Chapter Text
The cobblestone streets of Prague shimmered under the glow of antique streetlamps, rain-kissed and glinting like gold. You tugged your coat tighter against the breeze, weaving through the old quarter with the ease of someone who knew exactly where she was going.
You hadn’t been out in weeks. Not properly. Not without mission briefings in your back pocket and encrypted pings lighting up your phone. And now, finally, after dodging three different countries and one very persistent arms dealer, you were exactly where you wanted to be: on your way to tequila, bad jokes, and your girls.
The bar was tucked between a pastry shop and a tattoo parlor—one of those effortlessly cozy places with warm brick walls, low lighting, and jazz remixes floating through the air. The windows fogged with heat and laughter. It was like stepping into another life.
You pulled open the door, letting the warmth and noise wrap around you like a hug.
Inside, the hum of chatter blended with clinking glasses and the low thump of bass. Couples leaned close at candlelit tables. Groups of friends draped coats over chairs, mid-toast, mid-laugh. You paused for a second, soaking it all in. This was peace in your line of work—well-earned and fleeting.
You made a beeline for the bar.
The bartender recognized you immediately. “Back from saving the world?”
You grinned. “Let’s just say international relations have been…tense.”
He chuckled, sliding you a menu, but you didn’t need it. “Tequila. Something fun. Surprise me.”
Moments later, a short glass appeared—bright citrus, a smoky rim, a candied jalapeño speared on top.
You took a sip, humming in satisfaction. “Perfect.”
Drink in hand, you headed toward the back corner. Your booth. The one with the slightly torn cushion and the view of the whole room. It was still empty—Emma, Lila, and Nora were always fashionably late—but it wouldn’t be long now.
You sank into the booth, stretching out with a sigh and letting your muscles relax for the first time in weeks.
God, you missed this.
You were halfway through your drink when you spotted them—Emma and Nora, shoulder to shoulder and laughing about something that clearly wasn’t meant for public consumption.
Emma spotted you first, her dark curls bouncing as she raised her glass. “Look what the cat dragged in!”
You stood, barely setting your glass down before you were pulled into a three-way hug. Nora smelled like vanilla and red wine, and Emma had already smudged her lipstick on your cheek, not that she cared.
“God, you’re alive,” Nora said, squeezing you tight. “I was starting to think you joined a cult.”
Emma pulled back just enough to inspect you. “No. She looks too smug. Definitely still in espionage and morally ambiguous foreplay.”
You snorted. “Glad to see subtlety is still dead.”
They slid into the booth on either side of you, all coats and perfume and the familiar clink of rings against glass. Emma set down what looked like a cucumber gimlet, while Nora nursed a glass of sangria already missing most of its fruit.
“We missed you.” Emma said, softer now. “Seriously. Thursday nights are not the same without your commentary and unnecessarily dramatic drink orders.”
You grinned, nudging her shoulder. “Hey, I take my tequila seriously.”
“You take everything seriously,” Nora said, leaning an elbow on the table. “Except naps. You avoid those like they owe you money.”
Before you could fire back, Emma leaned closer, eyes twinkling. “Okay, catch us up. We want the redacted and the unredacted versions. Especially the unredacted.”
You gave them a look. “You want a mission debrief or a kiss-and-tell?”
“Yes.” they said in unison.
You opened your mouth to answer—but just then, the door creaked again, and a familiar voice called out from across the room.
“Ladies, did I miss the first round?”
Lila had arrived. And judging by the devilish grin on her face, she came bearing both secrets and trouble.
Lila slid into the booth with practiced ease, her black leather jacket catching the warm overhead light. “Damn, it’s been a minute,” she said, pulling your half-empty glass toward her and taking a sip. “Ugh. Still ordering tequila like you’re trying to unlock a memory.”
You raised a brow. “It’s tradition.”
Nora reached for the menu, already smirking. “So is Lila drinking half of everyone’s drinks before she orders her own.”
“I like to sample the atmosphere.” Lila said airily, plucking a maraschino cherry out of Emma’s glass with a wink.
Emma batted her hand away. “Okay, enough foreplay—what have we all been doing while our fearless leader here”—she nodded at you—“was off saving the world and ghosting us for four weeks?”
