Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rose tugged lightly on the strap of her purse as Adam’s car pulled up in front of her apartment. The streetlights bathed the cracked pavement in a muted orange glow, and the hum of the engine filled the quiet between them. She forced herself to smile, though her face felt tired from a long day and from keeping her walls intact during dinner.

It had been a year.

A year since Peter had walked away at that airfield, since his lips had brushed hers in a kiss that was half-promise, half-goodbye. He’d told her he’d reach out, if they let him. She’d believed him. Her gut—always loud, sometimes reckless—had sworn they’d cross paths again. But days had blurred into weeks, weeks into months, and now twelve of them had passed.

Getting Peter out of her system had been harder than she ever thought it would be. When he first left for the assignment, she’d told herself she was happy for him—that he was finally out of that windowless basement in the White House, finally trusted to take on real missions. It had even felt like a chance for both of them: space, a clean slate, the possibility to start again when he returned.

But as time passed, the weight in her chest only grew heavier.

Finding a job that fit her had been harder than she thought. Her last startup had crumbled, taking her confidence with it. She wasn’t ready to build again, not yet, so she settled for the best offer she could get: a cyber security analyst position at a mid-sized firm in San Francisco. It wasn’t glamorous, but she was good at it—writing clean code, catching exploits, locking digital doors. It gave her purpose, even if it didn’t spark her soul.

Still, the nights were the hardest. The nightmares had crept in quietly, images of her aunt and uncle, of shadows moving in her apartment, of Peter vanishing into the dark without turning back. She started skipping gatherings, ignoring texts, canceling brunches. A can of ice cream and a mindless movie had become easier companions than her friends. Her hair grew long and unruly, weeks slipping by without a trim, while piles of takeout containers collected in her kitchen.

Her cousin Elena had noticed. One morning over coffee, she’d sat Rose down and said it plain: You’re disappearing into yourself. Rose had brushed it off with a laugh, but the words lingered, sinking deeper than she wanted to admit. Because underneath her deflection, she knew Elena was right. Which was why, eventually, she agreed when her cousin insisted she meet her coworker Adam.

Adam.

He was the type of man who looked as if he had life figured out: tall, fit, confident, with just the right amount of stubble and a smile that charmed everyone around him. He worked in finance, or maybe consulting—Rose had half-listened when he first explained, but the important part was that he was steady. Reliable. Normal. And normal was what she needed.

The first date had gone surprisingly well. So had the second, then the third. Now here they were, after the fourth, his car idling in front of her building while the city settled into its late-night hush.

Rose glanced at him, at his sharp profile lit by the dashboard glow. She could admit she liked him—at least, she liked who she was supposed to be with him. Someone who wasn’t still broken, still waiting, still looking over her shoulder for a ghost from D.C.

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her pulse steady but her chest tight. Tonight had been nice. He was nice.

And still, she wondered if she’d ever stop measuring every man against the one who’d vanished out of her life a year ago.

Rose shook the thoughts from her head and reached for the door handle, murmuring a polite thanks for the ride, when she felt a gentle pressure on her arm. She turned. Adam’s hand rested lightly against her sleeve, not insistent, just enough to pause her.

“Hey,” he said, his voice easy, like he’d just remembered something he’d meant to bring up earlier. “I almost forgot to mention this during dinner.”

Rose tilted her head, curious.

“One of my managers is getting married next weekend,” he went on, his smile pulling a little crooked. “I know it might feel soon, but… it’s a big wedding, lots of guests, and honestly? Everyone from work who’s going has a plus-one. I’d really rather not spend the whole night being the odd man out. Elena will be there too, so it’s not like you’d be stuck with a bunch of strangers.” He shrugged casually, as though he didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “I thought it’d be nice if you came with me—if you’d like to.”

For a beat, Rose just blinked at him. A wedding. The word carried a weight she hadn’t felt in a while, something intimate, ceremonial, stitched with expectation. Too soon, a voice in her whispered. But the way he framed it—just company, just saving him from third-wheeling—made it sound harmless. Practical, even.

She forced the surprise off her face, her lips curving into something that felt steadier than she was inside. “That… sounds nice.” The words came slower than she wanted, as though she’d had to sort through a clutter of thoughts before reaching them.

Adam’s grin widened, warm and unguarded. “Great.”

He leaned in, brushing a quick kiss against her cheek before pulling back with that same easy confidence. “Good night, Rose.”

“Good night,” she returned softly, matching his smile before slipping out of the car.

The night air hit her with a faint chill as she crossed the sidewalk toward her building, the taillights of Adam’s car glowing red behind her. She hugged her purse close, her steps measured. It was just a wedding, she reminded herself. Just a date on a calendar.

And yet, a strange flutter stirred in her chest, a mix of nerves and something she couldn’t quite name.

The wedding reception was spread across a wide garden, rows of white tables scattered beneath strings of soft golden lights. The late-afternoon sun lingered high but gentle, casting a honeyed glow over everything. Laughter and conversation drifted through the air, mingling with the clink of glasses and the faint notes of the string quartet playing somewhere near the arbor.

