unsteady. You hope no one heard the quaver. Manon’s little stunt has left you more rattled than you’d like to admit.

Sophia glances over her shoulder, then steps fully into the corridor, closing the door behind her for privacy. “Marković was planning to auction the biometric device to some very bad people. We intercepted an address and date in the comm logs.” She meets both your gazes. “A high-society gala in Belgrade, two nights from now.”

“Belgrade... Serbia?” you repeat, shifting mental gears. That’s a long way from here, and not a lot of time. “What kind of gala?”

Lara’s voice calls from the other side of the door, muffled but audible. “It’s a charity ball at the old royal palace, supposedly,” she pipes up; she must have been listening in. Lara pushes the door open and leans into the frame, tablet in hand. Her red lips twist into a wry grin as she adds, “Very fancy. Diplomatic guest list and everything. Perfect place to hide something illicit in plain sight.”

Manon snorts softly. “Let me guess—Marković plans to sell the device to the highest bidder under the guise of this gala.”

Sophia nods. “Precisely. We believe he or his courier will be there with the device, likely disguised or hidden among other items. We’ll have to infiltrate to secure it, quietly. No grand shootouts unless absolutely necessary.”

At that, Manon shoots you a sidelong look, a shadow of her earlier anger still in her eyes. You know she’s thinking about how you aborted her “grand shootout” tonight. You bite the inside of your cheek to stay silent.

Sophia steps forward, folding her arms. “This mission is critical. That device gets into the wrong hands, and every high-security installation in the world could become vulnerable. We cannot let that happen.”

Despite the tension, the importance of the mission sobers you. Lives could be at stake with this biometric gadget on the black market. Whatever personal grievances are simmering between you, duty must come first.

“I’m sending Manon, and I’m sending you as her handler on-site,” Sophia says, her tone allowing no argument.

Both you and Manon speak at the same time—“What?”—with very different inflections. Yours is surprised; Manon’s is sharp, displeased.

Sophia holds up a hand before either of you can launch into protest. “Manon, you’re our best operative for a job like this—high stakes, undercover work, quick extraction. And you,” she turns to you, “are the one who knows the most about the intel we have, since you pulled it. You’ll be needed to identify the device and possibly hack any encryption on it, plus coordinate the operation in real time.”

“I can handle it alone,” Manon insists, chin lifting stubbornly. “Send Megan or Lara on comms if you need an extra set of eyes, but I don’t need—”

“This isn’t up for debate,” Sophia interrupts, a rare edge in her voice. You see Manon flinch, just barely. Sophia rarely pulls rank harshly, but when she does, even Manon listens. “You two will work together. And you will sort out whatever this… issue is between you before wheels up. Clear?”

You swallow your automatic protest. Working in the field directly alongside Manon is not how you envisioned this going; your job description usually involves staying behind the scenes, eyes on monitors. You’re not a field agent—more of an analyst and coordinator. But in fairness, you have done fieldwork a handful of times, and Belgrade high society might require some social engineering that you’re well suited for.

Manon’s nostrils flare. “Understood,” she says tightly, though her tone suggests she’s anything but happy.

Sophia’s posture softens just a touch, satisfied that neither of you is going to outright rebel in front of her. “Good. Wheels up at 0600. That gives us tonight and tomorrow to prep. Daniela has already started forging identities. Lara will brief you both on the cover story and local contacts once you’re en route. Megan is prepping the tech you might need.” She pauses, then adds, “And I suggest you both get some rest. You’ll need to be at the top of your game.”

She looks pointedly at you, and then at Manon, making sure the order to stand down and cool off is understood. Sophia then turns, beckoning Lara to follow and discuss logistics elsewhere, leaving you and Manon briefly alone again in the hallway.

The silence stretches, awkward and heavy with unresolved tension. You rub the back of your neck, where you can still feel the ghost of the wall’s impact. You ought to say something—maybe attempt to clear the air before this mission forces you to function as a team. But the words don’t come.

Manon finally breaks the silence, voice low. “Stay out of my way in Belgrade,” she mutters. It’s not as vicious as before, more tired than angry now, but still not exactly conciliatory.

A flicker of irritation sparks in you, but you damp it down. Fighting more won’t help. “Fine,” you reply, equally quiet. “As long as you keep me in the loop. Going radio silent can’t happen, Manon. Not again.” You can’t keep the note of concern entirely out of your voice. “We got lucky tonight.”

She looks at you, and for once her eyes aren’t blazing with temper. They’re unreadable—brown in the dim light, shadowed with something like frustration… or perhaps guilt? It’s gone too fast to tell, and she gives a curt nod.

Without another word, Manon turns on her heel and strides off, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the corridor. You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Your heart is still pounding. From the argument, you tell yourself, and the adrenaline dump of the failed mission. Not from how it felt to have Manon so close, furious and fierce... and alive, mercifully alive, after you had feared for her in those tense minutes of radio silence.

You push off the wall, forcing your legs to move despite the hollowness of adrenaline crash in them. You have work to do—prep for Belgrade, debrief the intel with the others. And in a few short hours, you’ll be on a plane with Manon, heading straight into another high-stakes operation where you’ll have to trust each other implicitly.

Enemies-to-partners, just like that. You let out a humorless little laugh as you head toward the command room. This is going to be a long couple of days.

—

The team wastes no time. By first light, you’re on a private flight east, hurtling through the sky toward Serbia. The jet’s cabin is quiet save for the dull roar of engines underfoot.

You sit with a tablet in hand, reviewing the forged identities and the gala’s floor plan that Megan transmitted an hour ago. Across the aisle, Manon stares out the window at the clouds, arms folded, earphones plugged in. She’s been like that for most of the flight—silent, distant, simmering. Fine by you. After last night’s confrontation, you both could use the respite.

Still, the silence between you isn’t exactly comfortable. Several times you catch yourself stealing glances at her profile against the early morning sunlight. Her expression is unreadable, headphones likely blasting music as she avoids dealing with you. You tell yourself it’s better this way; small talk would probably just devolve into sniping. So you focus on your work, trying not to dwell on the tension coiling in your stomach.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time the jet touches down in Belgrade. The city greets you with a dry summer heat and the tang of distant car exhaust. Together, you and Manon slip through customs under the guise of wealthy foreign guests arriving for the gala. Your cover story: Manon is a Swiss tech entrepreneur with a penchant for exclusive events, and you’re her personal assistant. It explains why you’re attached at the hip without implying anything too intimate—a relief, you suppose, though posing as her employee isn’t exactly thrilling for your ego.

A car awaits outside the Airport, arranged by Lara through a local contact. The ride to the hotel is a blur of traffic and sunbaked concrete. You murmur a few directions to the Serbian driver in the local language, which earns you an impressed look from Manon. You pretend not to notice her surprise—did she assume you only knew how to bark orders in English? You’ve done your homework; a few useful Serbian phrases roll off your tongue as you confirm the route. It’s a small victory to see her eyebrows lift, just a little.

When you arrive at the Hotel Imperial (an opulent high-rise overlooking the Danube River), the afternoon light has begun to mellow. A doorman in a crisp uniform helps with your minimal luggage. As you step into the grand lobby—marble floors and glittering chandeliers—Manon leans in and murmurs, “You sure we’re not overdoing it? This place is a bit... high profile.”

You keep a polite smile plastered on your face for the benefit of the staff, whispering back, “High profile is exactly what our cover needs. Wealth and status. Marković’s people will expect big spenders.” Louder, you add for the concierge’s sake, “Ms. Bonnet prefers the penthouse suite, if available. We have a reservation under Bonnet.”

The check-in is smooth, thanks to Lara’s meticulous arrangements. In minutes, you’re stepping into the elevator, the keycard for the penthouse in your hand. The moment the doors close and you’re alone, Manon exhales, rolling her shoulders. “So, personal assistant?” she drawls, a hint of dry wit slipping through her guarded tone. “I hope that doesn’t mean you plan on following me around carrying my purse.”

You give her a sidelong glare. “It means I get to boss you around in public, actually. Assistants do that, right? Manage schedules, nag about appointments...”

A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. “Don’t push it.”

It’s the closest thing to a joke you two have shared in... well, ever. It leaves you slightly off-balance, but not unpleasantly so. You clutch the keycard and clear your throat, eyes forward as the elevator dings and opens directly into the suite.

The penthouse is stunning: a marble foyer leading into a spacious lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows presenting a breathtaking view of Belgrade’s old city and the distant blue ribbon of the Danube. Beyond the sitting area, two bedroom doors stand on opposite sides of the suite. You immediately notice one door is ajar, revealing a plush king-size bed and modern decor in cream and gold. The other door presumably leads to a second bedroom of similar size.

