Till Death, for Cover. . .‧˚꒰🍊꒱༘‧
pairing: Tangerine x assassin!f!reader genre: action • tensions • enemies to lovers • fake dating notes: An assassin and a fruit assassin go on a mission together... You are an assassin and hacker and maybe also Tangerine's ex-situationship? You spent a bit of time with him about a year ago but after fucking him and Lemon over for some fast cash... things have been different between the two of you... Now you find yourself unfortunately reunited with him on a mission you two work on! MINORS DNI!! masterlist join my taglist ─── ꒰ 💍 ꒱ ───
part 1 – married couple
Out of every assassin, every smug bastard and trigger-happy psychopath in this line of work, somehow you always ended up back beside Tangerine.
The car smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne.
Rain tapped softly against the windshield.
You sat in the passenger seat with your legs crossed, gaze fixed out the window, pretending not to notice the tension radiating off him.
Beside you, Tangerine drove like he wanted to strangle the steering wheel.
His rings clicked against the leather every few seconds. Jaw tight. Shoulders stiff beneath that tailored coat.
“Ain’t no fuckin’ way,” he muttered, voice rough with irritation. “How the hell did I end up gettin’ assigned on a bloody mission with you?”
You barely looked at him.
“Mhm.”
That only seemed to piss him off more.
The history between you and Tangerine wasn’t exactly subtle. About ten months ago, you’d been partnered on a job in Marseille. Easy money, really.
Until you’d sold the information for a better payout and disappeared.
Fucked him over, practically.
Now Lemon was out of commission, and fate had shoved you and Tangerine back together again.
Well, more money than fate.
You unlocked your phone, scrolling lazily through the mission file again like this was any other Tuesday night.
From the corner of your eye, you caught him glancing at you.
Phone glowing in your hand. Expression blank. Unbothered.
Like betraying him had meant absolutely nothing.
And frankly to you, it hadn’t meant much.
“Y’know,” he said quietly, the kind of quiet that sounded more dangerous than shouting, “most people would’ve at least tried apologisin’ by now.”
His fingers tapped once against the wheel.
“Or are you just waitin’ for another chance to stab me in the back again?”
You pushed your glasses slightly higher up your nose before answering.
“Why would I apologise?”
Your voice stayed flat.
“Getting fucked over is part of the job.”
The car drifted hard enough toward the next lane that headlights flashed behind you.
Tangerine corrected it immediately, but his grip visibly tightened.
Then he laughed.
Short. Humourless. Mean.
“Part of the job?” he echoed. “Christ alive, you say that like this is some bloody office job where coworkers nick each other’s lunches.”
Streetlights flashed across his face, catching the fury burning behind those blue eyes.
“You sold me out to people who put bullets in people for lookin’ at ‘em wrong.”
“Yeah,” you answered with a shrug. “And we kill people for a living, Tangerine. What exactly d’you want me to say?”
You finally looked at him then, expression unreadable.
“If you don’t want this trip ruined, I’d suggest you get over it.”
Silence.
Heavy silence.
For nearly ten seconds, Tangerine said nothing at all.
Then suddenly…
He moved.
One hand left the wheel, snatching your phone clean from your grip before you could react. He hurled it against the dashboard hard enough for the screen to crack.
You blinked.
Slowly turned toward him.
“Tangerine–!”
The car slowed aggressively at a red light, engine rumbling beneath you both.
He turned toward you fully now, one arm hooked over the wheel, anger practically bleeding off him.
“I trusted you.”
Tangerine didn’t sound angry for a second.
He sounded offended.
“Right,” Tangerine cleared his throat, “no more scrollin’. No more sittin’ there ignorin’ me like I’m some stray dog.”
“We pull up to base in twenty minutes,” he continued, eyes fixed on the rain-slick road ahead as the light turned green and they continued driving ahead.
“And if you so much as blink wrong, I swear on Lemon’s life–I won’t hesitate.”
Your cracked phone sat abandoned on the dashboard now, screen spiderwebbed from where he’d thrown it.
You didn’t reach for it.
Didn’t argue either.
Instead, you lowered your hands into your lap and glanced at him for only a second before looking back out the passenger window again.
The silence between you thickened after that.
Tangerine kept his eyes on the street, jaw flexing occasionally beneath the dim glow of passing streetlights.
He exhaled sharply through his nose before reaching forward and turning the radio up slightly.
