Monday afternoon brought with it a different kind of mission.
One that involved no weapons, no dossiers, and no covert operations. Just clothing racks, tailored suits, and a slowly forming pit in Iris's stomach.
Iris stood before a mirror, holding up the fifth dress she'd tried on. It was elegant—soft navy satin with a subtle shimmer that caught the light. Sophisticated without being formal. Beautiful, but not too obvious.
Behind her, Marek lounged in a boutique chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee as he sipped an obnoxiously pink smoothie.
"So... what's the story again?" he asked.
She turned. "Why are you even here?"
"I'm moral support," he said with a shrug. "And let's be honest, I wasn't going to miss this show."
"We met during a company function—"
"Which doesn't exist," he interrupted.
"—and hit it off after a late shift. Movie night. He made me tea. I said something snarky. We bonded."
"Sounds dry. You need spice. Give the parents something to gasp about."
"I'm not going to fabricate passion."
"Oh, but passion's what sells it." He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "You want them to believe he's obsessed with you. That he lingers when you leave the room. That when he holds your hand, it's like the whole world quiets."
She stared at him.
He smirked. "Too much?"
"Dial it back to mildly believable."
Just then, Ainsworth walked in with a garment bag slung over one shoulder. "Tailor says Aldrin's suit will be delivered by five. Slim cut, midnight grey. Understated but commanding."
"You're enjoying this too," Iris muttered.
"Immensely," he said.
She groaned and turned back to the mirror. "This is madness."
Behind her, Marek stood and gestured dramatically. "This is romance espionage, Iris. The most dangerous game of all."
Across town, Aldrin adjusted his cuffs and stared down the tie Ainsworth had left for him.
"Burgundy?" he asked aloud.
His secretary peeked into the office. "The team said it brings out your 'smolder.' Their word, not mine."
He exhaled and shook his head. "This is getting out of hand."
"Need help with the knot?"
He paused, then gestured her in.
As she looped the tie into place, she gave him a sideways glance. "So... dinner with the girl whose rumors you denied just a week ago?"
"She asked for help."
"Right," she said with a small smile. "You always take work home?"
He didn't answer. He was still thinking about what he'd said to Iris the night before: "Just tell them I couldn't stop looking at you." It was meant to disarm. A joke. Maybe.
But the way she had looked at him after—that part wasn't a joke.
The secretary stepped back. "There. Now you look like someone's very dangerous boyfriend."
Aldrin smoothed his lapel and grabbed the folder on the desk. "I look like someone who is walking into an ambush with silverware instead of sidearms."
Later that evening, the team reconvened in Iris's apartment. Aldrin arrived in full form—crisp suit, clean shave, expression unreadable. The type of man a father would either deeply respect... or deeply suspect.
"Wow," Marek said as the door opened. "You clean up terrifyingly well."
Aldrin looked past him, locking eyes with Iris. She stood at the far end of the room in the navy satin dress, hair swept back, earrings catching the dim glow of the lamp.
For a moment, words didn't quite work.
"You look..." he began.
She raised a brow. "Like someone's very real girlfriend?"
He gave a half-smile. "Something like that."
Ainsworth handed over two glasses of wine, one to each of them. "Alright, now that the happy couple is here—"
"We're not—"
"Save it," Marek interjected. "We've prepared flashcards."
Aldrin blinked. "Flashcards."
"Date of your first kiss, inside joke, who said 'I love you' first—"
Iris nearly choked on her wine. "You're joking."
"We never joke about good cover stories," Ainsworth said with deadly seriousness.
"Wouldn't want to get caught in a lie," Marek added, lifting his brow with mock gravity. "Especially under parental cross-examination. You think field interrogations are bad? Try dinner with a father who's ex-military and a mother who reads lips."
Aldrin turned to Iris. "Wasn't it just a few weeks ago you shot those rumors down?"
She gave him a helpless look. "Yeah. Back before my parents started planning the wedding."
He laughed then—a rare, full laugh—and the sound of it made both agents freeze.
Iris glanced between them. "Why are you two staring?"
"No reason," Ainsworth said quickly.
"Just... learning something new," Marek added, grinning like the cat who stole the moonlight.
As the evening stretched on, the pair memorized every last detail of their fabricated courtship—each line laced with real glances, stolen smiles, and undercurrents that neither of them fully admitted to just yet.
Outside, the stars blinked faintly across the city sky.
And somewhere in the quiet between rehearsed jokes and practiced gestures, something unspoken began to grow roots.