You lifted your hands in mock surrender. “I texted.”
“You sent us a picture of your boots on a rooftop with a pack of Haribo and said, ‘Surveillance snacks acquired’.” Nora deadpanned.
You grinned. “And I stand by it. Those gummy bears kept me alive.”
They all laughed, and then, with a conspiratorial lean, you added, “Okay, fine. I was assigned to a long-term intel op. Eastern corridor. Quiet work, mostly—observe, report, don’t die.”
“Fun.” Emma said, raising her glass.
“Stressful,” you corrected. “But worth it. There’s a guy on my team who’s got worse trigger discipline than social skills, so I played babysitter with a side of recon.”
“Was he hot?” Lila asked, deadpan.
You paused. “…Debatable.”
“Translation: absolutely.” Nora muttered.
Lila smirked. “And now she’s back to being vague and morally mysterious. The world is healing.”
Emma leaned in dramatically. “Okay, my turn. I started bartending at Eden—you know, that weird rooftop club with the human-size birdcage chairs?”
Nora blinked. “That place that smells like smoke and expensive mistakes?”
“That’s the one,” Emma said proudly. “And listen, I have never met so many emotionally unstable men in my life. One guy tipped me fifty euros and asked if I wanted to see his yacht.”
Lila perked up. “Did you?”
“I told him I get sea sick around rich men.”
You and Nora wheezed in sync.
“I’m thriving.” Emma added with a wink.
“I’m exhausted,” Lila said, nursing her drink. “I had three code blues in one shift last week. One was a guy who overdosed in the parking lot. Came in with a pulse and lost it twice before we stabilized him.”
“Jesus.” you said, eyebrows lifting.
“He walked out the next day like nothing happened.” Lila added, eyes wide. “Didn’t even say thank you. Just asked if his vape got confiscated.”
Emma shook her head. “Your life is Grey’s Anatomy with more screaming and worse lighting.”
“And definitely more blood,” Lila said, raising her glass with a tired grin. “So technically, I win.”
Everyone turned to Nora, who just took a long, solemn sip of her drink before deadpanning, “My main character finally has working facial expressions.”
A beat.
“YES!” you cheered, clinking your glass against hers.
“It only took me four espresso-fueled breakdowns.” Nora added, reaching for a fry. “But hey—indie game development builds character. And carpal tunnel.”
Emma gave her a mock salute. “May your polygon count stay high and your rage crashes stay low.”
The table shook with laughter as another round of drinks arrived. The music thrummed low beneath your feet, the hum of Prague outside filtering in through the half-cracked windows, but nothing—nothing—was louder than the sound of your found family being whole again.
An hour slipped by in a blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and half-finished stories that kept veering off-course because someone always had something better to add. The tequila was flowing freely—sour and smoky, rimmed with salt—and your cheeks ached from smiling.
You were leaning heavily into the warmth of it all, the edges of the bar softened by liquor and joy, when Emma let out a gasp. “Okay but look at this man.” she said, thrusting her phone onto the table like it held the secrets of the universe.
Onscreen was a blurry, post-gym mirror selfie of a guy with sharp cheekbones, thick thighs, and looked like he wore enough cologne to choke a Victorian ghost.
“His name is Luca,” she sighed. “He does Muay Thai and says ‘darling’ with a British accent. I’m keeping him.”
“Are we talking about boyfriends now?” you slurred lightly, reaching for another chip and missing it entirely. “Because…I might have one.”
Four heads snapped toward you in near-unison.
“You what?” Lila blurted, immediately slapping the table.
Emma’s eyes widened. “Wait, since when?”
“You didn’t even tell us you were dating anyone,” Nora said, scandalized.
You blinked slowly. “I’m not. I mean—I wasn’t. But then he happened.”
Lila narrowed her eyes. “Define he.”
You made a vague swoopy gesture with your hand. “Tall. Russian. Mask-wearing. Probably has a body count—like, an actual one. Has a thing for knives.”
The girls stared at you like you’d just confessed to dating a Bond villain.
“Is this one of your weird metaphors?” Emma asked. “Like when you said your last situationship was a landmine in a suit?”
You shook your head solemnly. “No. This one’s real. And terrifying. And so, so hot.”
“Oh my God,” Nora whispered, absolutely delighted. “Who is he?”