“Two bedrooms,” Manon notes aloud, striding in and dropping her small suitcase by the sofa. “Thank God.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What, were you expecting a single bed?”

She shrugs out of her light travel jacket. “With our luck, who knows?”

You both know exactly what she means: it would’ve been just your luck for the hotel to mess up and leave you in a one-bed situation. Thank heavens for small mercies, you think wryly.

Manon wanders toward the nearest bedroom (the one whose door was ajar) and peeks inside, then nods to herself. “This one’s fine.”

“Right. I’ll take the other, then,” you say as cordially as you can manage. It’s not that you expected her to want to share—hell, you’d probably both sooner sleep on hot coals—but her immediate relief still needles you for some reason.

Shaking it off, you head into your own room and set down your bag. It’s gorgeous, of course: a king bed of your own, a balcony overlooking the river, a bathroom fit for royalty. But instead of appreciating it, you find yourself standing at the connecting door between your room and Manon’s, hand hovering over the knob. It’s unlocked—painted white to blend with the suite’s walls. You could open it, just a crack, to say... what? Goodnight? Don’t bother me?

You grimace and drop your hand. The last thing you want is to invite more awkward interactions. With a sigh, you back away and start unpacking your gear, laying out the necessities for tonight’s reconnaissance.

The next several hours pass in a blur of preparation. The gala isn’t until tomorrow night, which means tonight is for gathering intel and getting the lay of the land. You and Manon maintain a cordial, if cool, professionalism as you work. By unspoken agreement, personal issues are shelved in favor of mission planning. After changing into local-appropriate clothing, you set out together for a preliminary scouting.

—

The next evening arrives sooner than expected. You spend the day in preparation—refining the plan with Sophia over encrypted calls, reviewing floor plans and guest lists, and making sure you and Manon can at least appear to be a functional team in public. If the rest of the team notices the careful, stilted politeness between you two, they tactfully say nothing.

By nightfall, you’re dressed to the nines for the charity ball. Your alias is Nicole Moreau, personal assistant to Manon’s cover identity, Marie Bonnet. In the hotel suite, you finish fastening a delicate comms necklace around your throat—a piece of Megan’s handiwork that will let you communicate with the team outside. The pendant contains a tiny microphone and transmitter.

Manon steps out of her bedroom and into the suite’s lounge, and you have to actively stop your jaw from dropping. She wears an evening gown of sleek black satin that clings to her athletic form and somehow manages to look both elegant and dangerous at once. Her dark curls are gathered into a stylish twist, tamed just enough to suggest control yet still leaving a few rebellious tendrils framing her face. The updo exposes the graceful line of her neck and the subtle strength in her posture, while the glint of her comms earrings—another bit of spy tech—catches the light in perfect unison with your necklace. For a moment, the chaos of the mission blurs, because she looks… incredible.

She pauses when she sees you, too. You’re wearing a floor-length gown of deep emerald green that Lara had packed—a dress far more glamorous than anything you’d normally choose for yourself, but perfect for blending in with high society. The appreciation in Manon’s gaze is subtle, but it’s there—a quick up-and-down that makes heat rise to your cheeks.

“You clean up well,” she says gruffly, adjusting one of her satin gloves in a show of nonchalance.

“You too,” you manage, and it almost feels like a truce.

A hired town car drops you at the gates of the old royal palace, which looms grand and floodlit under the night sky. All around, luxury vehicles disgorge well-dressed dignitaries and socialites. You slip your hand into the crook of Manon’s arm, playing the attentive assistant, and she allows it without comment. You remind yourself it’s all an act, ignoring the way your pulse jumps at the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her gown.

Inside, the gala is a blur of cultured laughter, clinking champagne glasses, and the mellow strains of a string quartet echoing off marble floors. Crystal chandeliers bathe the ballroom in a golden glow. You and Manon stick close as you circulate, all smiles and affected snootiness, our comms open to the team outside as they feed you updates.

Over the next hour, you subtly probe for information. You chat with servers and guests alike, letting Manon take the lead in conversations while you play the role of her quiet shadow. All the while, your eyes scan for anything that might hint at the device’s presence.

The intel suggested Marković might have a representative here with the device, ready to show to potential buyers. It could be hidden anywhere—in the seller’s pocket, among other auction items, perhaps even integrated into something innocuous like a piece of art.

“Anything?” you murmur, pretending to adjust Manon’s empty champagne flute as you trade it out for a fresh one from a passing waiter.

Manon sips and scans the room over the rim of her glass. “Nothing obvious,” she whispers back. “What about you?”

You lean in as if conferring over a schedule on your phone. To any observer, you’re just an assistant giving her boss a discreet update. “No sign of Marković or his known associates yet. Megan is running a facial recognition sweep via our button cams, but so far no hits.”

Manon nods almost imperceptibly. To any passerby, it might look like she’s just listening to a nothing conversation about event proceedings. “Keep an eye on the auction items display. He might have tucked it among those,” she says, tone light as if discussing the hors d’oeuvres.

You drift casually toward the side hall where various art pieces and antiques are being showcased for the charity auction. Perhaps among these glittering donations, or perhaps in a back room, is Marković’s biometric device. You scan for anything out of place—guests who seem on edge, a server paying too much attention to certain individuals, known criminal faces from your briefings.

Any of them could also be Marković’s people in plain sight.

“Mmh.” Manon sips, then murmurs back, “By the pillars, three o’clock.”

You follow her gaze while pretending to admire a display of old oil paintings. By one of the ballroom’s marble pillars, a tall man in a white suit stands with a briefcase at his feet. His posture is too stiff, eyes sweeping the room. He’s not talking to anyone, just watching.

“Courier?” you whisper.

“Possibly. He’s guarding that case like the Crown Jewels. Marković’s courier, perhaps.”

“Likely,” you agree. “Our play might be to separate him from that case. Perhaps a spill, or lure him aside...”

Before you can finish the thought, there’s a shift in the atmosphere. One of the palace’s side doors opens and a small entourage enters—a severe-looking bald man flanked by two burly fellows. Anton Marković himself isn’t supposed to be here, you think, heart skipping. But the bald man is familiar from your intel files—one of Marković’s top lieutenants.

“Change of plan,” you breathe, touching Manon’s elbow. “Marko Janković just arrived, with muscle. That likely means the auction is happening soon—in private.”

Manon’s eyes harden. “He must be meeting buyers in a side room.”

You both maneuver closer, careful not to draw attention. Over comms, Megan confirms that local police chatter indicates something might go down soon—guards are on the move.

Before you can coordinate further, Manon notices something that makes her tense. “Our courier in white just handed off the briefcase,” she says under her breath.

You catch sight of it: the man in the white suit passes his briefcase to Janković’s goons, then slips away toward the courtyard. Janković and his men pivot immediately, heading toward a corridor at the far end of the ballroom.

“That must be it,” you hiss. The device is likely in that case now, moving with Janković.

Manon’s jaw sets. “We can’t let them leave with it.”

You’re already moving, one hand pressed to your necklace to signal the others. “Lara, Daniela—backup at the north exit, now. Marković’s men have the package.”

There’s no time to see if they got the message. Manon sweeps up beside you, all pretense of casual grace gone. Together, you shadow the entourage at a distance, weaving through the crowd as unobtrusively as possible. They slip through a doorway and down a quieter hall.

Just as you and Manon reach the hall, a security guard steps into your path, hand up. “Excuse me, that area is off-limits to guests.”

Thinking fast, you plaster on a ditzy smile. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry!” you gush in a thick American accent, pretending to sway on your heels like you’ve had too much to drink. “We were looking for the ladies’ room and got totally lost.”

The guard frowns, noting Manon behind you. She gives him an apologetic half-shrug, playing along. “My assistant has a terrible sense of direction.”

Before the guard can ask more questions, an alarmed shout echoes from down the hall—followed by a crash. Your heart lurches. That sounded like a fight.

The guard immediately turns toward the commotion, speaking into his radio. Seizing the opportunity, Manon moves like lightning. She grabs the guard in a chokehold and drags him back behind a marble column before he can finish calling for backup. You wince as she renders him unconscious, lowering him gently to the floor.

“Come on,” she snaps, already racing down the corridor toward the sounds of struggle. You yank the guard’s radio off his belt to silence it, then hurry after her.

At the corridor’s end, a side door hangs ajar. Inside looks like a study or small library. You dart in behind Manon to a scene of chaos: one of Janković’s goons lies sprawled unconscious against a bookcase. The other is grappling with Lara, of all people, near a toppled display table. Daniela is there too, clutching the briefcase—the device—close to her chest while trying to fend off Janković himself swinging a cane at her.

How did they get here so fast? Bless them, they must have intercepted through a side entrance the moment you gave the signal.