Rose sat at her table, her lavender dress pooling like water around her ankles, the ruffled fabric swaying lightly whenever she shifted in her seat. She traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip, the taste of chilled white wine lingering on her lips.

Adam had disappeared a while ago, jacket abandoned on the back of his chair, his white shirt crisp despite the warmth of the day. She could see him a few tables away, caught up in a lively work-related conversation with a handful of colleagues.

Every so often, he angled his body toward her, pulling her in with a nod or a smile, dropping her name into the chatter so she wouldn’t feel like an outsider. It was thoughtful. It was considerate.

But Rose couldn’t find the energy to match it. She’d played her part for a while, smiling, nodding, even tossing in a half-hearted quip when prompted, but eventually she’d excused herself and slipped back to her table, alone.

Fifteen minutes later, the solitude felt like a balm. She’d just finished catching up with her cousin—bubbly as ever in a peach dress—and now she was winding her way through the crowd toward the restrooms.

The bride passed in her line of sight, radiant in white, surrounded by a swirl of well-wishers. Rose’s throat tightened unexpectedly. She forced her gaze away, smoothing the front of her dress as though the fabric could steady her.

“Rose!”

She paused mid-step. Greg, Elena’s husband, waved her over, his face lighting with relief as if she were the exact person he’d been hoping for.

Curious, she threaded her way through the cluster of guests to where he stood. A half-circle of men surrounded him, Adam among them, laughing at something one of the others had just said.

Greg leaned toward her. “Just the person I was looking for.” His eyes were bright with enthusiasm, his words pitched loud enough for the group to hear. “Funny timing—I was just saying how my wife’s cousin here is perfect for the kind of help you need.”

Rose blinked, caught off guard. Help?

Greg gestured toward the man at his side. Rose couldn’t see him clearly; another guest’s shoulder blocked her view. “Rose, meet—uh, this is David.” He gave the name easily, like it had already been exchanged around the group. “David, this is my wife’s cousin Rose.”

The guest in front of her shifted, stepping aside—

And the air left her lungs.

Peter Sutherland stood just a breath away, clean-cut in a tailored suit, his posture easy but his face arrested in the same frozen shock that rippled through her. His hair was a touch longer than she remembered, his jaw sharper, but it was him. No doubt, no question. The man she hadn’t gone a single day without thinking of, the man she’d kissed goodbye a year ago as he disappeared into the unknown.

For a moment, time stuttered.

Rose’s lips parted, but nothing came. She could feel the blood draining from her face, her fingers tightening on the stem of her wineglass.

Peter’s eyes locked on hers, unreadable, though she swore she saw the same disbelief mirrored there. And then, in a voice so soft she thought only she might have heard it, he breathed, “Hey.”

The sound curled straight through her chest.

Greg chuckled, oblivious to the tension thrumming between them. “Wait—do you two know each other?”

“Uh, well…” Rose started.

“Yeah,” Peter said at the same time.

The words collided in the air, leaving a beat of silence that stretched too long. Then, almost tripping over themselves, they scrambled to fill it, voices overlapping in their haste to explain.

“College,” Rose said quickly, forcing her voice steady.

“Friend of a friend,” Peter offered in the same breath.

They faltered, exchanging a quick, startled glance.

Rose laughed thinly, tugging at one of the ruffled edges of her dress as though that might ground her. “We… uh, yeah, we go back a bit.”

Peter nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching, his eyes never leaving hers. “It’s been… a while.”

Greg’s gaze bounced between them, curiosity flickering before he shrugged and clapped his hands together. “Right—so, the reason I flagged you down. David here,” he gestured toward Peter with his glass, “was just saying he’s in need of someone who really knows their way around cyber security. Some kind of project he’s got going, sounds pretty serious. Naturally, I thought of you, Rose. I mean, you’re basically the sharpest one I know in that field.”

The words floated somewhere far away. Rose’s pulse was in her throat, her focus caught on the way Peter’s fingers tapped once against his glass before he stilled them. His face was calm, but his eyes—soft, intent, searching—didn’t match the act.

“Yeah,” Greg chuckled, looking between them, “told him if he needed someone reliable, I had just the person.”

Rose felt the weight of a few curious glances in the circle, Adam included. The men weren’t oblivious; they sensed it, the spark of something that didn’t fit. She forced herself to smile, to sound casual. “Well… I suppose I know a thing or two.”

Peter’s mouth curved faintly, almost a private smile, and he leaned a fraction closer, his voice low but certain. “That’s what I heard.”

The air between them stretched thin, the kind of silence that carried too much meaning for public spaces.

Rose shifted her grip on her glass. “So… what exactly is it you’re in need of?” The question slipped out before she could stop herself, her voice steadier than she felt.

Peter parted his lips, a reply forming—

—but the groom’s voice rose above the crowd, amplified by the microphone in his hand. “If I could have everyone’s attention!” The chatter faded as heads turned toward the head table. He smiled broadly, cheeks flushed. “Thank you all so much for being here to celebrate with us. We’re truly grateful. Dinner will be served in just a moment, so please, find your seats and enjoy.”