You just smiled, a little too pleased with yourself. “His name’s Nikto.”
And just like that, the table exploded into shrieks of disbelief, questions, and increasingly chaotic hypotheticals about what it meant to fall in love with someone who probably had a contingency plan for every window in this building.
“Nikto?” Emma repeated slowly, brow furrowed. “Is that his name or his job title?”
Lila leaned in, curious. “Wait—is that even a real name, or are we talking code name levels of secrecy here?”
You grinned, lifting your tequila. “Let’s call it… classified adjacent.”
Nora raised an eyebrow. “So what’s he like? Mysterious? Broody? Built like a war crime?”
You hummed thoughtfully. “All of the above. Tall, deadly quiet, tactical gear like it’s second skin—and he wears a mask. Pretty much all the time.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “Oh my God. You’re dating a masked man of mystery and just now decided to tell us?”
“He could choke someone out with dental floss, couldn’t he?” Lila said, awestruck.
You nodded smugly. “In under ten seconds. I timed it once.”
“Jesus,” Nora whispered, awe-struck. “What do you do to attract these men?”
“Be emotionally unavailable and know how to load a sniper rifle,” you said with a wink.
Emma clutched her chest. “Okay, start from the beginning. All of it. How did this happen?”
You slouched dramatically in your seat. “It started on a mission,” you said, as if you were about to tell a spooky campfire tale. “I was supposed to be watching a mark from a rooftop in Warsaw. Had eyes on him for three hours. Then—outta nowhere—he appears behind me and says, ‘You’re watching the wrong man.’”
The girls gasped.
“I almost jumped off the damn roof.” you added, laughing. “He had a mask on, full tactical gear, zero noise. Scared the tequila out of me.”
“Was he on your side?” Lila asked, wide-eyed.
“Eventually,” you said. “Apparently, he’d been watching me for days—making sure I wasn’t compromised. Said I looked… suspicious.”
Emma grinned. “So he stalked you and you fell in love. Classic.”
“Not right away,” you said. “He was cold at first. Blunt. Like steel wrapped in colder steel. But over time… I dunno. We’d see each other on and off—missions, assignments. Then it turned into sharing intel. Then it turned into sharing hotel rooms.”
Nora dropped her head to the table. “Why is your love life a damn spy novel?”
You just shrugged, grinning like a fool. “He doesn’t say much. But when he does? It hits. And now, when he’s not working, he stays with me.”
That made the table freeze.
“Stays with you?” Emma asked. “Like… lives there?”
“He’s got a toothbrush in my bathroom. Keeps his jacket on the hook. Steals my coffee. Sleeps in my bed like it’s his.”
“You’re cohabiting with a Russian assassin and didn’t tell us?” Nora said, half outraged, half impressed. “We’ve been discussing our depressing hinge matches and you’ve been hosting the KGB at your place?”
You grinned into your glass. “What can I say? I like dangerous imports.”
Lila tossed a napkin at you. “I hope he makes you breakfast.”
“He does,” you said smugly. “And he folds my laundry. Like with the little corners tucked.”
Emma’s voice was reverent. “You’re living with a killer househusband.”
“God, I really am,” you laughed. “And the worst part is—I kinda love it.”
Emma shook her head, still reeling. “Only you would casually drop that you’re dating a masked enigma like it’s no big deal.”
You smirked into your drink. “It’s only been a few months.”
“A few months?” Nora gasped. “You’ve been practically living with someone and didn’t say a word?”
“I didn’t want to jinx it.” you admitted with a shrug. “Plus, I like having at least one secret weapon in my back pocket.”
Lila rolled her eyes fondly. “You are such a vault.”
But despite the teasing, there was nothing but warmth in their eyes. Emma leaned over and squeezed your hand. “We’re really happy for you, babe. You deserve someone who can handle all your chaos.”
“And preferably one who can take out a threat with a look.” Nora added.
The table laughed, and someone raised their glass—no one remembered who started it.
“To masked men, miracle group chats, and making it out of this hellscape of a year with some joy intact.”
You all clinked your glasses again, basking in that rare, perfect buzz of tequila and friendship.
Eventually, you blinked at your phone and realized how late it had gotten. “Alright, how’s everyone getting home?”