Manon doesn’t waste a heartbeat. She launches herself at Janković. He’s a large man, but she’s a lithe blur of precise violence. Her stiletto heel cracks across his jaw in a high kick that sends him reeling. Daniela scrambles back, still clinging to the case.

Lara, meanwhile, lands a solid punch on the remaining goon’s gut, but he’s a beast, barely staggering. You need to help. You scan the cluttered study and spot a heavy brass lamp on the floor. Snatching it up, you rush the goon from behind and slam it over his head with an apologetic grunt. He drops like a stone. Lara blinks at you, then flashes a quick grin.

Any relief is short-lived. A gunshot explodes, deafening in the enclosed space. You whip around—Janković has pulled a pistol from inside his coat. The bullet punches into the wall inches from Manon as she dives aside, her gown flaring.

“Down!” Manon snarls, grabbing the edge of the fallen table for scant cover. You duck behind a leather armchair as another shot shatters a porcelain bust on a shelf behind you. Splinters rain down.

Your heart is a wild drum in your chest. You fumble at your thigh—hiking up your dress to retrieve the small handgun holstered there. Hands shaking, you pop up enough to take aim at Janković’s shoulder. You fire. He grunts as your shot grazes him, buying Manon the opening she needs.

She springs from cover like a panther. Within seconds she has Janković disarmed, a swift twist sending his pistol skittering across the floor. He throws a punch; she dodges, counters with a vicious elbow to his temple. He goes down hard and doesn’t get back up.

—

The silence that follows is punctuated only by your ragged breathing and the distant thump of music from the ballroom.

Lara straightens, wincing as she rubs her jaw. “Hell of a party,” she jokes weakly.

Daniela clutches the briefcase to her chest, wide-eyed but intact. “I—I’ve got it. The device.”

Manon nods, chest heaving. You notice only now that a crimson streak graces her upper arm—the fabric of her sleeve torn. “You’re hit,” you say, alarmed.

She looks down as if just realizing it, then shakes her head. “It’s nothing. Through and through.” True enough, the bullet seems to have just grazed her bicep.

Voices and pounding footsteps echo from the corridor—no doubt security responding to those gunshots. There’s no time to waste. Manon grabs the briefcase from Daniela, snapping it shut. “Go!” she barks.

Lara takes Daniela by the arm, and the four of you bolt from the study and down a service hall, away from the oncoming guards. Over comms, Megan and Yoonchae are yelling that local police are inbound and you need to exfil now.

The next few minutes are a blur of running through back corridors and employee-only passages as chaos breaks out in the palace behind you. Alarms begin to blare (Megan’s doing, trying to sow confusion). You burst out of a side entrance into the night air just as your getaway car—driven by Sophia—skids around to meet you.

All four of you pile in, breathless and shaking but victorious. As Sophia guns the engine, you clutch the briefcase on your lap. Inside, cushioned in protective foam, is a small innocuous-looking device—like a slim external hard drive with biometric sensors. So much trouble for something so unimpressive in appearance.

But you did it. It’s in your hands.

Manon sits beside you in the backseat, one arm pressed to her bleeding sleeve. When your eyes meet, a shock of shared exhilaration passes between you. For a moment, both of your guard is down. You survived. You succeeded—together.

Then the moment passes. Sirens wail in the distance, and Manon looks away, jaw clenched as she radios Sophia with a terse update. You swallow, unsure how to feel about that fleeting look you saw in her eyes.

Relief? Pride? Maybe even gratitude. But in typical Manon fashion, she says nothing.

The car screeches into the night, leaving the gala and Marković’s men in the dust. You only hope it’s the last you’ll see of them.

Several blocks away, Sophia navigates into a dark alley and cuts the headlights. Everyone catches their breath. Your heart is still pounding from the adrenaline, and beside you Manon shifts, hissing softly as her arm brushes the seat.

Lara turns around from the passenger seat. “We should check wounds and swap vehicles soon. There might be pursuit.”

Daniela, from Sophia’s other side, nods. “I have a safehouse location Yoonchae found, just a few miles from here.”

Your mind is already churning on next steps, but your body is flagging. As Sophia guides the car through back streets, you dare to steal another glance at Manon. She’s staring out the window, face illuminated by passing streetlights. She looks exhausted, and the angle of her shoulders suggests pain, though she’s clearly trying to hide it.

Without a word, you reach over and gently tug at the ripped sleeve of her gown. She stiffens, turning to you in surprise. “Let me see,” you murmur.

Her eyes search yours in the dimness. Maybe it’s the crash after adrenaline, or maybe it’s the trust built under fire tonight, but she relents, allowing you to peel back the fabric. The wound is a stripe of red along her bicep; already the bleeding is slowing, likely superficial.

Still, you tear a strip from the lining of your dress hem and tie it around her arm snugly as a makeshift bandage. Manon watches your face the entire time, saying nothing, but her silence feels... different now. Not icy anger, but something closer to contemplative.

“Thank you,” she says quietly as you finish tying the knot.

You offer a faint, tired smile. “Partners, remember? We take care of each other.”

She looks like she wants to say something more, but Lara’s voice interrupts.

“Looks like we shook any tails. Daniela, where’s that safehouse?”

Daniela leans forward. “East side of the city, Dorćol neighborhood. Flat 3B in a small apartment block. Under one of Lara’s local aliases.”

Sophia changes course accordingly, and within fifteen minutes you’re navigating narrow residential streets until you reach a quiet, unassuming block near the river.

—

Daniela kills the headlights as she navigates the car down a narrow side street. “This is as close as I can get without drawing attention,” she says, bringing the vehicle to a stop behind an old brick apartment building. The surrounding area is quiet, a far cry from the chaos you just left.

Lara turns to you and Manon in the backseat. “Flat 3B, second floor,” she instructs, pressing a single key into your hand. “Under the name Ana Kovačević. It’s stocked and secure.”

Manon is already cracking her door open to scout. The night air is cool against your skin as you slip out after her. The building’s side door is a few steps away. You jog to it, key in hand. The metal door creaks open into a stairwell that smells of dust and old plaster.

Up two flights, and another key opens the door to flat 3B. You flick the lights on low. Yoonchae’s safehouse prep has been thorough—the apartment is sparse but serviceable: a small living area with a threadbare sofa, a kitchenette, and one bedroom with a single bed. It’s clean enough, and more importantly, off-grid.

As soon as you click the door shut and slide the deadbolt, the adrenaline keeping you upright begins to ebb, leaving every bruise and scrape doubly sore. You flick off your heels and stretch aching feet.

Manon immediately moves to one of the front windows, peering through the slats of the closed shutters to surveil the street below, ever cautious. “All quiet,” she reports after a moment, then finally exhales and turns to you. Her eyes fall to the briefcase still clutched in your hand. “We should secure that first.”

“Right.” You locate a battered armoire in the corner of the living area. Inside is a small wall safe—no doubt installed for precisely this type of situation. You quickly dial in the code provided in Yoonchae’s mission dossier and lock the device inside. A soft beep and click confirm it’s sealed behind solid steel. For now, at least, the prize is safe.

That task done, silence falls. Without mission chatter or immediate peril, the room feels very quiet.

Manon eases herself onto the arm of the sofa, shoulders slumping slightly now that no one’s watching but you. The confident operative mask falters; she looks exhausted, and small cuts and smudges of grime on her arms and face make her seem almost fragile. The skirt of her gown is torn near the hem, and a bruise is indeed blooming above her left collarbone where she must have slammed into the car door taking cover. The cut on her forearm has bled through a patch of the black fabric.

You clear your throat gently. “We should take care of those,” you say, gesturing to her arm and any other injuries.

She follows your gaze to the red streak on her forearm and the bruise on her shoulder. “It’s nothing,” she mutters, but the way she gingerly rotates her wrist suggests otherwise.

“Sit,” you instruct, more firmly than you intended.

Amber eyes flick up to yours, surprised by your tone. But she must be too drained to argue. Manon moves from the armrest to sit properly on the sofa.

You find the first aid kit under the sink in the kitchenette, exactly where it should be. It’s well-stocked—bandages, disinfectant, even some military-grade clotting sponges and a suture kit. Grabbing a clean dish towel, you wet it with warm water and carry everything over to the coffee table in front of the couch. Then you kneel on the floor beside Manon.

She’s trying to shrug off her shredded black jacket, but the movement makes her wince. The adrenaline has worn off; pain is setting in.

“Let me,” you say softly.

Her eyes search yours for a second, but she nods and allows you. Gently, you help peel the tailored jacket down her arms. She’s left in the silk camisole that was beneath it. The sight gives you pause: the camisole’s thin strap has slipped off one shoulder, and her skin, usually so flawless, is marred by tonight’s violence—scratches, that darkening bruise, tension evident in the line of her neck. She’s so... human like this, a far cry from the untouchable image she projects.