Soft classical music filled the car almost immediately. Something slow and melancholic, piano-heavy.
You almost scoffed at it.
Lemon would’ve laughed his ass off seeing this, Tangerine was sure of that.
About twenty minutes later, the city swallowed you whole.
Towering buildings lit the night sky in gold and white while traffic crawled endlessly below neon reflections and rainwater. Tangerine pulled smoothly into the parking entrance of a luxury hotel, expression unreadable again.
The mission itself was simple on paper.
Infiltrate the gala upstairs.
Locate the target.
Kill him.
Simple jobs, in your experience, were usually the worst.
Because they were rarely simple.
You pushed open the passenger door first, heels clicking softly against the concrete.
Cold evening air brushed against your skin while you glanced up toward the massive hotel towering overhead.
A second later, Tangerine stepped out too.
And annoyingly enough, he looked exactly like the kind of man who belonged somewhere expensive like this.
Tailored three-piece suit.
Curls slicked back neatly.
Gold rings catching the lighting every time he moved his hands.
Without speaking to you yet, Tangerine opened the trunk and grabbed both suitcases.
“Stay close,” he muttered finally, slamming the trunk shut. “And don’t talk unless you have to.”
You shot him an irritated glare over your shoulder.
“I know how this fucking works.”
Then you walked ahead of him toward the lobby entrance without waiting.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath before following after you.
Inside, you stopped at reception first, posture relaxed, expression smooth and unreadable as always.
Tangerine came to stand beside you a moment later.
Close enough for his shoulder to brush yours accidentally.
Or maybe not accidentally.
“Good evening, how can I help you?” the receptionist asked pleasantly.
You offered her one of your smoother smiles.
“We’ve got a reservation under the name Lemoir.”
The receptionist typed for a moment before brightening immediately.
“Ah, yes.” She looked between you and Tangerine with an easy smile. “Your room has already been prepared for you and your husband.”
Your stomach dropped.
Husband?
For half a second, his icy blue eyes flicked toward you.
“Right,” he said smoothly, voice dropping into that British accent that always sounded unfairly attractive. “Lemoir. That’s us.”
Before you could react, his hand settled against your waist.
He pulled you slightly closer to his side like this was natural, like the two of you had spent years sleeping in the same bed instead of threatening each other in a car twenty minutes ago.
The receptionist handed over the keycards with another smile. “Breakfast is served from seven until ten, and the elevators are just over there.”
You forced yourself to smile back.
“Thank you very much.”
Then you turned quickly toward the elevators before the awkwardness on your face betrayed you.
The heels of your shoes clicked sharply across the floor while Tangerine followed close behind.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
You stepped inside first.
Tangerine followed immediately after.
And the second the doors shut behind you, his hand disappeared from your waist like you’d burned him.
Silence swallowed the elevator whole.
The floor numbers blinked upward one at a time.
3…
4…
5…
Tangerine stood beside you with his hands folded loosely in front of him now, gaze fixed ahead.
You finally looked toward him slightly.
“What the fuck was that?” you whispered, careful not to raise your voice enough for the elevator cameras to catch it clearly.
Tangerine didn’t look at you right away.
His jaw flexed once before he answered.
“Part of the cover,” he murmured back calmly. “They gave us married aliases. You think I planned this?”
Only then did he glance sideways at you.
“You want me to tell them we’re not married?” he continued dryly. “That we’re actually two assassins on assignment?”
A humourless scoff left him.
“Brilliant idea, sweetheart.”
You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Not because he was wrong.
Because hearing him call you sweetheart again after everything twisted something unpleasantly familiar in your chest.
The elevator continued upward in silence.
6…
7…
Then suddenly Tangerine sighed through his nose and adjusted the cuff of his suit jacket.
“For the record,” he muttered quietly, “I hate this just as much as you do.”
You crossed your arms.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
That finally dragged a reaction out of him.
His mouth twitched slightly at the corner.
“Trust me,” he said, finally looking directly at you again, “if I was enjoyin’ this, you’d know.”
The elevator chimed a second later as it reached the tenth floor.
The doors slid open onto a quiet hallway drenched in soft golden lighting.
Tangerine stepped out first this time.
He headed straight toward room 1042.
You followed a few steps behind while he swiped the keycard through the lock in one smooth motion and pushed the door open.
The suite inside looked luxurious.