Lila slung her arm over Emma’s shoulder. “The three of us are grabbing a cab. I finally got that apartment I wanted—moved in across from these two a few weeks ago—so we’re piling in together.”
You nodded. “I’ll text Nikto. He’s at my apartment—he offered to wait up for me so we could walk back together.”
Emma wiggled her eyebrows. “You sure it’s going to be a walk, not a smoldering alleyway makeout followed by mysteriously disappearing clothes?”
You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “I will neither confirm nor deny.”
You pulled your phone from your bag, squinting at the screen as you tapped to bring up your messages. Before you could even scroll, Emma leaned over curiously—and then let out a loud, unladylike snort.
“Oh my God,” she wheezed, already dissolving into giggles. “No way. No actual way.”
“What?” you asked, confused, trying to angle the phone away from her. Too late.
Emma nearly doubled over with laughter. “You have him saved as Vlad the Impaler 🍆?!”
Lila choked on her drink. Nora slapped a hand over her mouth, face going red with the effort not to spit out her cocktail.
You groaned and dropped your head to the table. “In my defense, it started as a joke.”
Emma fanned herself. “Well, it escalated gloriously.”
“Honestly,” Lila said through laughter, “if that’s not the name of your next vibrator, I don’t know what is.”
“Stop,” you groaned. “He’s going to see that one day and I’ll die on the spot.”
Nora leaned in, grinning. “Or he’ll love it. He sounds like he has big chaotic energy.”
You peeked between your fingers. “He does, actually.”
Emma was still wiping tears from her eyes. “You’re gonna text him to come walk you home as Vlad the Impaler.”
“…I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
“Nope.” all three answered in unison.
You sighed dramatically and tapped out a message. “Fine. But if I end up impaled in a good way, I’m blaming the tequila.”
Another round of drinks materialized at the table like magic—or maybe just really attentive service. You weren’t sure. Your limbs were delightfully loose, your cheeks warm, and the margarita in your hand tasted like liquid sunshine.
“You’re adorably drunk.” Nora declared, chin in her palm as she watched you with a crooked smile.
“I second that.” Emma chimed in, raising her glass. “You’re usually two tequila flights and a bad idea in before you even blush.”
You gave an exaggerated shrug, nearly sloshing your drink. “I don’t drink when I’m working. It’s been, like… a month. I’m outta practice.”
“Well, I like this version,” Lila said, booping your nose. “All soft and squishy.”
“I’m not squishy.” you protested weakly.
“You literally just told the waiter his soul seemed gentle.” Emma deadpanned.
You opened your mouth to respond—then paused, brows furrowing. “Well, it did.”
They dissolved into giggles again, but a sudden shift in the air—just the tiniest chill down your spine—made you blink.
A hand—warm and firm—slid gently across the back of your chair, and a voice, low and honeyed with a thick Russian lilt, ghosted against your ear.
“Moya malyshka… May I walk you home?”
You blinked, the words washing over you in your margarita-soaked haze.
Then you recoiled slightly, sliding farther into the booth until you were half-lounging against Lila. “Whoa there, Ivan the Terribly Forward.”
Your friends froze—wide-eyed, desperately biting back laughter.
You wagged a finger at the shadowed figure behind you, voice righteous and slurred. “Listen, buddy. I have a boyfriend. A very scary one. He’s got… arms. Knives. Very specific murder skills.”
A beat of silence. Then: “Murder skills, hmm?”
You nodded solemnly. “He could end you with a spoon and make it look like an accident.”
The man crouched slightly beside your chair, gloved hand braced on the back of it. “Sounds like a dangerous man.”
“The most dangerous.” you confirmed, completely unbothered by how close he was. “He wears a mask and everything. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
At that, Emma made a choking noise. Nora bit her knuckle. Lila looked like she was about to explode.
Still, the man just hummed, amused. “I’d like to meet him.”
You pointed at your chest proudly. “He meets me. Whenever he’s lucky.”
His low chuckle sent a shiver up your spine. “Then he is very lucky.”
You frowned. “Stop being nice. That’s confusing.”
The silence at the table shattered with a wheeze.
Emma was the first to break, clutching her stomach as she doubled over with laughter. Nora slapped the table, tears leaking from her eyes. Lila leaned fully into you, shaking with giggles.