A ripple of applause followed, glasses raised in response.

Greg clapped Peter on the shoulder. “Guess we’ll have to continue this conversation later, huh?”

Peter gave a small nod, his expression unreadable, but his gaze slid once more toward Rose, brief but deliberate, before he turned and began moving toward his seat with the rest of the group.

Not trusting her face to hide anything, Rose slipped away immediately, weaving through the crowd until she reached her table. She sank into her chair, setting her glass down a little too quickly.

Her chest felt tight, her breath uneven. A year of silence, a year of wondering if she’d ever see him again—and now here he was, standing in a sunny garden in California under a borrowed name, as if the universe had decided to drag her backward when she’d only just started moving forward.

She smoothed a hand over her dress, the fabric cool beneath her fingers, trying to will herself into calm. Adam’s laughter drifted from across the lawn, steady and normal, everything Peter wasn’t.

And yet, her heart hadn’t beaten this fast in months.

Chapter Text

Rose nudged a piece of roasted potato across her plate, the tines of her fork scratching faintly against the china. She hadn’t taken a real bite in twenty minutes, not since her stomach had knotted itself tight.

Beside her, Adam leaned in slightly, voice low but light. “Not a fan of salmon, huh?” His tone carried a note of humor, an attempt to coax her into smiling.

She managed one, soft and humming. “It’s not that. I just… don’t feel that great.”

His brows pulled together. “What’s wrong?”

Rose glanced back at her plate, then let her gaze drift toward the crowd—only to snag on a pair of eyes she knew too well. Across the garden, seated at another table among the guests, Peter was angled just enough that their lines of sight collided. The second their eyes met, her heart plummeted, a sharp, dizzy drop. She looked away almost instantly, but the damage was done.

She swallowed, covering the hitch in her breath with words she didn’t quite believe. “Nothing big. Just that time of the month. Really, it’s fine.”

Adam nodded, concern flickering across his face, but he didn’t press. “If you want to go home, just say the word, okay?”

She gave him a grateful smile but didn’t answer, turning back to her plate. She pushed her food around some more, though her eyes kept betraying her, drawn forward as if pulled by a string.

But this time, Peter’s chair was empty.

Her pulse jumped. She glanced around the tables, across the mingling guests, but he was nowhere in sight. The air left her in a quiet, uneven sigh, something between disappointment and relief.

But what was she expecting? A stolen word or two after dinner, maybe—but that would be it. She was here with a date, and he’d vanish back into the shadows of whatever mission had claimed him. Still, the question pressed sharp: why was he here at all—under an alias, no less? Did he know the bride, the groom? Or was he just another guest’s plus-one?

The thought cut deeper than she wanted to admit. She hadn’t even considered it until now. Was that also the reason he hadn’t reached out? What if, somewhere between assignments, he’d fallen for someone else—someone who understood that world in a way she never could? Another Night Agent, maybe. Someone who didn’t need promises.

Rose tipped back the rest of her wine in one gulp, the sharpness doing little to quiet her spiraling thoughts. She stared at his empty seat again, unease prickling down her spine. Had she imagined him altogether? No. Greg had introduced them. That moment had been real.

Still, her nerves were fraying. She excused herself quietly and slipped from the table, weaving through the hum of conversation until she stepped into the hotel’s cool lobby. The space was grand, white marble gleaming beneath a chandelier that seemed too heavy for its chain. She barely noticed any of it.

Because halfway across the lobby, movement caught her eye. A familiar figure was ascending the broad staircase, steady, purposeful. His frame, his stride—unmistakable.

Before she even realized it, her feet were moving.

The upper floor was quieter, the sound of laughter and music from below muffled to a hum. Rose stepped off the staircase and scanned the hallway. Empty. No trace of Peter.

Her heels clicked softly against the carpeted floor as she moved forward, glancing left, then right. Nothing. Her pulse was still racing, though, thrumming in her ears, as if her body knew something she didn’t.

Am I losing it? The thought sliced sharp. Had she really followed Peter up here, or had she conjured him from a mix of wine, nerves, and a year’s worth of longing?

Not knowing why, she chose right. The hallway stretched long and dim, lined with closed doors. She walked halfway down before stopping, breath uneven, shaking her head.

What the hell am I doing?

Maybe he was staying here. Maybe he’d already slipped into his room, closed the door, gone for the night. And what was she doing—following him? Like some restless shadow?

She exhaled sharply and turned back, ready to return to her original plan—the restroom, a splash of water, anything to ground her.

But the moment she pivoted, she collided with a solid chest.

She stumbled, a startled gasp catching in her throat. A man. Broad-shouldered, his presence filling the narrow hall. Before she could register more, the faint sound of a door creaked open somewhere farther down the corridor.

Then it all happened at once—an arm looped around her waist, another hand clamped firm over her mouth. Rose’s eyes widened as she was yanked backward, dragged into the darkened room at her side.

