The hotel lobby is quiet when we arrive, late enough that most guests have retired. We move toward the elevator in silence, neither of us acknowledging the tension crackling between us. I touch her lower back as we step into theelevator car, and this time she turns to face me, her expression unreadable.
"That was productive," she says quietly, but there's something beneath the professional assessment, something raw and uncertain. Her body stays angled toward me despite the tension.
"We got the confirmation we needed," I agree, my voice rougher than it should be. "Koval verified the kidnapping timeline and confirmed the leak at Interpol."
The elevator doors close. We're alone in the confined space, and suddenly the distance between us feels unbearable. She's standing close enough that I catch her scent, close enough that I notice the way her pulse jumps at her throat.
"And the invitation to Marrakesh," she adds, her awareness of my touch evident in the way she holds herself. "That's significant intelligence. Meeting the Conductor could give us everything we need to take down the entire network."
"It could also get us killed," I counter, stepping closer. The movement is instinctive, driven by the need that's been building since last night. "Walking into Iron Choir leadership without backup or extraction protocols is tactically unsound."
"We've operated in worse conditions." Her chin lifts, defensive and challenging. "This is what deep cover operatives do. We take risks that look insane from the outside because the intelligence is worth it."
"You're not deep cover anymore." The words come out harder than I intend. "You're an asset under my protection, and I'm not walking you into a situation where I can't guarantee your safety."
Her eyes flash. "I don't need you to guarantee my safety. I've survived years in the Iron Choir's organization without Cerberus protection. I can handle Marrakesh."
"You've survived by luck and skill," I say, my hand tightening against her back. "But luck runs out, Marissa. And I'm not willing to bet your life on whether the Conductor is genuinely interested or setting a trap."
Her eyes flash, and she pushes against my chest. "This isn't your decision to make. You vouched for me with Cerberus. You don't get to decide which operations I participate in."
The elevator chimes, doors opening onto our floor. We step into the corridor, tension crackling between us. I keep my hand at her back as we move toward our rooms, and she doesn't pull away even as anger tightens her shoulders and jaw.
At her door, she turns to face me, and the space between us feels charged with everything we're not saying. The mission. The risks. What happened last night. Everything compressed into the handful of inches separating us.
"You don't get to protect me from the consequences of my choices," she says, her voice low and intense. "I chose to go undercover. I chose to gather that intelligence. I chose to trust you with it. And I'm choosing to go to Marrakesh because meeting the Conductor is worth the risk."
"You're choosing to walk into danger because you think you have something to prove." My hand comes up to her jaw, tilting her face toward mine. "You think that if you expose the Cardinal and take down the Iron Choir, it'll make up for the years you spent pretending to be one of them. But it won't, Marissa. It won't erase what you had to do to maintain cover."
"You don't know what I think." Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer even as anger tightens her features. "You spent one night with me, and suddenly you think you understand my motivations and my guilt and my need for redemption."
"I understand that you're terrified," I say quietly, my thumb tracing her jawline. "Terrified that Nocturne is all that's left. Terrified that the woman you were before Prague is gone.Terrified that letting someone in means they'll see how broken you think you are."
The words hit their mark. I see it in the way her breath catches, the way her grip on my shirt tightens. We're standing too close, breathing the same air, anger and want and fear tangling together until I can't distinguish one from another.
"I'm not broken," she whispers, but her voice wavers.
"No," I agree, leaning closer. "You're not. But you're scared. And instead of dealing with that fear, you're throwing yourself into the next dangerous operation because that's easier than facing what happened last night."
"What happened last night was a mistake." Her grip on my shirt tightens even as she says it.
"Liar." The single word carries weight. "What happened last night was real. You surrendered completely, trusted me to keep you safe, and that terrifies you more than any Iron Choir operation ever could."
"You terrify me," she admits, the confession scraping past her defenses. "The way you look at me. The way you touch me. The way I can't seem to maintain any distance when you're near. I've spent years controlling every variable, and you make me want to let go. That's dangerous, Archer. That's the kind of distraction that gets people killed."
"Then we're both fucked." I close the distance between us. "Because you're not an asset to me. You never were."
"That's not tactical." Her voice has gone breathless.
"No." My forehead drops to rest against hers. "That's possessive and territorial and completely inappropriate for everything we're supposed to be doing."
"We can't afford this distraction." Her voice is still breathless despite the words.
"I know." My hand slides from her jaw to tangle in her hair. "We should maintain distance. Should focus on the mission.Should remember that personal involvement compromises operational effectiveness."
"We should," she agrees, but her lips are inches from mine.
"Tell me to walk away." My voice drops lower, demanding an answer she can't give. "Tell me to go back to my room and maintain professional boundaries. Tell me that last night was a mistake and it won't happen again."