You blinked at them, bewildered. “What? Why are you all laughing like hyenas? Should I call Nikto and warn him that some random dude tried to flirt with me? He’d be so pissed—”
“That is Nikto.” Lila choked out between gasps.
Your face scrunched. “No, it isn’t. Nikto’s voice is deeper. And—scarier. And he doesn’t do public flirting. Or gentle touches.”
Behind you, the mystery man let out a low chuckle—definitely Nikto’s brand of amused menace.
You slowly turned your head.
He was crouched beside you still, unmistakable even behind the tactical mask and dark hoodie. The glint of amusement in his eyes was the only expression he ever needed.
You froze. Your mouth dropped open.
“Oh my God.”
Nikto tilted his head. “Still waiting for your very dangerous boyfriend, moya malen'kaya ptichka?”
You made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a squeak and immediately buried your face in your hands.
Emma wheezed again. “She told him he wouldn’t stand a chance!”
“And warned him about herself,” Nora gasped. “I’m gonna die.”
You groaned into your palms. “Please tell me there’s a tequila-sponsored time machine somewhere.”
Strong arms wrapped around your waist, effortlessly lifting you from the booth. You let out a yelp as your feet left the floor.
“I’ve got you,” Nikto murmured. “Even if you did threaten to let me die by spoon.”
You groaned again, this time with a touch more despair, as Nikto cradled you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.
“Put me down, I need to die in private.” you mumbled into his shoulder.
Instead, he tightened his hold slightly, the warmth of him melting into your skin. “No dying. Not on my watch.”
Your friends stood to say their goodbyes, all of them wearing matching expressions of poorly concealed glee.
“Get home safe.” Lila said, trying and failing to suppress a smirk.
“Text us when you get in.” Nora added, giving you a quick hug and winking at Nikto. “Or… after.”
Then Emma, chaos incarnate, saluted. “Take good care of her, Vlad the Impaler.”
You stiffened mid-hug and whipped around, nearly elbowing Nikto in the ribs. “Emma!”
“What?” she said innocently, already snorting.
Nikto tilted his head, voice curious. “Vlad the Impaler?”
You slapped a hand over Emma’s mouth. “We don’t need to unpack that.”
But Emma peeled your hand away with zero remorse. “It’s your contact name in her phone. She added an eggplant emoji too.”
Your soul left your body.
Nikto made a low, pleased noise in his throat. “An eggplant, mm?” He looked down at you, entirely too smug. “You flatter me, ptichka.”
You covered your face with both hands. “I am never drinking again.”
He leaned in closer, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “Oh you will. But tonight, we’ll see if I can live up to that name.”
Your knees nearly gave out. Emma let out a whoop behind you.
“I hate all of you.” you grumbled weakly.
“Love you too, babe!” Emma called.
“Deeply.” added Lila.
Nikto chuckled, carrying you out the door as you tried to dissolve into his coat.
The Prague air nipped at your skin as you stepped out into the night, bundled up against the early chill. Nikto still had one arm around you, steadying your slightly wobbly steps with infuriating ease.
“You are very quiet, ptichka.” he said, tone mild. “Embarrassed? Or just drunk?”
You squinted up at him, cheeks warm. “Both. Mostly because someone now knows he’s saved in my phone as Vlad the Impaler.”
He chuckled low in his throat. “You could have named me something boring. Like Viktor. Or Alexei.”
You gave him a pointed look. “You literally wear a murder mask and own, like, seventeen knives. Vlad was inevitable.”
“And the emoji?”
You stumbled slightly—definitely on purpose—and clutched his coat like it would save you. “Slip of the thumb.”
Nikto hummed, clearly not buying it. “Is that what they call wishful thinking these days?”
You gasped. “You absolute menace.”
He leaned in, teeth flashing behind his mask. “You’re the one with the violent nickname kink, kotenok.”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And yet,” he said, mock-thoughtful, “you are still holding onto me like I’m your favorite thing.”
“You are my favorite thing,” you blurted, tipsy and reckless, then immediately slapped a hand over your mouth. “I mean—”
His steps slowed. “Say it again.”
“No.”
