Date Night
Cruz
Cruz woke to the gentle hush of the villa, the warmth of the sheets cocooning her, the rhythmic sound of Aaliyah’s breathing beside her. For a moment, she simply lay there, listening. It had taken time—months, really—to allow herself these small moments of peace, to recognize that not every morning had to start with tension knotting in her stomach, with adrenaline priming her body before her mind even caught up. Even now, the instinct remained, humming beneath her skin like a silent alarm waiting to go off, but today was different. Today, she let herself enjoy this.
She turned her head slightly, careful not to disturb the woman beside her. Aaliyah was still deep in sleep, her dark hair fanned out across the pillow, the slow rise and fall of her chest serene in a way Cruz rarely got to see when Aaliyah was awake. It struck her then, not for the first time, how effortlessly beautiful she was—how even in the soft vulnerability of sleep, Aaliyah carried a presence that held weight.
Cruz had never been the sentimental type. Romance had always been something fleeting, a brief indulgence before she inevitably left, before duty or survival pulled her elsewhere. But with Aaliyah, it was different. The thought of leaving wasn’t just an option she didn’t want to entertain—it was impossible.
Maybe that was why the idea of today had taken root in her mind.
It wasn’t much. Just a date. A real one, untainted by fear or the necessity of moving in the shadows. It had been gnawing at her since they arrived in Milan, this need to give Aaliyah something normal, something unburdened by everything that had led them here. Cruz knew she couldn’t promise forever, couldn’t predict what obstacles still lay ahead. But she could give her this. A night where nothing else mattered except them.
Carefully, she slid out of bed, moving with the quiet precision ingrained in her after years of training. Aaliyah stirred slightly, her brows drawing together as if instinctively reaching for Cruz even in sleep, but she didn’t wake. Cruz exhaled softly, watching her for a lingering second before crossing the room.
She tugged on a pair of jeans, a fitted black long-sleeve, and her boots before hesitating near the nightstand. She wasn’t the kind of person who left notes. She wasn’t even sure why she reached for the notepad and pen, but as her fingers curled around them, it felt like the right thing to do.
Didn’t want to wake you. Be back soon. Stay inside. You’re safe here. –C
She paused, tapping the pen against the pad before adding another line.
P.S. Don’t miss me too much.
The second she set the pen down, she nearly tore the note up. Too much. Too sentimental. But something in her resisted the impulse. Aaliyah would tease her for it, sure, but Cruz had come to learn that she didn’t mind when Aaliyah teased her. In fact, she liked it.
With one last glance at the sleeping woman in the bed, Cruz grabbed her jacket and slipped out the door before she could second-guess herself.
--
The streets of Milan were just beginning to stir, the golden morning light unfurling like a silk ribbon over the cobblestones, weaving through the narrow alleys and casting long, slanted shadows from the centuries-old buildings. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of brewing espresso from the cafés beginning to open their doors, mingling with the distant warmth of fresh bread from the panetterias. It was early enough that the city still held onto a kind of quiet elegance, but life was awakening—merchants setting up their stands, the occasional hum of a Vespa zipping down the street, a woman in a long coat walking her dog while murmuring into her phone.
Cruz moved through the city with a practiced ease, her steps unhurried but deliberate. She walked like someone who had spent years learning how to blend in, how to be both present and unseen all at once. Even now, when she had no immediate threats tailing her, no mission demanding her focus, she remained hyper-aware of her surroundings. Her eyes skimmed across reflective storefronts, casually noting potential exits, escape routes, anything that seemed out of place. It was second nature to her, this constant assessment, as much a part of her as breathing.
But today, she wasn’t here to run counter-surveillance or scout for dangers lurking in the shadows.
She was here for something different. Something normal. Something for Aaliyah.
The thought settled in her chest in a way that was almost unfamiliar—not heavy like duty or necessity, but light, warm. It wasn’t a feeling she was used to, this quiet anticipation. She had spent so much of her life doing things because they had to be done, because survival demanded it, because orders were given and she was meant to follow. But this? This was because she wanted to.
She crossed a quiet piazza, the sound of her boots a soft, steady rhythm against the stone. The restaurant she had scouted the day before was tucked into the corner, its ivy-covered walls and wrought-iron balconies giving it a timeless charm. It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t grand, but it had an intimacy to it, the kind of place that felt like a well-kept secret. Through the windows, she could see the glow of warm lighting, the neatly arranged tables set with crisp white linens, a single candle resting at the center of each one. It was the kind of place meant for moments, for connection.
Cruz hesitated before stepping inside, adjusting the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder. It had been years—maybe never—since she had done something like this, planned a date that wasn’t just a matter of convenience or necessity. The weight of it settled over her, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
The hostess, a middle-aged woman with dark hair pulled into a loose bun, greeted her with a knowing smile. “Buongiorno,” she said, before scanning Cruz with sharp eyes, as if immediately assessing what kind of reservation this was.
Cruz cleared her throat slightly. “A table for two. For tonight.”
The woman nodded, already jotting down the details. “Perfetto per gli innamorati,” she murmured as she wrote, her voice carrying a lilting ease.
Cruz barely managed to keep her expression neutral as she slid a few crisp bills across the counter. Perfect for lovers.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, tamping down the flicker of warmth that crept up her neck. Don’t overthink it.
“Yeah,” she muttered, shifting her weight slightly. “Something like that.”
The woman’s smile deepened as if she understood more than Cruz had said aloud. “I’ll make sure your table is ready.”