The door shut behind her with a soft, final click.

The room was pitch dark, the kind of dark that pressed close. Rose’s front hit the door with a dull thud, her breath trapped beneath the palm covering her mouth. Her body was pinned, pressed flush against someone’s chest, broad and unyielding. Panic fluttered sharp in her veins—too fast, too sudden.

She squirmed once, but the arm around her waist tightened just enough to still her.

And then, familiarity crept in. The scent—clean, faintly warm, something she’d once buried her face into. The steady rise and fall of a chest she had leaned against more times than she could count.

Before she could process it, a voice brushed her ear, low and close:

“It’s okay. It’s me.”

Her pulse stumbled, shock rearranging itself into something messier—half relief, half ache. The hand around her waist loosened, the one at her mouth sliding away slowly, as if not to startle her. He didn’t step back right away. For a beat, she stayed frozen, pressed against him, her body remembering what her mind was still catching up to.

When she finally began to turn her head, he stepped back, and the absence of his warmth felt almost violent.

The sudden glow of his phone’s flashlight filled the small utility closet, pale light bouncing off shelves stacked with linens and cleaning supplies. Rose blinked, adjusting, then turned to him fully.

The flashlight caught him in fragments at first—the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of brown eyes that still felt like home, even now—and then the whole of him came into focus. Close enough that she could see the faint shadow where he’d shaved that morning, the crisp white of his button-up stretched over shoulders broader than memory had allowed.

His hair was different. A little longer than D.C., not the neat cut she remembered, but slightly ruffled in a way that made him look even more disarmingly handsome. She found herself staring, tracing the subtle changes, as if they might tell her what the last year had carved into him.

And still, beneath all of it, he was the same man who’d kissed her once in a moment that had felt like both a beginning and an ending. The firmness of his grip still lingered on her waist, the heat of his body pressed against hers a ghost she couldn’t shake. She’d forgotten how tall he really was, how the breadth of his frame seemed to crowd the air between them, making it hard to think, to breathe.

Rose swallowed, squirming under the weight of it all—his nearness, his steadiness, the brutal reminder of just how much she’d missed him.

“Peter…”

The name slipped out like a breath she’d been holding for months. She knew confusion had to be written all over her face. “What are you doing here?”

He shut his eyes briefly, shoulders rising with a deep exhale. When they opened again, she found herself caught in the brown she’d dreamed of more nights than she dared admit.

“Rose.”

Her name on his lips landed like a weight she hadn’t braced for. It felt like forever since anyone had spoken it that way—like it belonged to another life, one she still hadn’t figured out how to let go of.

As though no time had passed at all, only the ache it carved still throbbing under her skin.

“I, uh… it’s complicated.”

Her brows knit. “Okay?” She expected more—needed more.

He sighed. “Look, I’m here on assignment. That’s probably even more than I should be saying.”

“On assignment?” The words tasted foreign, her mind spinning. What could a wedding have to do with Night Action?

His mouth twisted into a half-smile, softening his voice. “You’ve kind of chosen the worst moment of the evening to come after me.” There was no bite in it, no accusation—just a touch of humor, his eyes lighting in a way she hadn’t seen in so long.

Rose huffed, crossing her arms. “Well, excuse me for being surprised to see you here… David.” The name came out sharper than she intended, though her lips curved despite herself.

Peter scratched the back of his neck, the flashlight wobbling with the motion, before his gaze flicked to the time on his phone. “I don’t have much time. We can talk after.”

“After?” Rose’s chest tightened. “What are you up to, Peter?”

“I can’t tell you, okay?” His voice dropped softer, urgent.

Peter shifted his weight, the narrow space pressing them closer than either of them seemed to want to acknowledge. Rose crossed her arms tighter, tilting her head at him, her expression sharp, unconvinced.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking toward the door before returning to her. “Alright,” he murmured, voice low, reluctant. “The man I’m here for—he’s a guest. Alias only. Reeves. Works in cyber security.”

Rose blinked, her pulse stumbling at the name. Reeves. The word felt suddenly heavy, threaded with danger.

Her eyes narrowed, pieces sliding into place. “That’s why you were asking around earlier…”

“Exactly,” Peter said, his tone low, almost approving that she’d caught on so quickly. “Trying to find someone who fit the profile. Someone who might’ve crossed paths with him.” He hesitated then, his gaze holding hers a fraction too long.

“That’s how Greg… pulled you in.” His mouth twitched as if the memory unsettled him. “I didn’t know you’d be here. Your name wasn’t on the guest list.” The last part came out softer, almost like a question, as though he expected her to explain.

Rose let out a slow breath, her chest tight. “Until last week, I didn’t know either.” A beat passed before she added, voice low, eyes dipping to the floor, “I wasn’t invited. I’m just here as a plus-one.”

When she looked back up, his expression hadn’t shifted much, just the faintest nod—so slight she might’ve missed it if she wasn’t watching him as closely as he was watching her. There was something in his face she couldn’t quite read, a flicker of thought or feeling tucked carefully away.