A massive king-sized bed sat perfectly made beneath a chandelier, the city skyline glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows beyond it.
Expensive champagne chilling untouched in silver buckets.
He tossed the suitcases onto the floor before finally turning to face you properly.
You stepped inside after him and quietly shut the door.
“I guess we’re married now,” you said dryly, a faint amused huff escaping you despite yourself.
Tangerine rolled his eyes immediately.
Ignoring him, you crouched beside your suitcase and unzipped it, pulling out your laptop setup piece by piece. Cables. External drives.
While Tangerine handled the bloodier side of operations, you handled information.
And information tended to kill people faster.
“We’ve got three hours before the gala starts,” you noted, glancing briefly at the time while booting the laptop up on the desk near the windows.
Tangerine watched you carefully the entire time.
You could practically feel the distrust radiating off him from across the room.
Eventually, he loosened his tie with visible annoyance, rolling tension out of his shoulders before moving toward the minibar.
“Three hours,” he muttered, grabbing a bottle of water, “and I’m not spendin’ it sat on a bloody bed pretendin’ we’re newlyweds.”
You snorted quietly under your breath.
He twisted the cap open and took a long drink before wandering toward the windows overlooking the city below.
For a moment, he just stood there in silence.
Then he glanced back toward you over his shoulder.
“You got access to the guest list yet?”
“Yeah. Pulled it last night.”
Your fingers moved quickly over the keyboard as files opened across the screen. Rows of names appeared almost immediately – CEOs, diplomats, politicians, heirs to old money fortunes.
Then you found your aliases.
“Oh my god,” you muttered, leaning back slightly in your chair. “Oscar Lemoir?”
Tangerine frowned immediately.
“What?”
You turned the screen slightly toward him.
“They seriously named you Oscar.”
A surprised rough chuckle escaped him before he could stop it..
You smirked faintly.
“Could be worse.”
Then your eyes dropped lower on the file.
“…Leonora Lemoir.”
Your face twisted instantly.
“Oh absolutely not.”
Tangerine walked closer then, stopping beside your chair to peer down at the screen over your shoulder.
“Leonora and Oscar?” he read aloud before grimacing. “Christ alive. They really did screw us over.”
Then Tangerine’s attention shifted back to the screen, expression sharpening instantly.
Rows of names scrolled past under the glow of your laptop until one finally stopped him.
The target.
A wealthy arms broker that will be attending the gala.
Tangerine leaned one hand against the desk beside you, staring at the file with narrowed eyes.
“That’s him,” he said quietly, pointing toward the name. “Viktor Volkov.”
You nodded once.
“Yeah.”
“He’ll have a ridiculous amount of guards around him all night,” you sighed, scrolling through another page filled with private security details. “Half of them ex-military by the looks of it.”
Then your attention caught on another name further down the guest list.
You paused.
“Hm.”
Tangerine glanced toward you immediately.
“What?”
You pointed at the screen.
“Johan Kraus.”
You tilted your head slightly.
“Sounds familiar?”
Tangerine’s expression darkened instantly.
“This rat,” he muttered finally. “Swiss mercenary. Works for whoever waves the biggest cheque at him.”
“If he’s here,” Tangerine said slowly, “then somebody else paid to have Volkov killed too.”
Competition.
Which meant the night had just become significantly worse.
You hummed quietly.
“Obviously.”
Your fingers moved across the keyboard again, pulling deeper into the hotel database while Tangerine remained beside you.
Then suddenly you stopped typing.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What now?”
You pulled up the hotel guest registry and turned the screen slightly toward him.
One booking glowed clearly near the top.
JOHAN KRAUS.
Tangerine stared at the screen for a long moment before scoffing sharply through his nose.
“Well,” he muttered darkly, “that’s not suspicious at all.”
“Bit too convenient, isn’t it?” you murmured.
You pushed your chair back and stood up abruptly.
From your bag, you grabbed your cigarettes and lighter before crossing toward the balcony doors.
Cool night air rushed into the suite the second you stepped outside.
You lit the cigarette slowly, inhaling deeply while the ember glowed bright orange against the dark.
For a minute, you stood there alone in silence.
Then the balcony door slid open behind you again.
Tangerine stepped outside.
He leaned against the railing beside you, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
“So,” he said flatly after a moment, “Kraus will be there tonight too.”