With a quick nod of thanks, Cruz turned and stepped back onto the street, rolling her shoulders against the tightness in her muscles. One part of the plan down.
The next stop was the flower shop.
Cruz had never bought flowers before. Not like this, anyway. Any flowers she had ever given were out of obligation—a bouquet for a commanding officer’s retirement ceremony, a floral arrangement sent on behalf of the team for a funeral. She had never done this for personal reasons, never stood in a place like this with the weight of a choice she actually cared about.
The shop was small, tucked between a bookstore and a café, the scent of fresh blooms spilling out onto the sidewalk. Inside, the space was a riot of color—delicate petals in soft pastels, bold hues of red and violet, bouquets arranged in loose, organic shapes rather than stiff, perfect lines. It smelled sweet, earthy, alive.
Cruz stepped inside, the bells above the door chiming softly.
The florist, a woman in her sixties with silver-threaded hair and a keen gaze, glanced up from trimming a set of stems. She studied Cruz for a moment before nodding slightly, as if she had already made a quiet assessment of what kind of customer she was dealing with.
“Shopping for someone special?” the woman asked, her voice smooth with curiosity.
Cruz shifted, rubbing the back of her neck. “Um, yes.”
The florist hummed knowingly before gesturing toward the arrangements. “What are you looking for?”
Cruz’s eyes scanned the shop, lingering on the various bouquets without any real idea of what she was supposed to be choosing. Did different flowers mean different things? Did Aaliyah have a favorite?
She exhaled through her nose. Just pick something that fits.
Then, her gaze caught on a particular bouquet near the window—elegant, understated, a mix of soft whites, deep blues, and hints of lavender. It wasn’t the showiest arrangement in the shop, but there was something about it that felt right. Something that reminded her of Aaliyah’s quiet strength, her poise, the way she could command attention without demanding it.
“That one,” Cruz said, nodding toward it.
The florist’s expression flickered with approval. “A good choice.”
Cruz watched as she wrapped the bouquet with careful precision, tying it off with a silk ribbon before handing it over. The weight of it in her hands felt foreign, but not unwelcome. She nodded in thanks, slipping a few extra bills onto the counter before stepping back outside.
One last stop.
The wine shop was quieter, the scent of oak barrels and aged cork greeting her as she stepped inside. This choice was easier—she had learned Aaliyah’s tastes well enough by now. A bottle of Tuscan red, smooth and rich, something Aaliyah would appreciate after dinner.
Cruz paid quickly, tucking the bottle carefully into the bag with the flowers before stepping back onto the street. The city had come fully alive now, the buzz of morning fading into the steady hum of midday. She took a slow breath, the crisp air filling her lungs as she turned toward the route that would take her back to the villa.
--
The sensation crept in slowly, subtle at first—a whisper of unease at the base of her neck, the kind that had been carved into her bones after years of training, of surviving. Cruz felt the shift before she could pinpoint it, before her mind had even formed a conscious thought. She didn’t react. Didn’t tense. Didn’t turn her head.
Instead, she let her eyes skim the glass storefronts as she walked, using them as mirrors to scan the reflections behind her. The streets of Milan were busy enough that a tail could easily blend in, but Cruz wasn’t looking for someone standing out—she was looking for someone just ordinary enough to be deliberate. Nothing obvious. Still, the feeling remained.
She shifted her course without hesitation, slowing slightly as if distracted by a boutique display, angling her body just enough to give herself a wider vantage point. If she was being followed, she wasn’t going to lead them back to the villa.
The bell above the door jingled softly as she stepped inside the boutique, pretending to browse. She ran her fingers along a leather handbag she had no interest in, her senses stretching outward, waiting. The scent of perfume and finely crafted goods lingered in the air. Another customer murmured something to a clerk in Italian. The world continued around her, seemingly undisturbed.
And then “You’re slipping, Manuelos,” a smooth, amused voice murmured behind her. “You made me in two minutes.”
Cruz exhaled slowly through her nose before turning just enough to get a look at him.
Kyle McManus.
He was leaning against a display table with the same casual arrogance he’d always carried—like the world existed on his terms and he found it mildly entertaining. Mid-thirties, sharp blue eyes that never missed a detail, an easy smirk that hid the kind of history only a handful of people in the world could claim.
Cruz didn’t bother masking the irritation in her gaze. “You’re not very good at this, McManus,” she said flatly. “If I spotted you that fast, you need to work on your tailing game.”
Kyle scoffed, shaking his head. “Please. I wanted to be found.” He glanced at the bouquet in her arms, his smirk deepening. “That for your girlfriend?”
Cruz ignored the bait, keeping her expression unreadable. “What do you want?”
Kyle’s smile faded slightly, the playfulness in his posture cooling just a fraction. “The CIA wants Asmar and Ehsan off the board. You and Aaliyah can help.”
Cruz didn’t flinch, but her fingers twitched at her side. She already knew what he wasn’t saying. “Define ‘gone,’” she said evenly.
Kyle tilted his head, considering her question with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “You don’t have the clearance to get an answer to that anymore.”
Cruz’s jaw tightened slightly. Which meant there was a kill order.
A beat of silence stretched between them, the noise of the shop and the streets outside fading beneath the sudden thrum of her pulse. Kyle didn’t look at all unsettled, which meant he expected this outcome. Expected her to hesitate.
Cruz was already calculating. Already shifting the pieces in her mind. Freedom for Aaliyah. No more running. But at what cost?