You drag your gaze back to the task at hand and set the jacket aside. First, her forearm. A clean slice likely from flying glass or shrapnel. It’s not deep, but needs cleaning. You soak a corner of the towel with disinfectant and reach for her arm.

“This might sting,” you warn.

Manon nods, eyes following your hands. As you dab antiseptic onto the wound, she hisses softly through her teeth but doesn’t pull away. You work meticulously, one hand holding her arm steady while the other cleans away dirt and blood. The silence between you is heavy with unspoken things.

“Why are you so... gentle with me?” she asks suddenly, voice low.

The question catches you off guard. Your hand stills for a beat. “Would you prefer I go rough?” you attempt lightly, not quite meeting her eyes.

She doesn’t smile. Her gaze stays on your face, intent and earnest in a way that makes your chest tight. “I mean it. After how I treated you... you’d be justified to let me fend for myself.”

You swallow, focusing on winding a sterile bandage around her arm to buy time to think. Why are you being gentle? Because seeing her hurt twists something in your chest. Because despite everything, you care what happens to her. But you settle on: “We’re partners. This is what partners do—take care of each other.”

Manon looks unconvinced for a moment, as if the concept doesn’t fully compute. But she says nothing, just watches you tie off the bandage neatly.

Next, you retrieve a cold pack from the kit, crack it to activate the chemicals, and hold it up. Her eyes follow the motion to her collarbone bruise. “May I?” you ask softly, ever conscious of her boundaries.

She gives a slight nod, permitting you. You carefully press the cool compress to her skin just above the swell of her breast, where purple and blue hues are spreading. The area is exposed by the low neckline of her gown—a reminder of how vulnerable she had to be tonight in more ways than one. She flinches at the initial cold but then sighs as it numbs the pain.

Instinctively, your free hand comes up to adjust the fallen strap of her camisole, sliding it back up her shoulder to give her some modesty and support the compress. Your fingers graze her skin, and even that small touch sends a subtle jolt through you. You hope she doesn’t notice your slight tremor.

“Thank you,” she murmurs after a beat.

You muster a small, warm smile. “Can’t have our top operative out of commission.”

She actually rolls her eyes at that, but there’s a faint quirk to her lips. “Hardly out of commission,” she says softly.

She holds the compress in place herself now, freeing your hand. Only then do you realize you haven’t addressed your own injuries—a fact Manon picks up on as well. Her eyes drop to your thigh, where a long tear in your dress and a smeared line of blood reveal the gash from earlier.

“You’re hurt,” she states, a frown creasing her brow.

“Just a scratch,” you echo her earlier dismissal, though you can feel the sting now that you’ve slowed down.

But she’s already shifting, the dynamic subtly flipping. “Your turn,” she insists. “Now sit.”

She gestures for you to take her spot on the sofa. You hesitate, but the look she gives you—firm, concerned—leaves no room for argument. Slowly, you perch on the edge of the couch. Manon kneels on the floor before you, where you’d just been for her, and the sight is oddly disarming.

She carefully lifts the skirt of your ruined dress above your mid-thigh to inspect the wound on your outer leg. The slit in the gown, while great for mobility, clearly left you open to debris. The gouge is about two inches long, raw at the edges. Not too deep, fortunately, but messy.

Her jaw tightens at the sight of the blood drying on your skin. Without a word, she sanitizes her hands with a wipe from the kit, then wets a fresh cloth with disinfectant.

You draw a sharp breath as she dabs the antiseptic on the wound. It burns like shit.

“Sorry,” she whispers, glancing up with genuine apology in her eyes.

“It’s alright,” you manage, biting your lip through the sting. But your voice comes out thick. Maybe from the pain, or maybe because seeing Manon like this—tending to you with such devotion—does things to your heart that you’re not prepared to face.

She continues gently cleaning the area, her touch far more delicate than one would expect from a woman who was holding a gun and throwing kicks hours ago. When she’s satisfied, she applies a cooling antibiotic gel and then a bandage, smoothing it in place with warm fingers. Her brows are drawn together in concentration, as if performing surgery rather than first aid.

When she’s done, she lifts her gaze to yours. She’s still kneeling between your knees, face level with yours thanks to your seated position. For a moment, neither of you moves. There’s something deeply intimate about the tableau: the quiet room, the way her hands rest lightly on your thigh just above the bandage, the way you can see individual gold flecks in her brown irises from this closeness.

Manon breaks the gaze first, clearing her throat as she stands abruptly. “You should get some rest. We both should,” she says, busying herself with the first aid kit, snapping lids shut with unnecessary force. It’s obvious the closeness unsettled her, too.

She’s not wrong about resting—you’re both dead on your feet. Yet part of you doesn’t want to leave this tentative new ease between you. You rise from the couch, testing your leg. It’s sore but holds weight.

“You take the bed,” Manon says, nodding toward the single small bedroom. “I’ll keep watch out here.”

Your brow furrows. “We can trade off shifts—”

“I’m fine,” she interjects, tone firm but not unkind. “I don’t plan on sleeping much anyway.”

You hesitate. Part of you wants to insist she rest too, but her posture tells you she needs this—whether it’s a sense of atonement or just burning off the adrenaline by keeping guard. Pressing her now might reignite tension you’d rather leave behind.

“Alright,” you concede softly. “But wake me in a few hours and we’ll swap, deal? You shouldn’t stay up all night alone.”

Manon gives a small nod that might be agreement or just acknowledgement.

You gather your composure and head toward the bedroom. At the door, you pause. It doesn’t feel right to just leave things as they are after all that’s happened. Glancing back, you find she’s settled on the couch, adjusting her position with a wince—her bruised shoulder, likely.

“Manon,” you say quietly.

She looks up, the lamplight catching the side of her face. She raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“About... the mission,” you begin. So many points of conflict to choose from, but you decide to start at the root. “I’m sorry I interfered the way I did, back in the first op with Marković. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I didn’t consider how it undermined you in the field.”

Her eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting an apology. She opens her mouth, but you hold up a hand to stop her.

“Please, let me finish. I owe you this.” You lean against the doorframe for support. “You’re an incredible operative, Manon. Your instincts and abilities... they’re the reason we’re both alive and have that device locked up now. I never doubted your skill, I only—” you exhale shakily “—I was afraid. Of losing the target, yes, but more of losing you. And I didn’t trust that you could handle it without backup, and maybe that was a mistake.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air between you, vulnerable and raw.

Manon slowly rises from the couch. The lamp’s glow lines one side of her face in gold, the other in shadow. “I nearly did lose it,” she says, voice rough. “I might be good, but even I can’t fight a dozen men solo. If you hadn’t called in extraction, I...” She trails off, but you both know how that sentence ends.

She takes a few hesitant steps closer. “I need to apologize too,” she continues, surprising you. “For shutting you out. For... treating you like the enemy instead of my partner. I was so hell-bent on proving I didn’t need anyone’s help that I put the mission—and us—in danger.”

Her hand flexes at her side, as if she’s resisting the urge to reach out. “You were right: we have to trust each other. I haven’t made that easy. I’m sorry.”

Hearing those words from her—the proud, infuriating, fiercely independent Manon—feels like a watershed moment.

You offer a faint, genuine smile. “We both made mistakes. Maybe we can agree to do things differently going forward?”

Her lips curve in a small smile of her own. “No more radio silence, I promise.”

“And I promise no more pulling the plug on your ops unless it’s absolutely critical,” you reply.

She nods. A pact forged.

There’s a palpable relief in the room now, as if a weight has lifted off both of you. The anger and resentment from before have drained away, leaving something softer in its place—something like camaraderie.

Outside, a distant siren wails then fades. You know dawn isn’t far off, and with it will come new plans and challenges. But for this moment, you allow yourselves to simply be two people who saved each other’s lives today.

“You should sleep,” Manon urges again gently after a moment. “I’ll keep watch.”

This time, you don’t push back. The exhaustion is winning and, truthfully, you trust her to guard your six. “If you see or hear anything—”

“You’ll be the first to know,” she assures you, her tone almost fond.

Too drained to even change out of the tattered gown, you retreat to the bedroom. You do remove your jewelry comms and set them on the nightstand, alongside your small pistol within reach. Shrugging off the ruined evening dress, you find a spare t-shirt in the closet that must have been left for you and tug it on. Then you collapse onto the bed, which is thankfully clean and soft enough.

