Viv lay on her side, eyes open against the darkness of the bedroom. The warmth of Daphne's body lingered against her skin, the ghost of their intimacy still pressing heavy in her chest. Daphne slept soundly, her curls spilling over the pillow like wild ink. The room smelled faintly of sweat, lavender, and the sharp, clean scent of Daphne's skin.

But Viv could not sleep.

Her body remained still, but her mind betrayed her, spiraling back—dragging her to a memory she could never quite shake. A year ago. The moment everything had shifted.

The first time.

It had been Ireland, cold and rain-slick, with the sea wind gnawing at her bones. She had told herself it was her last mission. Do this one cleanly, and you can walk away. No more troubles, no more orders. Retirement had sounded like salvation.

But the operation hadn't gone cleanly.

The girls were hidden in an abandoned farmhouse, trembling shadows in the dim light. Viv had moved with her usual efficiency, guiding them out one by one, coaxing, carrying when needed. The last child—a tiny thing with tangled blonde hair—refused to let go of a small, bedraggled black kitten.

"Sweetheart, leave it," Viv whispered, crouching low. Her hands were already slick with dirt and blood from cutting through bindings. "We don't have time."

The girl's lip trembled, her arms tightening around the creature. "He's scared. Like me."

Viv's throat tightened. Against her better judgment, she scooped the child into one arm and the kitten into the other. "Fine. But you have to run when I tell you."

They had nearly made it to the extraction point when one of the kidnappers caught up. The crack of boots in mud. The growl of a voice behind her.

Viv shoved the child forward. "Run!"

The girl bolted toward the headlights of the van waiting in the distance. Viv turned back, body low, blade drawn. The fight was brutal, graceless—mud, fists, blood. She felt the knife slash across her side, fire ripping through her ribs. Somewhere in the chaos, the kitten wriggled free, vanishing into the dark.

Her knees buckled. Vision dimmed. So this is how the last mission ends—sloppy, pointless.

Then—gunfire split the air. The man staggered, dropping. And through the blur, Daphne appeared.

Viv remembered the shock of seeing her there. Tall, sharp, steady hands on the weapon, but her eyes—green and frantic—locked onto Viv.

"Vivienne! Stay with me."

Her name, spoken like a lifeline.

Viv collapsed. She remembered the mud, the metallic taste of her own blood. And then something soft brushing her cheek. A rough little tongue. The kitten had returned, tiny body pressed to her face as if willing her to stay awake.

Duke, Viv thought hazily. Though he had no name then.

And then—darkness.

Three days later, she had woken to the sterile white of a hospital room. Tubes in her arm. A dull ache across her side.

And Daphne.

She was slumped in a chair by the bed, curls messy, her sharp jaw shadowed with exhaustion. She had been watching her, Viv realized—watching, waiting, guarding.

When Daphne noticed her stir, she sat upright instantly. "Viv." Relief cracked her voice. "You scared the shit out of me."

Viv tried to speak, but only a croak came out. Daphne was already pouring water, pressing it gently to her lips. Her hands were steady, but Viv could see the storm beneath them.

"You don't... you don't get to do that," Daphne whispered, quieter now, almost as if she were speaking to herself. "Not to me."

Viv didn't answer. She only watched the way Daphne's fingers lingered against her wrist longer than necessary.

It was then she knew. Knew what Daphne had buried under years of camaraderie, training, banter. The truth of it shimmered raw between them.

And Viv—coward, soldier, survivor—chose silence.

Two months passed. Viv recovered. She filed her paperwork, made her intentions clear: she was retiring. Most of the higher-ups had not protested. She had served long, well. If anyone deserved peace, it was her.

That afternoon, Daphne had cornered her with a mischievous grin. "Come out tonight."

Viv arched a brow. "No."

"Yes." Daphne folded her arms. "Don't argue. You owe me. I've spent weeks watching you sulk in your flat, cooking pastries and pretending you don't exist."

Viv sighed. "Where?"

"Magic Mike."

Viv gave her a look so dry it could have scorched stone. "...You're joking."

But hours later, she found herself pressed into the chaos of neon lights and music, Daphne laughing beside her. She had drunk too much, been dragged into a whirl of noise and glitter and absurdity, but she hadn't hated it. Not with Daphne's laughter threading through the night like a rope pulling her out of the dark.

Afterward, Daphne had asked her to stay.

Viv had noticed the flicker in her gaze—the invitation dressed as casual suggestion. "Just... crash at mine. You're tipsy. No point going home."

Viv agreed. She should have known better.

Later, when she tried to slip into the guest room, Daphne had blocked her path, feigning drunken sway. "No, no, no. Sleep with me."

"Daphne," Viv said, amusement tugging at her lips.

"Please."

Viv sighed. She caved. Of course she caved.

They lay side by side. Daphne restless, fidgeting, her shoulder brushing Viv's arm. Viv felt the tension coil between them, heavy, unsaid.

She knew what Daphne wanted. And she knew she was cruel for letting it stretch on like this.

Finally, Viv turned her head. "You're a terrible actress."

Daphne blinked. "What?"

"You're not drunk."

Daphne's mouth parted, caught off guard.

Viv's hand slid across the sheets, found Daphne's, and guided it—slowly, deliberately—onto her thigh. Her voice was quiet, low. "I understand what you do for me. What you've always done." Her eyes searched Daphne's. "And I don't take it lightly."

Daphne froze, breath caught.

Viv pushed further, lifting Daphne's hand higher, until her dress hitched. She leaned close, whispering against her ear, "So stop pretending. You don't need to."

The pretense shattered. Daphne surged forward, mouth on hers, desperate, unrestrained. And Viv let her. For once, she let herself want.

Later, when silence fell heavy and breath slowed, Daphne curled against her, head on her stomach, drifting to sleep.

Viv lay awake, fingers sifting through dark curls, staring at the ceiling. Her chest ached.

She waited until Daphne's breathing evened out before slipping free. Quiet steps. The cool night outside.

By the time she reached the airport, ticket in hand for New Zealand, her resolve had wavered. You wanted peace. This is the plan. Disappear. Start over.

But Daphne's face wouldn't leave her. The sound of her laugh. The way her body had trembled, not from desire but from fear of rejection.

Viv stared at the boarding pass until her knuckles whitened. And then she tore it in half.

The next morning, Daphne woke with panic in her chest, the bed cold beside her. She rushed downstairs—only to stop dead.

The kitchen was a mess of flour and butter. Viv stood at the counter, apron dusted white, croissants lined neatly on a tray.

She glanced up, deadpan. "You're awake."

Daphne's eyes flooded with relief so sharp it hurt. "You—"

Viv shrugged, holding out a plate. "Sit. Eat. I didn't burn them."

Something in Daphne's laugh broke, reshaped into something softer. And in that moment, without either of them needing to say it, something had begun.

Viv blinked back to the present, lying in the dark. Daphne still slept beside her, arm draped across her waist.

The memory was heavy and tender both.

Viv brushed a stray curl from Daphne's face. She would never admit it aloud, not yet. But that night—flour-dusted, uncertain, quietly defiant—had been the beginning of everything.

The night Daphne had stopped being just her partner. And they started to be together.