She had never given a damn about Asmar Amrohi or Ehsan Al-Rashdi. They had sent men to kill Aaliyah. They had destroyed lives in their pursuit of power. They were monsters, and Cruz had spent her career putting down men like them. But the truth was, this wasn’t about them. It was about Aaliyah. And what this would do to her.
Cruz’s gaze sharpened. “How long have you been tracking us?”
Kyle didn’t even blink at the shift in topic. “Since Salzburg.”
Cruz’s grip tightened on the bouquet, her fingers pressing against the delicate stems.
Of course. It made sense now—the flagged tickets at the airport, the way security had questioned them with just enough specificity to be suspicious. It hadn’t been Asmar’s people hunting them in Austria. It had been the CIA. Watching. Waiting. Fucking tracking them. She should have known. She should have seen it.
Kyle studied her face, probably noting the subtle way her breath had shifted, the almost imperceptible flex of her shoulders. He smirked again. “Relax, Manuelos. If we wanted you taken in, we’d have done it already.”
Cruz let out a quiet breath, steadying herself. “And yet here you are, offering me a deal.”
Kyle spread his hands. “It’s a simple equation—help us, and Aaliyah walks free. We both know that girl has no chance at a normal life if her father’s still out there pulling strings.”
Cruz said nothing because he was right. If Asmar was still alive, Aaliyah would never be free. The chase would never end. No villa would be safe enough, no city would be far enough, no name would be false enough. The walls would keep closing in until one day, there would be nowhere left to run.
Kyle knew it. She knew it. And yet, something in her gut still twisted at the thought of handing Aaliyah’s father over to the agency on blind faith.
Her silence stretched long enough for Kyle to sigh, rubbing the back of his neck like he was growing bored. “Look, I don’t need an answer right now,” he said. “But you should think about it. Because the way I see it, you’re running out of options.”
Cruz glanced down at the flowers in her hands, at the delicate petals she had chosen just minutes ago, and something clenched in her chest.
This morning, she had set out to plan a date. To give Aaliyah something real. Something that wasn’t about survival or deception or keeping one step ahead.
And now she was standing in the middle of a boutique, holding a fucking bouquet, contemplating whether she was about to get Aaliyah’s father executed by the U.S. government.
She hated this. She hated the CIA’s games, that Kyle was right. But more than anything, she hated that no matter what decision she made, Aaliyah would still lose something.
Cruz inhaled slowly, pressing the tension in her chest into a tight, controlled knot. She didn’t answer Kyle. Didn’t give him so much as a glance as she turned and walked out of the shop, her grip on the bouquet careful but firm.
Kyle didn’t call after her, he didn’t need to. Because they both knew she wouldn’t be able to ignore it. Now, whether she wanted to or not, Cruz had a decision to make. And it wasn’t just her own future on the line.
--
Cruz slipped into a quiet café on the edge of the piazza, one of those tucked-away places where the locals outnumbered the tourists, and the scent of fresh espresso lingered in the air like a promise. The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside, her movements instinctively measured, her mind still circling the conversation she’d just had with Kyle.
She needed a minute.
Dropping into a chair by the window, she exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back in an attempt to shake the tension creeping along her spine. The weight of the bouquet and wine bottle in the crook of her arm felt heavier now, like a reminder of the lines she was walking.
The waiter approached, offering her the ease of a practiced smile, but Cruz barely registered it. “Un caffè,” she murmured, and the man nodded, disappearing behind the counter.
Cruz turned her attention to the window, her gaze tracing the movement outside—the effortless rhythm of Milan at midday. The city hummed with life, unbothered, untouched by the decision that had just been dropped into her lap. A woman on a bicycle wove through pedestrians with a basket full of bread. A group of businessmen gestured animatedly over their lunch. A couple leaned into each other, laughing over shared dessert.
And for a fleeting moment, Cruz wondered if this could be them.
Not just playing house in a borrowed life, but really living. A place where Aaliyah could step into the sun without fear of shadows lurking behind her. A life where Cruz didn’t have to check exits in every room, where she wasn’t constantly waiting for the next threat to strike.
It wasn’t an impossible thought, not if they helped the CIA.
Asmar and Ehsan were the problem. The source of the chase, the reason Aaliyah still woke in the middle of the night with her breath caught in her throat. If they were gone, if that threat was erased, Aaliyah could have something like this—a future without the weight of her family’s sins pressing down on her.
But Cruz knew better than to trust Kyle McManus.
The CIA didn’t just ask for favors. They didn’t extend deals without strings. And right now, Cruz had no idea what those strings were.
The waiter returned, setting the espresso down with a small saucer of sugar cubes. Cruz nodded her thanks, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat ground her.
Kyle had known exactly what he was doing when he made his pitch. He’d dangled freedom in front of her like bait, knowing she’d bite. And maybe, in some ways, she already had.
But this wasn’t just her decision to make. It was Aaliyah’s life.
And Aaliyah still believed in the rules. That promises were meant to be kept, that people like Kyle wouldn’t lie to her face and then put a bullet in her father’s head. She still thought there were ways to end this without getting blood on her hands.
Cruz had spent too many years knowing otherwise.
She took a slow sip of coffee, letting the bitterness roll over her tongue as she forced herself to breathe.
She should tell Aaliyah. She should tell her everything Kyle said, lay it all out on the table.
But not today, she had spent the morning planning a night that wasn’t about running or hiding or survival. Tonight was supposed to be for Aaliyah—to give her a moment that belonged to her, something untouched by the past. A reminder that life could be more than just a chase.
