"Because they'll think I've completely lost it." She waves one hand in the air, nearly hitting the rearview mirror. "Like, actually lost my mind. Gone off the deep end. Started making catastrophically bad life choices."
I glance at her, then back to the road. Maintain situational awareness. "Have you?"
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "That's not the point."
I take the next turn. The GPS indicates twenty-three minutes to destination. I mentally calculate arrival time, accounting for traffic variables and the possibility of needing to stop for additional reconnaissance.
"Compromise," I say, deploying the term I have heard used in civilian negotiations.
She shifts in her seat, turning more fully toward me. I track the movement in my peripheral vision while maintaining focus on the road. "I'm listening."
I run through several cover story scenarios I compiled during last night's preparation. Cross-reference them with plausibility metrics and Colletta's established behavioral patterns. Select the most tactically sound option.
"A gym," I say.
She perks up immediately. Her posture changes—shoulders drop, spine straightens. Relief. The tension that had been building in her jaw visibly releases. "A gym. Okay. That's... that's normal. That's actually believable." She nods, more to herself than me. "People meet at gyms all the time. It's a totally normal place to meet someone."
I continue with the operational narrative. "You were using the equipment incorrectly. I observed multiple form violations that could have resulted in injury. I corrected your form."
Her head snaps toward me. "Hey?—"
I do not pause. The momentum of the cover story must be maintained. "You were grateful for the intervention. You recognized my expertise. You asked me to train you." I glance at her briefly, then return my attention to the road. A sedan two cars ahead is drifting slightly into our lane. I adjust our position. "I agreed to provide instruction."
"I don't need—" she starts, and I can hear the indignation building in her voice, that particular tone that means she is about to argue a point of pride regardless of tactical reality.
"We began spending time together. I found your conversation... tolerable."
She goes quiet. When I glance over, she is looking at me with an expression I cannot read. Something soft around the eyes. Something dangerous around the mouth.
"Tolerable," she repeats slowly, the word hanging in the air between us like a question she hasn't fully formed yet.
"Affirmative." I maintain my focus on the road, tracking the vehicles ahead, noting the upcoming exit we will not be taking.
"Wow." She draws out the syllable, and I can hear the smile creeping into her voice despite her attempt to sound unimpressed. "Romance isn't dead after all. Here I was worried chivalry had breathed its last breath, but no—I've been deemedtolerable. My heart is positively aflutter."
"This is not romance," I clarify, because it is important she understands the parameters of our arrangement. "This is a tactical partnership. Mission-focused cooperation."
"For three days," she adds, and there is something in her tone I cannot quite identify. Something that might be disappointment, though that makes no tactical sense.
"Correct." I signal for the next lane change, checking my mirrors with precision. "Seventy-two hours. Then the operation concludes."
She turns to look out the window. The landscape rolls past, green and gold, vineyards stretching in neat rows toward the hills. I do not like open terrain. Too many sight lines. Too few cover positions.
"How long have we been together?" she asks.
"Six months."
"Why six months?"
"Long enough to be serious. Short enough to explain why your family has not met me."
"That's... actually smart," she admits, and I can hear the reluctant approval in her voice, as though acknowledging my tactical competence costs her something.
"I am always smart," I state, because it is a fact that requires no embellishment or false humility.
There's a pause, just long enough for me to complete another mirror check and verify our speed relative to the vehicle in front of us. Then she speaks again.
"And modest too, apparently."