“So… why drag me in here?” she asked, curiosity edging back into her voice.

Peter’s jaw flexed. “Reeves was in his room. About to come out.” He tilted his head toward the door, the words careful, deliberate. “I couldn’t risk you being seen with me outside his door.” His eyes met hers, steady and unflinching.

Rose’s chest tightened. The matter-of-fact way he said it, as if dragging her into a dark room, pinning her against him, had been the only choice—maybe it had been. Still, her heart hadn’t quite slowed.

She studied him in the pale wash of the flashlight, taking in the suit, the precision, the calm under pressure. He wasn’t the man she remembered from a year ago—not entirely. Something sharper had taken root in him.

Peter’s gaze flicked briefly toward the door. “According to my source, Reeves won’t be gone long. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes at most. Which means if I’m going to move, it has to be now.” His voice was quiet but clipped, like each word had been weighed and sharpened before it left him.

He shifted, tucking the flashlight down, already in motion. “Let me check if we’re clear.”

His hand came up beside her waist, reaching for the door handle. The movement drew him closer, so close the space between them seemed to dissolve. Heat radiated from him, his breath grazing the bare skin of her shoulder, and Rose’s pulse spiked, sudden and sharp.

She tilted her head instinctively, caught between bracing herself and leaning in. Their eyes met in the thin beam of the flashlight, and the rest of the world seemed to fall away—no muffled laughter from below, no risk of footsteps outside, just the weight of him standing inches from her.

Her chest tightened. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat, in her wrists, everywhere at once. The scent of him—familiar, unshakable—flooded her, pulling at every memory she had tried to bury. For a suspended moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think of anything except the way his gaze held hers, steady and unreadable.

Rose tried to remember how she’d ended up here when Peter cleared his throat, the sound low and rough, breaking whatever spell had locked them there. “Uh—may I?” he asked softly, nodding toward the door as though he needed her permission.

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” she blurted, heat rushing to her cheeks as she shifted quickly to the side, giving him room.

As he leaned forward, his sleeve skimmed against her arm, the fabric whispering across her skin with a jolt that made her breath hitch. Peter eased the door open a crack, scanning the hallway with quick precision. Then, without a word, he slipped out. Rose found her body moving before her mind caught up, her steps falling into place just behind his. She hadn’t decided to follow—she simply was, as if the pull of him left her no choice.

They moved quickly down the carpeted hallway, Peter a step ahead, his stride clipped and deliberate. Rose kept pace, her voice low, tension threading through every syllable. “Peter, you can’t just disappear for a year and then—what?—drag me into a broom closet without a word. I deserve to know something.”

He didn’t look at her, didn’t slow down. “You shouldn’t be here, Rose.”

“I didn’t exactly plan on it.” Her pulse was still racing, but her voice steadied, cool despite the tremor beneath. “So what is this? What are you doing?”

They stopped in front of a door. Peter slipped a slim card from his pocket and stepped close to the lock, sliding it against the reader in one smooth motion. Rose blinked, startled. “Wait—that's not your room, is it? Where did you get that?”

The green light flickered, a soft click sounding as the lock disengaged. Peter turned his head slightly, his jaw tight. For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t answer, but then his voice dropped, low, almost reluctant. “Cloned Reeves’s card earlier. At dinner.”

Rose stared at him, disbelief written across her face. “You… what? You can just do that?”

“Rose,” he said sharply, though not unkindly, his tone taut with urgency. “I don’t have time for this. Please—can we do this later?”

Something in his tone—low, urgent, almost pleading—pulled her up short. She exhaled, shoulders slumping as the weight of the situation pressed down. “Fine,” she murmured, softer this time. After a beat, she added softly, “But… be careful, okay?”

Peter’s eyes flicked to hers, something unreadable flashing across his face—gone before she could place it. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

She had barely taken two steps back when the sound of voices drifted from the far end of the hall. Male, casual, their footsteps drawing nearer with every word.

Peter’s head snapped toward the sound, his eyes locking with hers. Wide, alert, the same instinct thrummed through both of them: they couldn’t be seen here.

The footsteps were nearly at the corner when he caught her wrist in one swift motion, pulled the door open, and drew her inside—dragging her back into his world.

Chapter Text

Peter pushed the door open just enough for the two of them to slip inside the room, tugging Rose with him before easing it shut behind them.

The suite was dim, curtains drawn tight against the night. A faint scent of cologne lingered in the air, sharp and masculine, mixed with the sterile tang of hotel cleaner. The space looked ordinary—neatly made bed, folded towels on a rack, a laptop closed on the desk near the window—but the air carried a charged weight, like stepping into someone else’s secrets.

Peter moved immediately, no hesitation. He crossed to the desk, pulling a thin pair of gloves from his pocket and tugging them on with quick efficiency. “Sorry for dragging you into this,” he said quietly. “I’ll be quick.” His voice was an attempt at lightness that didn’t quite land.