Cruz didn’t get the opportunity to give Aaliyah much. But she could give her this.
Tonight, she didn’t want to mention Kyle. She didn’t want to let the weight of the CIA creep into the space she was trying to carve out for them. For one night, she wanted let Aaliyah believe in something soft. Something real. And after that, Cruz would figure out what the hell she was going to do next.
--
Cruz adjusted the grip on the bouquet as she made her way up the stone pathway to the villa, her steps slow, deliberate. The weight of the past few hours still sat heavy on her shoulders, but she shoved it down, forcing herself to focus on the moment ahead. On Aaliyah.
This wasn’t a mission. It wasn’t strategy or survival or another carefully calculated move. This was just Cruz, standing at the edge of something she didn’t quite have a name for, holding onto a bouquet of flowers she barely understood, and hoping she wouldn’t fuck it up.
The villa was quiet when she stepped inside, the soft glow of the afternoon sun filtering through the tall windows, casting golden streaks across the polished floors. It smelled like fresh linen and jasmine, like the open air from the terrace where the breeze carried in hints of the city beyond their hidden sanctuary.
Her eyes landed on Aaliyah instantly. She was curled up on the couch, one leg tucked under her, a book resting in her lap. Loose tendrils of dark hair framed her face, and the soft linen of her shirt had slipped off one shoulder, exposing warm, golden skin. She looked so effortlessly beautiful it almost knocked the breath from Cruz’s lungs.
For a second, Cruz just stood there, caught in the sight of her, taking in the way Aaliyah’s lips parted slightly as she read, the crease of her brow as she absorbed whatever world she was lost in.
Then Aaliyah looked up. Her gaze landed on Cruz, and something flickered across her face—first surprise, then something warmer, something softer.
Cruz didn’t move, standing there like an idiot with a bottle of wine tucked under one arm and a bouquet in her grip.
Aaliyah’s eyes dropped to the flowers. And then she smiled. A real smile. Not a smirk, not a carefully measured expression, but something easy, something that belonged to them alone.
Cruz swallowed, stepping forward, forcing herself to just say it. “You said you wanted a proper date.” She held out the bouquet, her voice steady, her heart hammering.
Aaliyah stared at her for a beat, lips parting slightly, her gaze flicking between the flowers and Cruz’s face like she wasn’t quite sure she was awake.
Then, without warning, she was up, crossing the space between them in two strides.
She took the bouquet, her fingers brushing over Cruz’s, but her attention was locked on Cruz, something unreadable burning behind those dark, striking eyes.
“You are so attractive when you do things like this,” Aaliyah murmured, and before Cruz could react, Aaliyah’s hands were on her jaw, her lips pressing firmly against Cruz’s.
Cruz barely had time to process before she was kissing her back, Aaliyah’s warmth flooding her senses, her fingers sliding up into the short strands of Cruz’s hair, tilting her head just enough to deepen the kiss.
It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate or frantic like so many of their touches had been before, born from adrenaline and the constant push of survival. This was different. This was slow. Intentional.
Aaliyah kissed her like she meant it, like she wanted her to feel it, like this was more than just a passing moment but a mark left behind, something imprinted deep beneath the surface.
Cruz’s free hand found Aaliyah’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt, holding her close, grounding herself.
When Aaliyah finally pulled back, her breath was warm against Cruz’s lips, her hands still cupping her face, thumbs tracing absent patterns against her jaw.
Cruz was still holding the bottle of wine like an idiot.
Aaliyah laughed softly, shaking her head. “You really are something else, Cruz.”
Cruz cleared her throat, attempting to regain the half ounce of composure she still had left. “That a yes, then?”
Aaliyah grinned, her thumb brushing the corner of Cruz’s mouth. “That’s a hell yes.”
Cruz smirked, letting herself soak in the rare, untamed joy in Aaliyah’s expression. For once, they weren’t running, there was something to look forward to. And for Cruz, that was more terrifying than anything else in the world.
Aaliyah
Aaliyah stirred before her eyes even opened, the sensation of warmth fading from the sheets beside her. Instinctively, she reached out, fingers grazing the cool linen where Cruz should have been. Her brows furrowed as she blinked awake, her mind sluggish in the soft golden light that filtered through the curtains. The morning air was crisp, the faint scent of jasmine lingering from the open balcony doors, but the absence of Cruz made the space feel oddly empty.
She sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders in soft waves. The bed felt too big without Cruz beside her. It was strange how quickly she had grown used to her presence—her warmth, the quiet weight of her body in sleep, the steady rhythm of her breathing lulling Aaliyah into rare moments of peace.
Her gaze landed on the nightstand.
A small slip of paper rested against the smooth wood, the handwriting unmistakable.
Aaliyah reached for it, her fingers brushing the edges before she picked it up, unfolding it carefully as if it might disappear if she wasn’t gentle enough.
Didn’t want to wake you. Be back soon. Stay inside. You’re safe here. –C
She traced the bold strokes of Cruz’s handwriting with her thumb, her lips pressing together. Cruz was always direct, precise in her words. She didn’t waste time on things like sentiment.
But then, below the first line, she saw it.
P.S. Don’t miss me too much.
Aaliyah exhaled sharply, something tight forming in her chest. The words were simple, but they carried weight. It wasn’t just a note. It was Cruz trying, in her own way, to reach out.
She swallowed, rolling onto her side and holding the note against her chest for a moment, allowing herself to feel the ache of missing Cruz already. It was ridiculous. She had spent most of her life guarding herself, carefully controlling what she allowed herself to want, to feel. Now she felt Cruz’s absence like a missing piece of herself.