Despite the exhaustion, your mind churns. Not with worry—oddly, you feel strangely secure. Perhaps it’s knowing Manon is on the other side of that door, keeping vigil. You recall how last night you were separated by a crack in a fancy hotel’s connecting door; now you’re separated by this flimsy bedroom door in a dingy flat, but in some ways you feel closer.

You fall asleep to that thought, almost at peace.

When you wake, it’s to the gray light of early dawn seeping through the blinds. You blink, disoriented at first, until the memory of where and why comes back in a rush. You sit up gingerly; your body protests with a chorus of aches.

The apartment beyond the bedroom door is quiet. You pull on a pair of spare sweatpants that were in the dresser (plain black, a bit long but manageable) and pad barefoot to the door. Opening it, you find Manon exactly where you left her—sitting on the couch, back straight, alert with a pistol resting on her thigh. She’s changed out of her ruined gown; now she wears baggy gray pants and a black long-sleeve tee (the safehouse must have had spare clothes for her too). Her hair is down, a cascade of soft curls framing her shoulders, lending a touch of ease to her otherwise vigilant posture.

She turns at the sound of the door opening. “Morning,” she greets softly.

“You didn’t wake me,” you reply, voice still rough with sleep. Judging by the light, you got maybe three or four hours.

Her mouth twitches wryly. “You needed rest. And it was quiet.”

You sigh, walking over. On the coffee table, you see she’s brewed a pot of coffee on the tiny stove; a half-full mug sits beside her. Wordlessly, she reaches to the side and lifts another mug, pouring from a small French press and offering it to you.

The rich, bitter aroma of coffee fills your senses. “Lifesaver,” you murmur, accepting the mug gratefully and sinking into the armchair opposite her. You take a careful sip—strong and a bit scorched, but caffeinated.

A comfortable silence stretches as you both sip, gathering strength for whatever comes next. It’s a peaceful interlude, just the gentle sound of coffee being consumed and the occasional creak of the old building as it settles.

“Have you heard from the others?” you ask after a few minutes.

Manon nods. “Lara texted. They shook any tails and crashed in a different safehouse. They’ll meet us later this morning.”

Relief trickles through you. You had been worried about them. “Good. And Sophia?”

As if on cue, your phone buzzes on the table. A message from Sophia: “Status? Device secure? Awaiting update.”

You exchange a look with Manon. She gives a half-smile. “She’ll want a debrief soon.”

No doubt. Sophia is likely on pins and needles; she had sent you into a mission in conflict with each other and is probably dying to know how (and if) you pulled it off.

You quickly type back: “Device secured. Marković in custody. All team safe. Will report more shortly.”

A reply pings almost immediately: “Excellent work. Stand by for exfil instructions.” You can almost hear the pride and relief beneath Sophia’s typically terse wording.

You set the phone down. “Exfil, huh. I suppose we’ll be on a flight out by tonight if they have their way.”

“Likely,” Manon agrees. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, cradling her mug between both hands. The morning light catches in her curls. Despite the bruise on her jaw and a butterfly bandage on her forearm, she looks content in a quiet, tired way. “Once we hand everything over, we’ll be on to the next crisis.”

She says it wryly, but there’s a touch of something wistful in her tone. You realize that as soon as you return to headquarters, the unique bubble of this mission—of this thing developing between you—will be put to the test by routines and colleagues and a lack of convenient excuses to be around each other.

“Well,” you say lightly, “at least we might get a few days off after the paperwork. You know, to recover.”

Manon snorts. “You think they’ll let us rest? We just proved what a good team we can be. They’ll probably send us out again immediately to chase down some other lead.”

“True,” you laugh softly. “So much for a vacation.”

She tilts her head, eyes warming as they meet yours. “Could be worse. There are worse people to be stuck on back-to-back missions with.”

It’s almost shy, the way she says it. You find yourself smiling into your mug. “I can think of a few.”

A comfortable beat passes. Your gaze drifts to the connecting door between the living area and bedroom—the one you closed last night for privacy. It’s ajar now; perhaps you left it that way when you emerged. It reminds you of the hotel suite door, and of the symbolic chasm that had existed between you and Manon just a day ago.

Things feel… different now.

“Manon,” you begin quietly, drawing her attention. You’re not quite sure what you want to say—maybe something about how well you worked together, maybe something about that split-second when she kissed you and how it’s been fluttering at the back of your mind. But before you can continue, your phone buzzes again.

It’s Megan, this time a voice call. You answer and put it on speaker for Manon to hear as well.

Megan’s cheery voice fills the room. “Morning, lovebirds.”

You nearly choke on your coffee. Manon raises an eyebrow sharply, a faint pink tinging her ears. “Excuse me?” Manon says, half-warning, half-embarrassed.

Megan just giggles. “Relax, I’m kidding—mostly. The comms were still open for a bit last night, you know. We might’ve overheard a tiny bit of your theatrics.”

Oh god. Your eyes widen. Lara and Daniela were likely on that channel too. Manon brings a hand to her face, covering her eyes in mortification.

“But hey,” Megan continues breezily, “no judgments here! In fact, props for quick thinking. It’s all over some guard reports that the alarm was a false alarm triggered by a canoodling couple. You two sold it.” There’s pure amusement in her voice, and maybe a hint of smug I told you so, though you’re not sure what she thinks she predicted.

You find your voice, trying for sternness and failing as your cheeks burn. “Megan. Do you actually have intel, or did you call just to tease?”

“Fine, fine. Business.” Megan’s tone turns a bit more serious, though still light. “Local authorities have Marković and his goons, and the device is being handed to a secure courier at noon for transport back to HQ. Sophia says you’re cleared to rest until pickup at 1800 local. That’s wheels up time for a flight home.”

You nod even though Megan can’t see it. “Got it. We’ll be ready.”

“Sure you will,” she chirps. Then, before signing off, she adds impishly, “Plenty of time to... decompress. Try to behave you two. Or don’t. Up to you.” She hangs up before you can scold her.

You stare at the phone, then glance at Manon. She’s staring at the floor, lips pressed but not in anger—more in visible embarrassment. You can’t help it; a small laugh escapes you.

She looks up, narrowing her eyes though there’s no real heat. “Glad you find it amusing.”

“Well,” you shrug, grinning now, “we did cause quite the scandal. I’m just imagining poor Daniela hearing that in real time. She must have been—”

“Mortified on our behalf,” Manon finishes, but a reluctant smile tugs at her lips too.

A beat later, you’re both laughing softly, the tension dissolving.

When the laughter fades, Manon sets her empty mug aside. “We have a few hours,” she says, almost hesitantly. “You should probably get a bit more rest.”

“You should too,” you counter. She’d stayed up the whole night on watch.

She lifts a shoulder. “Maybe.”

Silence lingers, charged with the awareness of everything Megan’s call resurfaced. Decompress, she’d said. Plenty of time.

Your gaze wanders again to the bedroom door, then back to Manon. Her eyes follow yours, and her posture shifts subtly, like she’s unsure but hopeful about something.

Maybe it’s the aftereffects of adrenaline, or the rare luxury of downtime after a mission, but you feel suddenly bold. “The bed’s big enough,” you offer, careful and nonchalant. “If you wanted to actually sleep for a bit. No point in you being uncomfortable out here.”

Her eyes search your face. “Are you sure? I don’t want to presume—”

You huff a soft laugh. The image of Manon hesitating over manners of all things is oddly sweet. “I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure.”

She nods slowly. “Alright, then.”

Back in the bedroom, you draw the curtains to dim the daylight. The bed isn’t huge—more a full than a queen—but it’s enough.

You both awkwardly hover for a moment. Then Manon gestures, half joking to hide any nerves, “How do you want to do this? Back-to-back like cartoon characters? Pillows down the middle?”

You snort. “Oh please. If I recall, you don’t mind getting up close and personal,” you retort, raising an eyebrow.

To your delight, Manon actually flushes. “That was—”

“Mission critical, I know,” you finish for her. Feeling a surge of confidence, you tug back the covers and slide in, then pat the space beside you. “Come on. I don’t snore, I promise.”

Shaking her head with an amused exhale, Manon gingerly slips in next to you. You both lie on your backs at first, staring at the ceiling. After a minute, you turn on your side toward her. “Manon?”

She turns her head to meet your gaze. “Yes?”

“What Megan said... about us being—um—‘lovebirds.’ You know she was just teasing, right?”

Manon’s throat bobs as she swallows. “Right,” she says. Then, more quietly, “But if she wasn’t entirely wrong... would that be so bad?”

Your heart skips. The vulnerability in her tone is like nothing you’ve heard from her before.

You find her hand under the sheets and thread your fingers through hers. “No,” you admit softly. “It wouldn’t be bad at all.”

She shifts onto her side facing you, propping her head on her free hand. “I... care about you,” she says, carefully, like she’s feeling out the words. “Probably more than I should, given our working relationship.”