“How do you know this is his room?” Rose asked before she could stop herself, eyes fixed on the closed laptop like it might cough up the answer.

She watched him flip it open, his fingers moving over the edge of the keyboard with practiced ease. “I followed him up,” he said, eyes still on the screen, voice distracted and flat. “Saw him go in.” The words came out like a side note, more focused on the task in front of him than on answering her.

So he’d managed to identify Reeves after all. The thought settled quickly, sharp and certain.

Rose regarded him for a long second, the question hanging between them. “Right.” She said it small, lips pressed together, and then turned away as if to inspect the room—slow, casual steps that were anything but. She moved past the neatly made bed, ran a fingertip along the spine of a book on the shelf, pulled open a drawer as if curious about the hotel’s pen selection. Anything to make the silence less like an accusation.

Peter looked up at her from under his brows. As if realizing he’d been too closed off, he shut the laptop with a soft click and finally spoke. “I’m just going to set up a bug, grab the laptop, and we’re out of here, okay?” His voice carried a note of concession, like he knew he shouldn’t be telling her this much but couldn’t stop himself.

Rose turned, arms crossed over her chest, watching him. “So this is it? You came all this way for his computer?”

He exhaled and walked toward a low shelf. “Not exactly,” he said. “Reeves is tied to someone I’ve been chasing. Alias Cole.”

He fished something small from his pocket. It glinted for a second in the lamp light—a compact device no larger than a key fob. Rose assumed it was the bug. “My contact says Reeves has been in touch with Cole,” he resumed. “If there’s any trace of him, it’ll be on this device. I just don’t have time to crack it right now.”

If Reeves specialized in cyber security, it would take Peter a while to get in—time he didn’t have. Rose found herself wondering when Peter had even learned how to crack a laptop.

Her pulse quickened as the conclusion settled: If Peter just walked out with it, Reeves would know someone had been here.

“Well, maybe I can—” The words tumbled out before she could measure them. Peter’s head shook once, a motion that closed the door on whatever argument she might make.

He gave her a look that left no room for debate. Rose watched the motion, then cut in instead of backing down. She stepped closer to the desk, lowering her voice until it belonged only to them. “Why not let me try? This way you don’t have to steal the laptop and Reeves never knows we were here.”

For a heartbeat a war played across his face—need against protection, impatience against caution.

“If he notices the laptop’s gone, he might change the location of the meet-up. You’d be back at square one,” she argued, her voice low but insistent.

He glanced toward the door, then checked his watch; the window light carved thin lines across his cheekbone, making him look at once older and more vulnerable.

“Okay,” he said finally, softer than she expected. The surprise in her chest felt like a small, illicit victory.

He held up a hand. “But if this can be traced back to you somehow, or if it takes longer than ten minutes, you let it go. Promise me.”

Promise. The word felt heavy, almost ridiculous in its gravity. She should have argued, told him she wouldn’t be a liability. Instead, her grin felt almost triumphant, because somewhere inside, the reckless part of her hummed awake. “Promise,” she said.

Peter studied her for a moment longer, then peeled off the gloves he’d been wearing and held them out to her. “Here. Put these on.”

Rose blinked, caught off guard, but slid her fingers into the thin fabric anyway. She felt the warmth of his skin ghost across the gloves as she flexed her hands. Peter pulled the chair out for her, the motion quiet, almost instinctive. Rose slipped into it, her heels tapping once against the carpet as she settled under his steady presence.

“Okay,” she whispered, tightening the gloves around her knuckles. “So what are we looking for?”

Peter crouched beside the desk, his voice low and clipped. “Correspondence. Files. Anything tied to Cole.”

Rose’s brows drew together as she leaned closer to the laptop. “And you think this guy—the one staying in this room—knows where he is?”

“My source says they’re supposed to meet next week—South America—but I don’t know where,” Peter said, eyes flicking between the door and her. “I need location data, travel plans, something that points to a physical place. If we find that, I can move.”

Her pulse quickened, but her mouth curved wryly. “So no pressure.”

The corner of his lips twitched despite himself. “Exactly.”

Rose drew a breath, centering herself. Then she set her hands on the keys. She worked fast but quietly, hands steady despite the way her pulse had been ticking like a loud clock in her throat. The lamp on the desk gave a small pool of light; Peter stayed near the door, checking his watch in the same quick, rhythmical way that had always made her nervous and oddly reassured.

Minutes stretched thin. Then, with the softness of something finally surrendering, a window opened. The prompt cleared. The desktop blurred into life. Rose exhaled without meaning to.

“I’m in,” she whispered, voice low enough to belong to the room.

Peter was already crossing to her side when her phone buzzed hard against the tabletop. Adam lit the screen. “Shit,” she swore under her breath, silencing it quickly. She’d been gone nearly twenty minutes.

Peter didn’t comment on the call. He let his eyes flick once to the screen, then back to the laptop. “Look for dates and a meeting point,” he said.

Rose nodded and moved. She skimmed through inbox stubs and cached attachments, followed a trail of bland filenames and too-neat folders. Timestamps lined up like breadcrumbs. A nested archive opened to a short, sterile note and a clipped itinerary: a coordinate string.