You nodded slightly, eyes still fixed on the skyline ahead.
“Something about this feels wrong.” you said, quieter now.
Tangerine didn’t answer immediately.
He just exhaled slowly through his nose and looked out over the city with you.
After a while, he finally spoke again.
“Could be a setup.”
You glanced sideways at him.
“You think somebody leaked the contract?”
“Maybe.” His jaw flexed once.
That pulled a humourless laugh from you.
“Fantastic.”
Silence settled again.
Wind tugged lightly at your hair while Tangerine reached into his coat pocket for his own cigarettes. He lit one lazily beside you, the smell of smoke mixing together in the cold air.
Then, quieter this time, he said: “If Kraus is here, don’t wander off alone tonight.”
You raised an eyebrow immediately.
“You worried about me?”
Tangerine took a slow drag before answering.
“I’m worried about the mission.”
But the way he avoided looking at you when he said it made the lie painfully obvious.
“Nothin’ ever feels right in this business,” Tangerine added. “But it feels a hell of a lot worse when two assassins are after the same mark.”
Your gaze had gone distant somewhere beyond the skyline, expression unreadable while your cigarette burned slowly between your fingers.
You exhaled softly through your nose before finally looking over at him.
“I don’t think he’s here for Volkov.”
His blue eyes snapped fully toward you now, sharp and searching as they studied your face for any sign you were joking.
“Not after Volkov?” he repeated quietly.
Dangerously quietly.
“Then what the hell is Kraus doin’ here?”
The implication settled between you both almost immediately.
If Kraus wasn’t hunting the target…
Then he was hunting the hunters.
You looked back out over the city again.
“I’d guess he’s after the two assassins sent after Volkov.”
For a long second, neither of you spoke.
Tangerine brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply, shoulders rising slightly before smoke escaped slowly into the night air between you both.
“…Right,” he said at last.
“Kraus is after us.”
You watched him carefully before reaching out almost absentmindedly, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm.
“Good thinking, Tang.”
The nickname slipped out naturally.
Tangerine’s expression flickered for the briefest moment.
You had already turned away before he could answer.
The balcony door slid shut behind you softly as you stepped back into the suite.
You crossed toward your suitcase and unzipped it further, pulling clothing out.
A black satin dress.
Long and backless.
You tossed it carelessly across the bed beside a pair of heels.
Behind you, the balcony stayed quiet for another few seconds.
Then the door opened again.
Tangerine stepped back inside slowly.
His eyes landed on the dress immediately.
And stayed there.
Not in a crude way.
Worse.
Appreciative.
He remembered exactly what you looked like in black silk.
You noticed the silence and glanced over briefly.
His gaze flicked up to yours instantly.
“You plannin’ on killin’ Volkov,” he asked dryly, “or givin’ the old bastard a heart attack?”
You rolled your eyes, though heat flickered annoyingly beneath your skin.
“It’s called blending in.”
“Right.”
He unzipped his own bag and pulled out his tuxedo piece by piece.
Black jacket.
Tailored trousers.
Silver cufflinks.
Meanwhile, you unpacked your own equipment onto the bed without a second thought.
Knives beside lipstick.
Lockpicks beside foundation.
A compact pistol tucked near your makeup bag like it belonged there.
You stood in front of the large mirror near the dresser, carefully pinning your hair upward into a sleek high updo.
Tangerine tried very hard not to stare.
Tangerine’s jaw tightened slightly.
He reached into the duffel and grabbed his pistol instead, checking the chamber.
Behind him, you cursed quietly under your breath.
“Why won’t this stupid…”
Tangerine glanced up toward the mirror.
You were struggling with a necklace clasp now, fingers fumbling behind your neck while the delicate silver chain kept slipping loose.
A tiny pearl vial rested at the centre of it.
KO drops.
Subtle.
Elegant.
Lethal.
He watched you struggle for another second before sighing softly through his nose.
Then he crossed the room toward you.
Tangerine stopped directly behind you, close enough for warmth to settle against your back without actually touching you yet.
His hands lifted quietly.
“Hold still,” he murmured.
Your breath caught embarrassingly slightly as his fingers brushed the back of your neck.
Tangerine carefully took the necklace from you, thumbs grazing your skin while he worked the tiny clasp together with surprising patience.
You could see his reflection clearly in the mirror now.
Focused expression.
Blue eyes lowered toward your neck.