Your chest feels full and warm. It’s almost surreal hearing this from the same woman who only a day ago was spitting mad and shoving you against walls. But you’ve seen what lies beneath that anger now. “Funny,” you murmur, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, “I was thinking the same thing about myself.”

Her lips curve, eyes softening. For a long moment, you simply take each other in. Then she squeezes your hand, a playful glint sparking. “For the record, I don’t usually kiss my handlers.”

You laugh, a light, freeing sound. “For the record, I don’t usually let my operatives get that close. Consider yourself special.”

“Oh, I do,” she says, and this time it’s not entirely teasing. There’s genuine affection and wonder there.

You scoot a little closer, drawn to her warmth. She welcomes you, lifting her arm for you to nestle against her shoulder. Careful of her bruise, you rest your head where it won’t hurt her. Her arm comes around you naturally, hand finding the small of your back.

“This okay?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“More than okay,” you reply, snuggling in. You realize how utterly safe you feel in her embrace, a safety that’s not purely physical.

Manon’s fingers draw idle patterns against your back through the thin shirt, lulling you. You lay a hand on her chest, over where you can faintly feel her heart beating as steadily as a metronome. A content silence envelops you both.

Before long, drowsy warmth creeps over you. With her body against yours, the adrenaline truly gone, and the mission accomplished, your eyelids grow heavy.

Just as you’re about to drift off, Manon speaks, her voice a soft murmur in the dark. “No more walls, right?”

You stir, blinking sleepily up at her. A faint smile touches your lips as you give her a gentle squeeze. “No more walls,” you whisper in agreement.

Manon exhales, and you feel the tension in her body finally melt away. She dips her head and presses a tender kiss to your forehead. The gentle brush of her lips sends a pleasant tingle down your spine, stirring something warmer and deeper than simple comfort. Your heart skips, and any remnants of drowsiness evaporate. How could you possibly sleep when she’s holding you like this?

Your eyes open, finding her face inches from yours in the dim light. The amber of her eyes is soft now, almost golden. You realize your fingers are trembling slightly where they rest against her. Not from fear or cold, but from the rush of anticipation building under your skin. Manon’s gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth, and you feel your breath catch.

Slowly, as if drawn by an irresistible force, you both lean in. Her nose grazes yours, and then her lips find yours in a kiss that is achingly gentle at first. It’s nothing like the searing faux-kiss—this one is soft, real, and just for you. A soft sigh escapes you as you melt into it.

She cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair as the kiss deepens. What started tender quickly ignites into something hungry. Her mouth moves against yours with growing fervor, and you part your lips, letting her tongue sweep inside. A quiet moan builds in your throat. Manon swallows it eagerly, her arm tightening around your waist to press you flush against her body.

Heat blooms everywhere you’re touching—chest to chest, hip to hip, her leg sliding between yours. Your senses go into overdrive. The thin fabric separating your skin feels like too much and not nearly enough all at once. When you nip lightly at her lower lip, a low growl vibrates from her throat. In a swift motion, Manon shifts and rolls you onto your back, pinning you gently beneath her.

Your heart flutters at the sudden change in position, a flash of memory of how she slammed you against a wall just hours ago. But this is entirely different—her hands are sure but reverent as they roam your sides, and the weight of her body against yours draws out a whimper of desire, not pain. You arch up instinctively, craving more contact.

Manon pulls back just a breath, giving you both a moment to inhale. Her eyes search yours, pupils dark and wide. “Tell me if I hurt you,” she whispers, voice rough with need. Despite the controlled intensity in her tone, you catch the glint of concern—she hasn’t forgotten your wounds, even now.

“I’m fine,” you promise, sliding your palms up her strong back. Beneath your hands you can feel lean muscle and the rapid thud of her heart. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Something like relief flickers across her face, quickly overtaken by a mischievous heat. “I wasn’t planning to,” she murmurs.

Without further preamble, her hands slip under your borrowed t-shirt, skimming up your torso. Her palms are a little calloused from years of handling weapons, and the slight roughness sends sparks across your skin. She drags the hem upward, and you raise your arms to help her peel the shirt off. The cool air of the room brushes over your newly exposed skin, pebbling your nipples, but the chill doesn’t last long—Manon is already lowering herself to you.

She pauses, hovering above, her gaze drinking in the sight of you bare from the waist up. A fire dances in her eyes. It’s almost enough to make you flush with self-consciousness, but the appreciative curve of her lips turns any insecurity into warm pride.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, and the word wraps around you like a caress.

Then her mouth is on you—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat. You tilt your head back with a gasp as she finds a particularly sensitive spot at the base of your neck and sucks lightly. Heat coils in your belly, spreading lower with each brush of her lips.

Her hand finds your breast, cupping gently before her thumb strokes over your peaked nipple. Pleasure jolts through you; you can’t bite back the quiet moan that slips out. Manon makes a sound of approval. She dips her head and replaces her thumb with her tongue, circling the sensitive flesh before drawing it into her mouth.

“Ah—” Your back bows off the mattress at the wet, warm sensation of her tongue flicking against you. You sink a hand into her curls, the braids she usually wears long undone and spilling around her shoulders. She hums against your skin, sending vibrations right through your core.

She tends to each of your breasts in turn—kissing, licking, nipping just enough to make you gasp—before continuing her journey downward. Each press of her lips, each graze of teeth along your ribs and belly, stokes the flames inside you higher. When her mouth reaches the waistband of your soft tactical pants, she pauses and glances up, checking in. The sight of her between your breasts and navel, lips swollen from kisses, is enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

You nod hastily, lifting your hips in invitation. A faint smirk tugs at her mouth—somewhere in there, the smug, confident Manon still lurks—but it’s tempered by the tenderness in her eyes. Hooking her fingers into your waistband, she eases the pants and your underwear down in one go, tossing them aside.

The cool air hits your heated center, and you shiver—partly from the temperature, mostly from anticipation. You’re completely naked beneath her now, and the realization sends a thrill through you. Manon’s gaze trails down your body, unabashedly admiring. When her eyes settle between your thighs, you see her jaw tighten, restraint hanging by a thread.

Slowly, she pushes your knees apart, making room for herself. You let her position you, utterly willing to be guided. Her hands slide beneath your thighs, lifting and draping your legs over her shoulders. The new angle leaves you feeling exposed and vulnerable in the most exquisite way. A strangled whine escapes you as you feel her breath ghost over the slick heat at your core.

“Please…” The word falls from your lips before you can stop it—soft, desperate.

Manon doesn’t tease you any further. With one last look—hungry and adoring all at once—she lowers her mouth to you.

The first intimate stroke of her tongue against your folds nearly jolts you off the bed. Your hand flies to your mouth as you cry out, muffling the sound out of habit. The sensation is overwhelming: a hot, wet glide that sends ripples of pleasure radiating up through your belly.

Manon lets out a low groan as she tastes you, the vibration against your most sensitive spot making you whimper. Gripping your thighs, she holds you firmly in place and licks deeper, her tongue delving between your folds to find your clit with unerring precision. She circles it slowly at first, a languid, torturous swirl that has your toes curling.

“Oh—” you gasp, forgetting any impulse to stay quiet. One hand clutches at the sheets, the other still tangled in her hair. It’s all you can do to hold on as she builds you up with agonizing skill.

She alternates between broad, soft laps of her tongue and focused flicks that make your hips buck against her hold. Every now and then, she gently closes her lips around the swollen bundle of nerves and suckles, and your vision sparks white at the edges. The room fills with your shallow breathing and her contented hums as she devours you like you’re the sweetest thing she’s ever tasted.

Your head thrashes against the pillow, unable to keep still under the onslaught of sensation. “Manon—oh God—” you gasp out. Your fingers tighten in her hair, eliciting a pleased growl from her that sends another rush of heat straight to your core.

Without warning, she slides one hand inward and eases a finger into you. You gasp at the intrusion, your body clenching eagerly around her. She pumps it slowly, curling just right to stroke a spot inside that makes you see stars. Soon, she adds a second finger, stretching you deliciously as her mouth continues its relentless work. The combined stimulation has you hurtling toward the edge far faster than you thought possible.

You can feel it—a hot coil winding tighter and tighter in your belly. Your thighs tremble around her head. Sensing your impending climax, Manon doubles down, pumping her fingers faster and pressing her tongue firmly against your clit in rhythmic strokes that push you right to the brink.

All at once, the coil snaps. Pleasure crashes over you in a sudden, powerful wave. You cry out her name—a broken, incoherent sound—as your body arches off the bed. Manon doesn’t let up; she rides you through it, fingers and tongue guiding you through spasm after spasm of ecstasy until you’re utterly spent and boneless beneath her.