With a sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, stretching as her feet met the cool wooden floor. She needed coffee. Something to chase away the thoughts creeping into her head, the emotions she wasn’t sure what to do with.
--
The villa was beautiful in the daylight, the stained-glass windows casting colorful fragments across the polished marble. It was grand but not ostentatious, its charm woven into the delicate details—the intricate molding, the antique furniture, the soft flicker of the fireplace that Cruz had lit last night before they fell asleep together.
Aaliyah wandered through the space, running her fingers along the back of the couch as she passed through the sitting room. It was quiet. Almost too quiet.
She had never been the kind of person who needed company to fill the silence. She had grown up in a house full of people and still felt lonely, so she had learned early on to make peace with solitude.
But this wasn’t the same. It wasn’t just that she was alone. It was that Cruz wasn’t here.
Aaliyah sighed, shaking her head at herself as she walked into the kitchen. She should be enjoying this. This moment of normalcy.
She had spent years under her father’s thumb, forced into roles she hadn’t chosen, her life dictated by duty and expectation. And then came the running, the constant movement, the fear of being found. She had dreamed of a day when she could just exist without looking over her shoulder.
Now she was free. Or at least, as free as she could be in this fragile in-between state. But even with all that freedom, she found herself anchored to one thing.
Cruz.
She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling as she leaned against the counter, fingers tracing absentmindedly over the note Cruz had left.
This feeling—this need—was dangerous. Because it was real.
Because it wasn’t just about survival, or gratitude, or the rush of adrenaline that had carried them through the worst of it.
She was falling for Cruz. No, she had already fallen somewhere between stolen glances and whispered reassurances, between shared grief and unexpected laughter, between the sharp edges of Cruz’s guarded heart and the quiet, aching tenderness she tried so hard to hide.
Aaliyah smiled softly, folding the note and tucking it into her pocket. She didn’t know what would come next. But she knew one thing. She wanted Cruz in it.
--
Aaliyah had never been particularly skilled in the kitchen, but she liked the process—the measured chaos of it, the way a handful of simple ingredients could become something warm, something real. It was grounding in a way few things were. A reminder that she still had choices, still had control over small moments, even if everything else in her life had been dictated by men who thought they could decide for her.
So, after wandering the villa aimlessly, trying not to let the quiet gnaw at her, she settled on baking. Something simple, something comforting. Scones, maybe. Or muffins. She wasn’t entirely sure which yet.
The kitchen was spacious, bathed in the warm glow of the morning sun filtering through the stained-glass windows. It had the kind of old-world charm she had always admired, the smooth marble counters cool beneath her fingertips as she set out ingredients. Flour, sugar, butter. The basics.
She pulled open a few cabinets, her brows furrowing when she realized she had no idea where half of the kitchen supplies were stored. Cruz was usually the one who took charge of things like this—efficient, methodical, like everything in her life. Aaliyah was more… spontaneous. She could already hear Cruz’s voice in her head, teasing but affectionate. You didn’t even check if we had baking powder, did you?
Aaliyah rolled her eyes at herself, shaking off the thought. She didn’t need Cruz to make a damn batch of scones.
Still, as she began mixing the dry ingredients, she felt an odd weight pressing against her chest.
She hadn’t expected to miss Cruz this much. Not that it had been that long. But the villa felt different without her.
Aaliyah tried to focus on the rhythm of her movements, pouring in milk and cutting cold butter into the flour, but her mind kept drifting.
Where was Cruz right now? Had something happened?
She inhaled deeply, gripping the edge of the counter for a moment before shaking the thought off. No. Cruz was careful. Cruz was smart. She wouldn’t take risks—not unless she had to.
But what if she had to?
Aaliyah exhaled sharply, stirring the dough more aggressively than necessary. She didn’t like this—this gnawing sense of unease creeping beneath her skin, the restless energy coiling in her stomach. Cruz could handle herself.
Aaliyah glanced at the clock. She’s been gone for hours.
She had left before dawn. The sun was high now, warming the villa’s stone walls, casting long golden streaks across the floor.
Aaliyah’s stomach twisted. The last time she had let herself feel safe, truly safe, everything had been ripped away from her. Mallorca. The beach. Cruz’s lips on hers, whispering things that had felt too real, too dangerous. And then blood. Betrayal. Loss.
She clenched her jaw, shaking her head as if she could physically dislodge the memories. That wasn’t now. This was different.
Cruz was coming back. Aaliyah just had to believe that.
Her hands moved on autopilot as she shaped the dough into rounds, pressing them onto the parchment-lined tray. A bit misshapen, not quite perfect, but they’d do.
She popped them into the oven, brushing stray flour from her hands, and leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over her chest.
The villa was too quiet. Too empty. And Aaliyah hated every second of it.
--
The scent of warm butter and vanilla filled the villa, but Aaliyah barely noticed. The scones she had attempted to bake sat cooling on the counter, slightly uneven and more rustic-looking than intended, but edible. Still, her appetite was nonexistent.
She had spent the past hour pacing, checking the time every few minutes, fighting the persistent knot in her stomach. She told herself she was being ridiculous—Cruz was fine. She had to be fine.
And yet, the longer the villa remained quiet, the more Aaliyah felt the familiar weight of unease settle deep in her bones. She hated it. Hated that her body still reacted this way, that no matter how far she ran, there was still something in her that expected the worst.