The restaurant was quaint—candle-lit but not stuffy, elegant without being intimidating. Iris had chosen it for neutrality. Not too romantic, not too casual. Somewhere between "I'm serious about your daughter" and "I don't know what I'm doing here."
Aldrin held the door for her, his hand lingering on the small of her back as they entered.
"Part of the act?" she murmured.
"I'm method," he replied, straight-faced.
They spotted her parents instantly—her father, General Marcus Cael (Ret.), sat at the table like he still commanded an army, eyes like twin searchlights. Her mother, Lucienne, was softer but no less intense. The kind of woman who could tear a man down with nothing but a quiet sip of wine.
"Ready?" Iris whispered, smiling through her teeth.
"I've walked into bullet storms with more optimism," Aldrin muttered under his breath.
As they approached, her mother stood and offered a warm, if calculating, smile. "So this is the infamous Aldrin."
"Infamous?" Aldrin asked politely, shaking her hand.
"Sweetheart," Marcus cut in, "we've been hearing your name for weeks. You're practically an enigma."
Aldrin smiled faintly. "I get that a lot."
Introductions were made, coats were hung, and drinks were ordered. The waiter had barely left before the interrogation began.
"So," Lucienne began, swirling her glass, "what exactly do you do, Aldrin?"
"He's in tech," Iris said quickly. "Cybersecurity."
Marcus grunted. "The kind of job that teaches a man to keep secrets."
Aldrin met his gaze evenly. "It also teaches you to protect the things that matter."
That earned a flicker of respect.
Lucienne leaned forward. "And how did you two meet again?"
"We were both working late," Aldrin said smoothly. "She insulted my coffee, I corrected her code, and neither of us backed down."
"That sounds like her," Lucienne said, smiling.
"Right," Marcus said, "and when exactly did this turn into… more than code?"
"Movie night," Iris answered, their rehearsed tale slipping effortlessly into place. "He made tea. I made fun of his taste in films."
"She called me a romantic sap," Aldrin added. "It was accurate."
"And you still liked her?" Marcus said, raising an eyebrow.
"Irresistibly so."
Lucienne looked between them, lips pursed.
"You two finish each other's sentences?"
"No," they said in unison.
And just like that, the table burst into laughter.
As the meal continued, things began to shift. The tension dissolved into chuckles, genuine banter sliding in place of the practiced lines. Aldrin charmed Lucienne with stories about exotic code breaches and office pranks. He sparred lightly with Marcus over military discipline versus corporate chaos. He even managed to subtly steer the conversation away when Lucienne asked if he'd "always had that scar on his jaw."
Iris watched it all unfold like someone witnessing a perfectly executed magic trick.
It wasn't the act that impressed her—it was how good he was at it.
Too good.
When dessert arrived, Aldrin excused himself for a moment. Iris followed a minute later, catching him by the hallway near the restrooms.
"You're doing great," she said.
He glanced at her, hands in his pockets. "You're surprised."
"A little."
"You thought I'd blow it?"
"I thought you'd be stiff. Mysterious. Broody."
"I was trying to make a good impression," he said. "Isn't that the point?"
She studied him a beat. "You're good with people when you want to be."
"I can be... persuasive," he admitted.
"Mm. Like when you convinced me to fake-date you in front of my parents?"
"I believe you asked me."
She narrowed her eyes. "Technically."
They stood there in silence, just long enough for the flicker between them to come alive again. A not-so-fake tension threading through the cracks in the story.
"How do you think they're buying it?" she asked softly.
Aldrin stepped closer, voice low. "I don't think we're acting as well as we think."
Before she could answer, the hallway echoed with a familiar voice.
"Iris?"
Lucienne.
They stepped apart like teenagers caught at prom.
"Coming!" Iris called, straightening her dress.
She walked ahead. Aldrin lingered behind, collecting himself before slipping back into character—if it even was a character anymore.
By the end of the evening, Marcus shook Aldrin's hand firmly, Lucienne kissed Iris on the cheek, and there were even talks of a second dinner "somewhere more intimate."
As they watched her parents pull away in their car, Iris let out a long breath.
"That could've gone worse," she said.
"They liked me," Aldrin said, mock pride in his voice.
"You're annoyingly likable when you try."
"I've been told."
She turned to him. "Thanks, Aldrin. Really."
He nodded. "Anytime, Agent Vale."
A beat passed.
Then he added, almost gently, "You did look... beautiful tonight."
She smiled, quiet and soft.
"So did you," she said. "In a terrifying, mysterious way."
"Balance," he replied, tapping his temple. "That's what makes the story believable."
But as they parted ways that night, neither of them said what they were both starting to suspect—
That the story... was starting to believe itself.