Gradually, the tremors subside. You collapse back onto the mattress, chest heaving and skin damp with sweat. Gently, Manon withdraws her fingers, pressing a final soft kiss to your trembling inner thigh. The gesture is soothing, almost reverent, and it makes your heart twist in your chest.

She crawls back up your body, leaving a trail of featherlight kisses along your stomach and between your breasts. When she reaches your lips, she claims them in a slow, deep kiss that leaves you breathless. The taste of yourself still lingers on her tongue, but it only makes the moment more intimate as you pour all your gratitude and affection into that kiss.

Manon leans back a fraction to catch her breath, her face hovering just above yours. You can’t help the smile that breaks over your lips. She looks thoroughly pleased—and more than a little dazed.

Your own head is spinning. In the span of a minute, she’s unraveled you completely. And now, as you gaze up at her, sated and glowing, you realize you’ve never seen her look at you quite like this. There’s pride in her eyes at making you fall apart, yes, but also a kind of wonder, like she can’t believe what just happened either.

“Hi,” you whisper, a touch shy now that the wave has broken.

A soft laugh puffs from her. “Hi.”

You lift a hand and gently trace the outline of her jaw, then her kiss-swollen lower lip. She turns her head to press a kiss to your fingertips as they pass by. The simple intimacy of the gesture swells your heart.

Before either of you can speak, you become keenly aware of the damp heat radiating from her where her thigh rests between yours. She’s still wearing her panties (somehow your frantic undressing only got your clothes off), and you can feel the evidence of her arousal through the thin fabric. She must be aching with need.

Reenergized by that knowledge, you shift beneath her, guiding her to roll onto her side so you can face her properly. She looks momentarily confused—until you reach down and skim your hand along her hip and under the elastic of her underwear. Your fingers brush slickness and she inhales sharply, eyes fluttering.

“Y/N, you don’t—” she starts to protest, voice hitching as your fingertips tease her.

You silence her with a kiss, slow and reassuring. “I want to,” you murmur against her lips, using your rarely-spoken given name to remind her this is personal, beyond duty. “Let me take care of you.”

Any resistance melts as you pepper soft kisses along her jaw and gently urge her onto her back. Kneeling beside her, you tug her panties down her long legs and toss them aside, then coax her thighs apart. The sight of Manon spread out and glistening with desire steals your breath anew. You trail your fingers through her folds, gathering her wetness and earning a beautiful, shuddering sigh from her lips.

You start slowly, learning what makes her gasp and sigh. Drawing lazy circles around her clit, you marvel at how she responds to your touch—hips twitching, head tilting back, a soft please slipping from her lips that shoots straight to your heart.

Determined to give as good as you got, you lean down and replace your fingers with your tongue, just as she had done for you. The taste of her is intoxicating—musky and sweet and entirely Manon. Her hand flies to your hair, not pushing or pulling, just holding on as if to ground herself.

Encouraged, you lap at her, flicking her sensitive nub with your tongue before sucking gently. She chokes out a moan, thighs trembling around your head. “Oh—mon Dieu—” The French curse slips out, and you smile against her, redoubling your efforts.

When you slide a finger inside her, she arches off the bed with a cry. She’s so tight and hot and ready, it makes you dizzy. You pump slowly, curling just so, adding a second finger when she rocks down to meet your hand. Her heels dig into the mattress, her breaths coming in ragged pants.

“C-close,” she manages, voice breaking. “I’m—ah—”

You hum in response and seal your lips around her clit, giving a gentle suck even as you thrust your fingers a little faster. That’s all it takes. Manon’s entire body goes taut, a strangled cry tearing from her throat as she comes undone. You feel the powerful pulses of her climax around your fingers and marvel that you’re the one making her feel this way.

Gently, you ease her through it—softening your licks, slowing your fingers until she’s quivering with aftershocks and pushing weakly at your head in oversensitivity.

You withdraw and press soothing kisses to her inner thighs as she catches her breath. When you move to lie beside her, she immediately pulls you into a fervent kiss. The way she tangles her tongue with yours, tasting herself on you with a hungry little groan, ignites a warm glow in your chest.

Soon enough, fatigue creeps over both of you. Manon gathers you against her, and you rest your head on her shoulder as you had before, legs intertwining beneath the covers. You’ve never felt so deliciously spent.

She strokes a hand lazily through your hair. “Try to get some sleep this time,” she teases drowsily.

You chuckle softly. “No promises.” But with the satiated heaviness in your limbs, you suspect sleep will come easily.

Wrapped in each other, sated and secure, it doesn’t take long for sleep to claim you both at last. A deep peace settles over you as your eyes finally close, her steady heartbeat lulling you into slumber.

In the living room, the bedroom door remains wide open. Neither of you even thinks to close it again.

—

Several hours later, just before noon, you and Manon rendezvous with local authorities and Interpol agents at a secure location downtown. Handing off the biometric device is more bittersweet than you anticipated—it represented so much struggle and growth for you both—but ultimately, it’s a relief to place it in official custody. Marković, bruised and surly, is seen being loaded onto a transport; he shoots you both a venomous glare, which neither of you even bother to acknowledge.

Sophia’s video call during the formal handover is full of rare praise: “Flawless work,” she declares, eyes shining with pride and perhaps a touch of amusement as she adds, “The debrief will be interesting reading. I’ve already skimmed Lara’s report... inventive use of distraction, Agent.” You and Manon both maintain professional poker faces, though you sense Manon’s hand twitch at her side, resisting the urge to rub the back of her neck in embarrassment.

By late afternoon, after tying off every last bureaucratic loose end, you and Manon return to flat 3B to collect your personal items. The others are downstairs, packing the car for the drive to the airfield. They tactfully left you and Manon to have a moment alone, likely thanks to some orchestrating by Lara (who had smirked at you two knowingly more than once).

The flat is bathed in golden late-afternoon light as you step inside one last time. Manon closes the door behind you, the faint click echoing in the now empty safehouse.

The adrenaline and urgency of the day have given way to a calm tiredness. All that’s left is to head home.

You wander into the bedroom to retrieve the few belongings you left. On the nightstand, the comm necklace from the gala still lies coiled. You pick it up, running your thumb over the pendant. It’s strange to think that was only a night and a half ago—it feels like weeks. So much has changed since then.

In the reflection of the vanity mirror, you see Manon appear in the doorway behind you. She leans against the frame, arms relaxed at her sides. She’s out of her tactical clothes and back in civvies for the travel: black jeans, a fitted olive tee, hair tied in a loose ponytail. The bandage on her arm and the faint yellowing of the bruise on her collarbone are the only remaining signs of the mission’s violence.

“Strange to think that was just last night,” you say, holding up the necklace.

Manon steps into the room, coming up behind you. In the mirror, her eyes meet yours. “Feels like a lifetime ago,” she agrees softly.

Her gaze drifts from the necklace to your face reflected in the glass. With gentle hands, she reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so tender, so un-Manon-like and yet now so her with you, that it makes your heart ache pleasantly.

You turn to face her fully, the necklace dangling from your fingers. Manon’s hands find your waist automatically, pulling you an inch closer. You go willingly.

“So,” you murmur, resting your palms on her chest, feeling the steady thump of her heart beneath. “No more radio silence on missions, hm?”

Manon’s lips twitch. “No more,” she promises.

“No more going rogue without telling me.”

She inclines her head. “No more.”

You pretend to consider. “No more slamming each other into walls?”

That gets a low chuckle from her. “Unless requested,” she teases.

You laugh, skin flushing at the memory that once would have only angered you but now… well, context is everything. “We’ll table that discussion,” you reply breezily, grinning.

Her expression softens as she brings one hand up to cup your cheek, her thumb grazing your skin. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

“For what?” You tilt your head, leaning into her touch.

“For... seeing me. For giving me a chance when I hadn’t exactly earned it.” Her eyes flicker with vulnerability and sincerity. “I know I’m not the easiest person to work with. Or be... close to. But you—” She swallows. “You make me want to be better. To do better. And not just because it’s my job. Because it’s... you.”

Your chest tightens, a swell of emotion threatening to overflow. Trust Manon to break your heart and mend it in one breath. You slide your arms around her neck. “I could say the same about you,” you whisper. “You push me to be sharper, braver. I’ve never felt more capable than when we finally got our act together and trusted each other.”

A smile touches her mouth, and her forehead dips to rest against yours. “We do make a hell of a team, don’t we?”

“That we do,” you agree, nudging her nose with yours.

Outside in the hallway, you hear faint footsteps—probably Daniela bringing up the car. Neither of you moves. In here, time has its own rhythm.