Then, finally, she heard the sound of footsteps in the courtyard.
Aaliyah turned so fast she nearly knocked over a glass of water. Her pulse surged as she hurried toward the front entrance, barely registering the solid thud of the villa’s heavy wooden door closing.
And then there she was.
Standing just inside the doorway, her broad frame casting a shadow against the sunlit floor, a bouquet of delicate, pale blue and lavender flowers in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.
For a moment, Aaliyah just stared. Something in her chest ached at the sight.
Cruz looked almost uncertain, shifting her weight, her grip tightening slightly around the bouquet. It was subtle—no one else would have noticed. But Aaliyah did. The way Cruz’s shoulders tensed, like she was waiting for a reaction. Like she wasn’t sure if this had been the right move.
Aaliyah felt her heart soften, the last traces of tension melting away. She had spent the entire morning imagining the worst, and here Cruz was—standing in front of her with flowers in her hands like some kind of chivalrous, old-school romantic who had no idea just how much of a hold she had on Aaliyah.
“You said you wanted a proper date,” Cruz said, her voice even, steady. But Aaliyah caught the flicker of hesitation beneath it.
A slow, warm smile curled at the edges of Aaliyah’s lips. God, I am gone for this woman.
She took a step closer, eyes locked onto Cruz’s, searching the deep brown depths, reading everything she didn’t say aloud. There was a vulnerability there—an unspoken question, an offer of something more.
Aaliyah made the decision for her. She reached up, fingers curling around the lapels of Cruz’s jacket, and pulled her down into a kiss.
The moment their lips met, it was like everything else faded away—the quiet fear, the restless anxiety, the aching loneliness that had settled in her chest all morning.
Cruz hesitated for half a second, just long enough for Aaliyah to feel the tension in her frame, like she wasn’t expecting this, like she wasn’t sure if she should let herself have it.
But then she did.
Cruz melted into her, the stiffness in her posture easing as her free hand found Aaliyah’s waist, pulling her in. The flowers crinkled slightly between them, pressed against Aaliyah’s back, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was the way Cruz kissed her—deliberate, intense, like she had been holding back and finally let go.
Aaliyah deepened the kiss, her hands sliding up to cup Cruz’s face, her fingers tangling in the short, dark strands at the nape of her neck. She could feel Cruz’s heartbeat beneath her fingertips, strong and steady, grounding her in a way nothing else could.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, Aaliyah didn’t pull away.
Cruz’s forehead rested against hers, their noses brushing, the warmth of her breath mingling with Aaliyah’s own.
“You are so attractive when you do things like this,” Aaliyah murmured, her voice slightly dazed, lips curling into a grin.
Cruz huffed a quiet, amused breath, shaking her head slightly, but she didn’t deny it.
Aaliyah pulled back just enough to look at her properly, her fingers still resting lightly on Cruz’s jaw. “Flowers, wine, a date—who knew you had this in you?”
Cruz rolled her eyes, but the smirk playing at the edges of her lips betrayed her. “Don’t get used to it.”
Aaliyah laughed, stepping back, finally allowing Cruz a moment to breathe. She plucked the bouquet from Cruz’s hand, admiring it briefly before meeting her gaze again. “Too late.”
And just like that, the villa felt warm again. Whole again. Because Cruz was here, and for now, that was all Aaliyah needed.
--
The anticipation hummed under Aaliyah’s skin as she fastened the delicate clasp of her necklace, letting the fine gold chain settle against her collarbone. The mirror reflected a woman transformed—dark eyeliner that made her green eyes pop, a deep red dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, the silk fabric pooling just above her knees with a slit running daringly up her thigh. It was elegant, effortless, a touch provocative.
Perfect. She wanted to leave Cruz breathless.
The thought sent a thrill through her, because as much as she had gotten used to teasing Cruz, to drawing out those flickers of warmth from her tough exterior, there was still something intoxicating about catching her off guard.
As she slipped on her heels, she heard footsteps just outside the door, followed by a measured knock.
“Come in,” she called, her voice carrying that natural lilt of confidence she didn’t always feel but had long since mastered.
The door creaked open, and then she was met with silence.
Aaliyah turned, a smirk already forming, but the second her eyes met Cruz’s, the air between them shifted.
Cruz stood in the doorway, dark suit tailored to perfection, the crisp white shirt beneath it open just enough at the collar to hint at something both refined and effortlessly undone. She looked composed, steady as ever, but her eyes—those deep, dark eyes—were locked onto Aaliyah like she had forgotten how to breathe.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Cruz let out a slow breath, shaking her head slightly as she stepped forward. “You’re trying to kill me,” she murmured, low and quiet.
Aaliyah felt a warmth bloom in her chest, her smirk deepening. “Not my fault you have a weak constitution.”
Cruz scoffed, but there was no real defense behind it. Her gaze roamed, lingering on the curve of Aaliyah’s waist, the slit in her dress that revealed just enough skin to be maddening.
Aaliyah stepped closer, placing a hand lightly against Cruz’s chest, feeling the slow, steady drum of her heartbeat beneath her palm. “You clean up well, soldier.”
Cruz exhaled through her nose, like she was trying to regain some semblance of control. “You, though,” she murmured, fingers brushing the edge of Aaliyah’s waist, light but reverent. “You’re—” She stopped herself, shaking her head again.
Aaliyah grinned, enjoying this too much. “What? Say it.”
Cruz narrowed her eyes, but there was a softness there, an unguarded fondness that made Aaliyah’s stomach flip.