Outside, footsteps drew closer, steady and unhurried, each one striking like a countdown. Rose’s gaze flicked to Peter—he was already fixed on the door, jaw tight, eyes sharp, as if sheer will alone could hold it shut. Slowly, he lifted his hand, palm out toward her, a silent gesture to keep still.

Her breath hitched, chest tightening around the seconds that stretched too long. The footsteps halted just beyond, the pause heavier than noise itself—until a door somewhere down the hall creaked open, then clicked closed. The voices and steps faded with it, leaving only the hammer of her pulse in the quiet room.

Rose glanced back to the display. “There,” she said, tapping the coordinates. “Isla del Viento. Private airstrip. Transfer next Thursday.”

Peter’s jaw set. “That’s enough. We need to get out.”

“Give me ten seconds,” Rose said, already moving. “I have to cover our tracks.”

“Rose—” He checked his watch, then the door. Voices drifted somewhere down the hall again.

“Nine,” she murmured, more to steady herself than to count. She collapsed recents, cleared a handful of obvious traces, reset a view or two so the machine would look untouched at a glance. “Five… four…”

Outside, a laugh, a muted scrape of a shoe, then quiet.

“Done.” She closed the laptop, rising to her feet.

Peter’s hand hovered at the small of her back, urging her forward with quiet insistence. “Let’s go.”

They moved in sync: Peter switched off the lamp, plunging the suite into shadow, while Rose slipped the gloves from her hands. The door eased open a fraction, letting in a draft of cool air that prickled across her skin. Rose heard her own heartbeat, sharp and bright, as he angled a look both ways and then drew her out into the hall.

His hand lingered close as they moved, steadying her pulse even as it raced.

When Rose returned to the venue, the atmosphere had shifted. The sun had dipped low, and the garden was awash in strings of lights, music pulsing louder now. Some guests had already taken to the dance floor, while others lingered near the bar tables, glasses in hand, laughter spilling freely into the night air.

She spotted Adam with a small circle of his colleagues, his jacket back on but unbuttoned, his posture relaxed in the way people get after a couple of drinks. The moment his eyes caught hers, his expression changed—relief flooding his features as he excused himself and came to meet her.

“Rose,” he said, his voice warm but edged with concern. “Is everything alright? I tried to call you.”

“Uh, yeah.” She forced a small smile, trying to make it sound casual. “I actually ran into David again and helped him with his cyber security problem. My phone was on silent, so I didn’t hear you call. Sorry.”

Adam’s shoulders eased. “Oh, okay. That makes sense. Don’t worry. You said earlier you weren’t feeling all that well, so I assumed the worst. I’m glad you’re feeling better.” His smile was genuine, simple, kind.

Rose returned it, though the gesture came with a sharp pang of guilt.

The rest of the evening slipped by more easily than she expected. She was introduced to a handful of Adam’s colleagues, polite faces she only half remembered but who welcomed her warmly into their chatter. When the DJ played one of her current favorite songs, Adam didn’t hesitate—he pulled her onto the dance floor, spinning her once and laughing when she almost tripped over the hem of her dress. She found herself laughing too, the sound light, even if part of her felt like it belonged to someone else.

Later, when the wedding cake arrived, Rose more than compensated for skipping dinner. Two slices—one vanilla, one chocolate—disappeared from her plate, the sweetness settling in her chest like a small comfort.

Only once or twice did she catch sight of Peter, a flicker of his profile in the crowd, a shadow at the edge of the lights. He never lingered, and neither did she. Still, he remained fixed in her thoughts for the rest of the night, no matter how many smiles she offered or how loudly the music played.

A few minutes before midnight, Rose hovered by the buffet table, eyeing the last of the desserts. The tray of mini chocolate muffins was nearly empty, scattered crumbs clung to the silver surface. She was debating whether it was too late to indulge when a familiar voice curled behind her.

“Still enjoying your late-night snacks, I see,” Peter said, humor threading his tone.

Her breath caught before she turned, pulse jumping in her throat. He stood there, hands in his pockets, the white dress shirt crisp against his frame, the corner of his mouth tilted in a smile that matched his words.

Rose straightened, recovering just enough to quip, “Well, someone has to keep the caterer’s ego intact.”

It earned a soft laugh from him—low, real, the kind of sound that slid under her ribs and made her heart ache with how much she’d missed it.

But then, before the moment could stretch, his smile softened, turned rueful. “I’m, uh… I’m about to head out.”

Her own smile faltered. She swallowed once, her throat dry, and gave a small nod she didn’t trust herself to follow with words.

“Thank you,” he added, his voice lighter than his eyes. “For… you know.” His glance flicked sideways, checking the space around them for prying ears.

Rose huffed, but it came out flat. She couldn’t laugh, not right now. “You don’t have to thank me for that.” 

“Still,” he insisted, locking his eyes with hers. 