He stopped completely. Before you could blink, he tugged you into the mouth of a dark alley, pressed you back against the cool brick wall, and caged you in with his arms.
“You think you can say something like that and not suffer consequences?” he murmured, voice low and dangerous and stupidly sexy.
Your breath caught, heat rolling through you. “Depends on what the consequences are.”
Nikto’s mask dipped toward you, his mouth brushing yours in the faintest whisper of contact. “This.”
Then he kissed you like he meant to burn your name into memory. His hand gripped your waist, the other braced beside your head, and the world narrowed to heat, pressure, and the soft, desperate sound you made when he deepened the kiss.
Your fingers fisted in his coat. You kissed him back with everything in you—messy, eager, shameless. His body pressed into yours, all strength and silent promise.
He finally broke the kiss with a growl, forehead resting against yours. “Let me take you home before I forget how to be a gentleman.”
You smirked up at him, breathless. “You were being a gentleman?”
He let out a dark laugh and took your hand. “Come on, devushka. Before I change my mind.”
Nikto unlocked the door to your apartment with the ease of someone who’d done it a dozen times. Technically, it wasyour place—but he had a key, and he used it like he owned the walls.
The second the door shut behind you, you kicked off your boots and dramatically flopped onto the couch like your bones had given up.
Nikto locked the door and turned around just in time to see your arm drape over your eyes with a groan.
“I’m deceased,” you announced to the ceiling. “Tell my plants I loved them.”
He arched a brow, setting your bags on the entry table. “You drank three cocktails and had chips.”
You held up two fingers. “Correction: three and a half. Someone dared me to finish the hibiscus thing and I am no coward.”
A fond exhale escaped him as he stepped closer. “You are very dramatic when drunk, solnyshko.”
You peeked at him through your fingers, pout forming. “You’re mocking me.”
“I’m admiring you,” he said smoothly. “Very different.”
You watched him cross the room, remove his coat, set it on the chair. Your gaze followed his movements like he was something holy—and maybe to your tequila-sloshed brain, he was.
“Hey.” you called softly.
He glanced over.
“You’re my favorite thing.” you mumbled, a little wobbly, a little shy.
Nikto stilled. “Say it again.”
You grinned, loose and sweet. “You’re my favorite. Even with the mask. Especially with the mask.”
He shook his head, stepping toward you, a quiet huff of laughter behind the tactical lines of his mask. “Bozhe moi, you are going to ruin me.”
You made grabby hands. “Come be ruined on the couch with me.”
He didn’t hesitate—just pulled off his gloves, leaned down, and gently scooped you into his lap as he sank onto the cushions.
“I’m serious,” you whispered against his shoulder. “You’re the best thing in my life.”
His arms tightened around you. “And you,” he murmured into your hair, “are the only soft thing I will ever protect with everything I have.”
You blinked, then poked his chest. “You’re so hot when you get all lethal and romantic.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Drink water.”
“Only if you kiss me first.”
He did—slow and sure, like a promise sealed.
You were half-asleep in his lap, fingers lightly tracing the seam of his tactical shirt, your breath slow and even against his neck. The TV played something low and forgettable in the background, but neither of you paid it any mind. You were wrapped up in each other, in the quiet and the calm, in the kind of stillness that only came after laughter and tequila and confessions murmured into the night.
Nikto’s mask had been pushed up just enough for comfort—revealing his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the faintest shadow of a smile that wasn’t for the world. Just for you.
“I like this,” you mumbled sleepily, eyes fluttering closed. “Just… being here with you.”
His hand smoothed over your back in long, gentle strokes. “You could have this always, ptichka. If you want it.”
You tilted your face up to look at him, gaze a little unfocused but completely sincere. “I already do. I’ve had it since you shared your last piece of chocolate and threatened to murder that customs officer who flirted with me.”
His lips quirked. “That man was an idiot.”
You grinned. “But my idiot was bigger and scarier.”
“Always,” he murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering at your cheek. “And only yours.”
You leaned into his touch with a happy hum. “You’re gonna be such a softie when we’re old.”
“Never.” he scoffed, voice warm.
You yawned, eyes drifting shut. “Liar.”
And he let you drift, held tight in his arms, with the ghost of a smile pressed to your temple—content to be your favorite thing, forever.