Instead of answering, Cruz offered her arm in a rare display of gallantry. “We should go before I change my mind.”
Aaliyah arched a brow. “Change your mind about taking me out, or change your mind about letting me leave the villa in this dress?”
Cruz smirked. “Both.”
Aaliyah laughed, looping her arm through Cruz’s as they stepped out into the night.
The restaurant Cruz had chosen was tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place one wouldn’t find unless they were looking for it. Soft candlelight flickered from the windows, illuminating the warm, rustic interior, where low conversation and the scent of fresh basil and wine filled the air.
It was intimate. Private. A place meant for lovers, not fugitives. And for once, Aaliyah allowed herself to just exist in the moment.
The hostess greeted them with a knowing smile, leading them to a secluded table near the window. The city glowed just beyond the glass, golden light reflecting off rain-dampened cobblestones. Aaliyah barely noticed—her attention was fixed on Cruz, who pulled out her chair without hesitation before taking the seat across from her.
Aaliyah leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, watching as Cruz surveyed the menu with the kind of focus she usually reserved for strategic planning.
“Are you actually reading that, or are you just pretending to avoid looking at me?” Aaliyah teased, letting the toe of her shoe nudge against Cruz’s under the table.
Cruz flicked her eyes up, deadpan. “I’m trying to make sure I don’t order something I can’t pronounce.”
Aaliyah grinned, warmth bubbling in her chest. “You speak fluent Italian.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to embarrass myself,” Cruz muttered, setting the menu aside.
Aaliyah let her gaze linger, taking in the sharp lines of Cruz’s face, the way the candlelight cast shadows across her jaw, how composed she seemed, yet how present she felt.
“You’re different tonight,” Aaliyah said softly, tracing the rim of her wine glass with one finger.
Cruz met her eyes, something flickering beneath the surface. “Different how?”
Aaliyah tilted her head, considering. “Softer, maybe. Like you’re actually enjoying this.”
Cruz was quiet for a beat too long. Then, she reached for her own glass, rolling the stem between her fingers. “Maybe I am.”
Aaliyah’s breath caught, her stomach flipping in that slow, wonderful way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with Cruz.
Dinner passed in a blur of soft laughter, stolen touches, fingers brushing when Cruz poured her another glass of wine, the warmth of Cruz’s palm on her knee beneath the table. It was easy, effortless in a way Aaliyah hadn’t known she craved.
She was falling. Hard.
And yet, she noticed something lingering beneath the surface.
Cruz was present, attentive, but there were moments—brief, barely there—where her gaze drifted, where her fingers tapped idly against the table, where the weight of something unspoken pulled at the edges of her otherwise unreadable expression.
Aaliyah didn’t press. Not yet.
Instead, she reached across the table, taking Cruz’s hand in hers, grounding them both in the quiet warmth of this stolen moment.
Cruz’s fingers curled around hers, firm but gentle, and Aaliyah smiled, holding on just a little tighter.
--
The door to the villa shut with a quiet click, sealing them inside the cocoon of warm, dim light and silence. Aaliyah barely registered it. Her focus was solely on Cruz—on the slow, deliberate way she pulled off her suit jacket, her muscles flexing beneath the crisp white shirt as she draped the fabric over the back of a chair. The controlled precision of it sent a thrill through Aaliyah, her pulse already quickening with anticipation.
This was the first time in a long time that she felt like they weren’t running, weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop. Tonight had been a glimpse of something real, something normal, and it made Aaliyah hungrier for more.
She stepped forward, closing the space between them, fingers finding the buttons of Cruz’s shirt. She started unfastening them, one by one, her breath warm against Cruz’s jaw. “You look too good in this suit,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss just beneath Cruz’s ear. “I think it’s unfair.”
Cruz exhaled sharply, her hands coming to rest at Aaliyah’s waist, firm and grounding. “Unfair?”
“Mhm.” Aaliyah let her lips trail down the column of Cruz’s throat, reveling in the way she felt Cruz’s grip tighten, the barely restrained tension coiled in her body. She pressed closer, the heat of Cruz’s body seeping through the thin fabric of her dress. “It’s distracting.”
Cruz let out a low chuckle, but there was an edge to it, like she was barely keeping herself in check. Aaliyah loved that—loved the way she could unravel Cruz, strip away the composure and restraint piece by piece.
She tugged the shirt open, palms skimming over warm, toned skin, feeling the steady drum of Cruz’s heartbeat beneath her fingertips. Cruz’s breath hitched, and Aaliyah grinned against her collarbone, hands dipping lower, sliding over the waistband of her trousers—
“Aaliyah.”
Her name was spoken softly, but something in Cruz’s tone made her pause. Aaliyah lifted her gaze, her fingers stilling against Cruz’s stomach. Cruz’s expression had shifted, that rare vulnerability flickering behind her dark eyes.
Aaliyah’s brows pulled together. “What’s wrong?”
Cruz’s hands settled over hers, stopping her movements entirely. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Aaliyah studied her, searching her expression. “Right now?”
Cruz hesitated, and that hesitation told Aaliyah everything.
She stepped back slightly, the lingering heat between them cooling just a little. “Okay,” she said carefully, crossing her arms. “What is it?”
Cruz ran a hand through her hair, exhaling through her nose. “The CIA found me today.”
Aaliyah stilled, her pulse slowing as she processed Cruz’s words.
She straightened. “What do you mean the CIA found you?”
Cruz leaned against the counter, jaw tight. “A guy I used to work with in Special Activities—Kyle— was waiting for me. He said they’ve been tracking us since Salzburg.”