Manon’s hand leaves your cheek to slip down and entwine fingers with yours at your side. “You know,” she says, a mischievous lilt creeping in, “Sophia will probably think partnering us was a stroke of genius now. She’ll keep throwing us together on missions.”

“Mhm,” you hum, pretending disinterest while your heart gives a pleased flutter at the idea. “I suppose we’ll have to find ways to endure each other constantly.”

“Oh, I have a few ideas,” she quips softly, arching a brow.

You feign innocence. “Do any of them involve closets?”

Her laugh is warm, and she steals a quick kiss—just a soft brush of lips that still sends a thrill through you. “Perhaps. Or perhaps we’ll upgrade to actual bedrooms, now that we’re past the enemies part of enemies-to-lovers.”

The phrase hangs in the air between you both for a second—lovers. It feels weighty and new, but neither of you flinches from it.

“Is that what we are?” you ask quietly, searching her face. It’s not a fair question; you haven’t had time to define anything. But you want to hear what she thinks.

Manon’s eyes soften. She answers simply, “It’s what I’d like us to be.”

There’s no dramatic swell of music, no dire life-or-death moment forcing confessions. There’s just the two of you, tired and happy, choosing each other in the calm light of day.

You feel a smile break free. “Then it’s what we are.”

Somewhere below, a horn honks twice—the universal signal from teammates that “time’s up, lovebirds.” You both grin, reluctant but ready.

“Time to go home,” you say.

Manon releases a faux-dramatic sigh. “Back to reality.”

“Where, I might add, we’ll have to be a bit more... discreet,” you muse, thinking of office gossip.

She smirks, grabbing your go-bag from the bed and slinging it over her shoulder along with her own. “Don’t worry, Handler. I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

“Is that so?” You walk with her toward the flat’s front door, fingers loosely intertwined.

Just before you exit, Manon pauses. She looks back at the slightly ajar bedroom door—the one she left open after your nap. Stepping away from you for a moment, she reaches for the connecting door… and gently closes it. It clicks shut, and she turns the lock.

You open your mouth in confusion, but she turns to you with a soft smile. “Won’t be needing that open anymore,” she explains. “I don’t plan on sleeping apart much in the future, if I can help it.”

Oh. Oh. Your cheeks warm as you process her straightforward declaration. A giddy happiness bubbles up.

Before you can respond, she’s back at your side. Manon gives you a playful nudge. “Come on. Let’s not keep them waiting or Lara will fill out our debrief with something truly embarrassing.”

You laugh, and together you slip out of the flat, hand in hand. Manon locks the door behind you and pockets the key.

As you head down the stairs, she threads her arm around your waist in a casual, familiar way. You lean into her. It feels natural—like this is how it’s meant to be.

At the building’s entrance, daylight spills in bright and warm. You stop just inside the threshold and tug Manon to a halt for a final moment of privacy.

She raises an eyebrow, questioning.

Instead of answering, you reach out and gently unlatch the front door—leaving it open. Sunlight floods your feet.

“No more closed doors,” you say, half to her, half to yourself.

Understanding lights in her eyes. She takes your meaning instantly, of course. With a tender smile, Manon steps with you over the threshold, out into the sunlight.

“None,” she agrees.

And with that, you both move forward into whatever awaits, side by side—no walls, no doors, nothing between you but a hard-won trust and a bond set ablaze in the fires of adversity. Together, you’re ready for whatever comes next.

—

Two nights after returning home, you finally have real privacy with Manon—and the moment the front door of your apartment clicks shut, all pretense of restraint evaporates.

You barely have time to turn the deadbolt before Manon is on you. In a flash, she presses you back against the door, pinning your wrists above your head against the wood. Her body crowds into yours, and a familiar thrill shoots through you at the controlled strength in her grip. So this is what “unless requested” gets you, you think hazily, heart racing in anticipation.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” Manon growls, wasting no time. Her lips crash against yours in a bruising kiss, all the pent-up longing of the past days pouring out at once. It’s messy and desperate and perfect. You answer in kind, kissing her back with equal fervor. The moan that vibrates from her chest as you tug at her lower lip sends heat pooling between your thighs.

In the short time since Belgrade, you’d been model professionals around the others—stealing only subtle touches and secret smiles at headquarters, always having to stop before things went too far. Now there’s nothing to stop you. Behind closed doors, with no one to witness or interrupt, desire hits both of you like a storm.

Manon’s hands leave your wrists to roam greedily down your sides, and you immediately tangle your fingers in her jacket, pushing it off her shoulders. She shrugs it away and kicks it aside, already devouring the curve of your neck with open-mouthed kisses that make you gasp. Her teeth scrape lightly over your pulse point, and a sharp ache of need spears through you.

Your head thumps back against the door as her thigh wedges between your legs, pressing up against your core through your sweats. The friction draws a helpless cry from you. It’s almost embarrassing how wet you already are, but Manon seems to like it—she lets out a low, delighted chuckle against your skin.

“Missed this,” she mutters, voice thick with arousal. Her hand slips under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skimming up over your quivering belly and higher, finding your breast. You arch into her touch with a whimper. When her thumb flicks over your sensitive nipple, pleasure jolts through you like a live wire.

“Manon—” you plead, not even sure what you’re begging for. More, harder, faster—anything, everything.

“Je sais, chérie,” she breathes against your ear. I know, darling. The endearment in French sends a shiver down your spine. “I’ve got you.”

With one swift tug, she yanks your leggings and underwear down your hips. They fall to your ankles, effectively trapping your legs together, but you hardly care—all your focus is on the hand that Manon trails back up your thigh. Her fingers slide through your slick folds and you both groan at the contact.

“You’re so ready for me,” she purrs, nipping at your earlobe. There’s a smug satisfaction in her tone, but also a tremor of need. She circles your clit slowly with two fingers, and your hips jerk, a strangled moan tearing from your throat.

Satisfied that you’re wet enough, Manon eases one long finger into you without warning. Your cry echoes off the door; you grasp at her shoulders for support as she sets a relentless pace, pumping into you and curling just right. The heel of her palm grinds against your clit with each thrust, doubling the intensity.

It’s fast—almost feral—how quickly she works you toward the edge. The pressure builds low in your belly, nearly overwhelming after days of drawn-out anticipation. Manon captures your lips again, swallowing your gasps as she drives you higher and higher.

When she slides a second finger inside, stretching you, your entire body tightens. The pleasure is so acute you could cry. You break the kiss, head slumping back against the door, and gulp in air. “I-I’m—”

“Let go,” Manon urges roughly. Her free hand comes up to lace her fingers with yours above your head, anchoring you. “I’ve got you. Let go, mon coeur.”

Something in her raw voice—passionate, protective—pushes you over the brink. With a shattered moan, you come undone around her hand. Your walls clench hard on her fingers as waves of bliss crash through you, and she keeps thrusting steadily, drawing out every last second of your release.

Stars dance behind your eyelids. If not for Manon’s body holding you up, you’re sure you would have collapsed. Finally, the pulsations subside and you sag against the door, trembling and boneless. Manon gently withdraws her hand, and you whimper at the loss of her warmth inside you.

Before you can slump to the floor, she scoops you up into her arms. With a breathless laugh, you wrap your legs around her waist and loop your arms around her neck. Manon carries you away from the door, her strength barely wavering, and navigates through the dark to your bedroom.

She lays you down on the bed with care. The world is still spinning, your body buzzing from your climax, but you manage a grin as Manon climbs on top of you. You tug her down into a slow, heated kiss, tasting the salt of your own sweat on her lips. There’s an unspoken promise exchanged in that kiss—a promise that the night is far from over.

Manon pulls back just enough to brush a damp strand of hair from your cheek. Her eyes shine with devotion and hunger in equal measure. “I hope you weren’t planning on sleeping anytime soon,” she says, voice low and full of wicked intent.

A pleasant ache simmers in your limbs, but you feel a fresh wave of excitement at her words. You draw her hand to your lips and press a kiss to her still-glimmering fingers, the ones that just sent you spiraling. “Not a chance,” you whisper, gaze locked with hers. A joyful, desirous smile tugs at your mouth. “We have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

Manon answers your smile with one of her own—warm, loving, and just a little predatory. “Then we’d better get started,” she murmurs.

Laughter bubbles up in your throat, but it’s cut short as she captures your lips again and guides your hand between her legs, clearly intent on evening the score. You gladly follow her lead, your hearts pounding in tandem as the night stretches on in a blur of shared heat and whispered promises.

By the time dawn light begins peeking through the window, there are no more walls, no more doors—nothing at all separating the two of you. Only tangled sheets, entwined limbs, and the steady beat of two hearts finally, truly, in sync.

#(🥥) — reblogs #(📸) — amber's recs

423 notes · View notes