“Will I see you again?” The words slipped out thin, uncertain, betraying more than she meant.

Peter’s expression shifted, like the question had knocked him off balance. “I… I don’t know.” His voice was quiet, almost pained.

The air between them felt suddenly fragile, stretched thin by everything unsaid. Rose’s chest tightened, her pulse quickening in a way that made the space seem too close, the night air too sharp against her skin.

“Look, Rose,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I never called.”

Her mouth curved into something that resembled a smile, though it cost her to hold it. She shook her head, as if brushing the apology aside. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” The words tasted like lies, like every sleepless night she’d carried alone.

“I wanted to,” he said suddenly, firmly enough that she knew he meant it. He let out a breath that sounded like defeat, not humor. “I thought about it more times than I care to admit. But they wouldn’t let me reach out to anyone.”

He shifted a fraction closer, the step faltering at the last moment, pulled back as if by second thoughts. He shook his head at himself. “I probably could have found a way regardless. And I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Rose studied him, her chest aching at the quiet sincerity on his face. She understood why he’d chosen Night Action, but that didn’t dull the sting of knowing it was exactly what kept him from her. "Truth is,” she began, her voice unsteady, “I did expect you to call, Peter. Even just to say you were alive.”

She drew in a slow breath, her gaze dropping briefly before finding his again. She blinked quickly, but the shine in her vision betrayed her. “When I realized the call wasn’t coming… it stung more than I was ready for.” The admission cracked in her throat, but she still managed to offer him a small smile.

The sadness etched across Peter’s face made her wish she could swallow the words back, pull them out of the air before they reached him. He stepped closer, the impulse to close the gap stronger than the pull of restraint this time. She caught the hesitation in his eyes, even as his hand rose, drawn to her despite himself. 

His fingers brushed her arm, feather-light, then traced slowly downward, leaving a line of fire in their wake. Halfway down, the touch deepened—still gentle, but firmer now, as if he couldn’t quite keep himself from holding on. The faint press sent a shiver racing through her, her pulse stumbling under his hand. By the time he reached her wrist, her breath was shallow, her fingers twitching with the urge to close around his. Her hand shifted without thinking, yearning toward his. But the moment broke as he withdrew, sudden and sharp, the spark he left behind setting her whole arm alight.

Peter cleared his throat, trying to gather himself. “Adam, right? He seems like a good guy.”

The sound of Adam’s name from his lips cut deeper than she expected, sharp as glass. Rose looked away, her voice dry. “He is.”

Peter nodded slowly, though neither of them seemed to know what to say next. His hand scrubbed over his jaw, the other shoved deep into his pocket. He looked tired, worn down, as though the weight of the past year still clung to him. “Well then,” he said quietly, “I guess I should get going.”

They just stood there, the silence stretching, thick with everything unsaid. Rose’s pulse thudded in her throat, her breath shallow, every nerve aware of the inches that still separated them. The pull between them was undeniable, magnetic, and yet neither of them dared to close it—like one wrong move would shatter the fragile air holding them together.

Then a loud crack split the night air, sharp enough to make her flinch. A blossom of light followed in the sky above the garden, dazzling against the dark.

Rose remembered Elena mentioning earlier that there’d be fireworks at midnight.

She tore her gaze from Peter and turned toward the spectacle as more bursts followed, colors scattering across the night in showers of gold and blue and red. Guests clapped, laughter rising around them in delighted echoes.

Peter stepped to her side, close enough that the faint brush of his sleeve against her arm sent a shiver racing up her skin. His hand hovered near hers, so close the air between them seemed to buzz with it. Rose’s fingers twitched, aching to close the gap, but she forced them still, nails digging lightly into her palm. The wanting was unbearable, and yet not being able to act on it was worse.

The sky bloomed with fire, louder, brighter, the finale painting the night in relentless color. And in that brilliance, she felt the edge of his hand brush hers, the faintest curl of his fingers against hers. The touch was tentative, as though forbidden, and it burned hotter than the explosions overhead. Her eyes closed, overwhelmed by the intensity of it. Before she could breathe into it, before she could decide whether to lean into the touch, his fingers tightened around hers. Then he bent close, lips brushing her temple in a kiss so soft it felt more like a farewell than a promise this time around—gone almost before it happened. But the weight of it seared through her, left her skin burning as if the touch had branded her.

She felt his fingers slip away, leaving her hand to fall uselessly against her thigh. By the time she opened her eyes, the space beside her was empty—he was already gone.

Rose didn’t turn to search for him. She knew better. Because Peter Sutherland was a ghost again, slipped into the dark where she couldn’t follow.

Her eyes blurred, hot with unshed tears, her chest hollowed with the ache of everything she wanted but could never hold.

At the far end of the garden, beneath an arch of white roses, the bride and groom kissed as the last rocket shattered across the sky, the crowd cheering around them. A promise of forever, sealed in firelight.

Rose stared until her vision stung, the sound of her own heart breaking louder than the applause.

Because some promises, she realized, were only there to give you something to hold onto—even if they were never meant to be kept.