Aaliyah’s stomach twisted, but she forced herself to stay calm. “What do they want?”
Cruz met her gaze, her expression unreadable. “Your father. And Ehsan.”
The words settled like a stone in Aaliyah’s chest. For a moment, she didn’t speak. She felt the shift in the air, the weight of the implications. The CIA wasn’t after her—they were after the men who had controlled her life for years.
Slowly, she inhaled, her voice measured. “What does that mean, exactly?”
Cruz’s fingers drummed lightly against the countertop. “Kyle says they want them off the board. He didn’t give me any more information.”
Aaliyah’s jaw tightened. “The CIA wants my father and spurned fiancé.”
Cruz nodded once.
Aaliyah exhaled through her nose, turning the information over in her mind. It should have scared her, but it didn’t. If anything, she felt something cold and resolute settle in her chest.
She had spent so long looking over her shoulder, waiting for her father’s reach to catch up to her. She had spent so many nights wondering if Ehsan would send someone to find her, to drag her back into a life she no longer wanted. And now there was an opportunity to end it.
She lifted her chin. “I think we should meet with him.”
Cruz’s brows drew together slightly, as if she hadn’t expected that response. “You sure?”
“Yes.” Aaliyah’s voice was steady, leaving no room for doubt. “If they’re after my father, I need to know what they know. And if it means finally stopping all of this, then yeah. We at least hear them out.”
Cruz watched her carefully, as if weighing the decision in her mind. Then, finally, she nodded. “Okay. We do this together.”
Aaliyah felt something loosen inside her at those words. Because despite everything—the fear, the uncertainty—Cruz was still here, still standing beside her.
She reached out, slipping her fingers around Cruz’s wrist, then higher, until their hands were pressed together. “Together.”
--
Aaliyah stepped forward, her hands curling around the lapels of Cruz’s suit, fingers twisting in the fabric. The weight of their conversation still lingered in the air between them, but she wasn’t thinking about that anymore—not about her father, not about Ehsan, not about the CIA. She was thinking about Cruz. About the way her dark eyes searched Aaliyah’s face, torn between restraint and the pull of something deeper. About the way her breath hitched, barely audible, when Aaliyah pressed in close.
“Thank you for telling me,” Aaliyah murmured, voice low, intimate. “But I’d like to stop talking about them right now.”
Cruz’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Yeah?” Her hands hovered at Aaliyah’s waist, uncertain, like she was still holding herself back.
Aaliyah nodded, eyes never leaving hers. “Yeah.”
A sharp exhale left Cruz’s lips, something in her posture shifting—like she was letting go, surrendering, just this once. The air between them grew heavier, charged, neither of them moving for a beat too long. Then Aaliyah tugged, and Cruz came crashing forward.
Their lips met in a slow, searing kiss, one that started tentative, cautious, but didn’t stay that way for long. Aaliyah pressed in closer, one hand sliding up, threading through the dark strands of Cruz’s hair, tugging lightly just to feel the shiver it sent through her. Cruz made a sound low in her throat, something between a sigh and a growl, before her grip on Aaliyah’s waist tightened, grounding her, anchoring them together.
It was different from the other times they had kissed. There was no hesitation now, no fear or doubt. It was unspoken understanding, raw and electric. Cruz’s lips were warm, insistent, moving with an urgency that Aaliyah felt all the way down to her bones. She let herself be swept up in it, in Cruz’s hands roaming over her back, in the heat that built between them with every lingering touch.
Somewhere in the haze, Aaliyah found herself backing up, pulling Cruz with her. They barely made it past the living room before Cruz broke away just long enough to lift Aaliyah into her arms. It was effortless, the strength in Cruz’s arms making Aaliyah’s stomach dip, her head spin. She gasped, surprised, but Cruz just smirked against her lips before capturing them again, walking them toward the bedroom like she couldn’t bear the space between them.
The moment they reached the edge of the bed, Cruz lowered her onto the mattress, leaning over her. Their breaths mingled, heavy and uneven, neither of them speaking, neither of them needing to. Aaliyah traced her fingers over the sharp line of Cruz’s jaw, down the column of her throat, feeling the steady thrum of her pulse beneath her fingertips. Fast. Like her own.
Cruz leaned down, lips brushing over Aaliyah’s jaw, her neck, her collarbone—anywhere she could reach. Her hands skimmed over bare skin, mapping, memorizing, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Aaliyah arched into her touch, nails scraping lightly against the back of Cruz’s neck, reveling in the way Cruz’s breath stuttered, the way her control frayed with every passing second.
They undressed each other slowly, unhurried despite the urgency in their movements, as if savoring the moment, as if committing every inch of skin to memory. The weight of everything—their pasts, their losses, the unknowns that still loomed on the horizon—faded into nothing. All that mattered was here, now.
Cruz’s name left Aaliyah’s lips in a breathless whisper, and Cruz responded with a soft murmur against her skin, something Aaliyah didn’t quite catch but felt all the same. It didn’t matter. She already knew. What they had was real.
They fell into each other completely, a slow-burning tangle of lips and limbs, shared gasps and whispered promises. It was deep, consuming, like they were unraveling and coming together all at once.
Aaliyah didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. She didn’t know what the CIA truly wanted, what the future would hold, or if their freedom would ever truly be theirs. But in this moment, pressed against Cruz, feeling the steady, grounding weight of her, she knew one thing with absolute certainty.
They would face whatever came next together.