The clasp clicked shut at last.
“There,” he said quietly.
But he didn’t step away immediately.
His fingertips lingered for half a second too long against the back of your neck.
You met his eyes in the mirror.
Then Tangerine cleared his throat roughly and stepped back like he’d remembered himself.
“Try not to poison anyone important with that thing,” he muttered, grabbing his gun again far too quickly.
You smirked faintly at his reflection.
Almost immediately, his phone buzzed on the dresser.
Incoming call.
Unknown number.
But neither of you had to guess.
Contractor.
You glanced sideways at Tangerine.
Tangerine reached for his phone, picked up, and tapped it to speaker.
“Talk,” he said flatly.
You leaned slightly closer without thinking, eyes fixed on the device.
A voice came through, distorted, stripped of identity, neither male nor female. Artificial.
“Status update.”
Tangerine straightened slightly, “We’re in the hotel,” he said evenly. “Check-in complete. Target confirmed on guest list – Viktor Volkov arriving at 20:30 for the gala.”
He paused for a moment before adding:
“Kraus is here too.”
Silence stretched out for a moment.
“Understood.”
Click.
The line disconnected.
Tangerine stared at his phone for a long second after the call ended.
No questions about Kraus.
No contingency plans if things went sideways.
Something about it sat wrong in his gut.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket before walking toward the bed where your black dress still lay across the sheets.
“Something’s off,” he said quietly.
“Our contractor didn’t ask a single bloody question.”
You shrugged lightly from where you sat on the edge of the mattress.
“Well, he isn’t exactly a big talker, eh?”
Then you sighed and leaned back fully against the bedspread, one arm draped over your forehead dramatically.
“Let’s not try to… jinx it.”
The room fell quiet again after that.
Not awkward exactly.
Just aware.
Because the giant king-sized bed sitting between you both hadn’t gone unnoticed by either of you since entering the suite.
Neither of you had addressed it directly yet.
Probably because acknowledging it made the fake marriage thing feel far too real.
You finally broke the silence first.
“You think we should get our love story straight before we head downstairs?”
Tangerine blinked once.
“…Right.”
The cover.
If anybody at the gala questioned you separately and your stories didn’t line up, suspicion would spread fast.
He rubbed absently at his moustache, before finally sitting down on the edge of the bed too.
Careful to leave space between you.
A noticeable amount of space.
“Alright,” he muttered. “We say we’ve been married two years.”
Simple enough to remember.
You nodded thoughtfully.
“Our last name’s French… but you’re clearly British, so maybe we took my surname?”
Tangerine considered it for a second before nodding.
“Yeah. That works.”
He leaned back slightly, one arm draped behind him against the mattress.
“You’re from Paris,” he continued. “Rich family. Aristocratic roots maybe. Parents died young.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Wow. Tragic.”
“And I’m…” Tangerine paused dramatically, “a wealthy British businessman you met during an art exhibition in London.”
You snorted quietly.
“A businessman?”
“What? I look expensive.”
That pulled another reluctant laugh from you.
Tangerine’s mouth twitched faintly at the sound before he continued:
“You fell for me because I was charming and devastatingly handsome.”
You sat up immediately, staring at him in disbelief. “Charming and devastatingly handsome?”
“I think,” you replied carefully, slipping into an exaggerated fake French accent, “you fell for my cunning beauty and irresistible Parisian accent.”
You even gestured dramatically with one hand.
Tangerine stared at you for exactly two seconds before snorting loudly.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
You grinned despite yourself.
“Alright,” he sighed. “Fine. I fell for your mysterious Parisian aura.”
“That’s better.”
“And,” he added, pointing at you lazily, “I proposed at sunset on Montmartre.”
You immediately groaned.
“Oh my God, you’re laying it on so thick.”
He leaned back further against the bed, arms braced behind him.
“Love,” he said with mock offense, “That’s the entire point.”
Then his expression softened slightly as he looked at you again.
“But if anyone asks,” he continued quieter now, “we got married in Lyon after only three months because you couldn’t stand being apart from me.”
“Is your mission tonight to make our relationship sound as far from reality as possible?” you asked dryly, glancing sideways at Tangerine.
Then you leaned slightly closer toward him, amusement flickering in your expression.
“Or are you just laying out your dream life right now?”
For a second, he just stared at you.
Blue eyes sharp beneath the warm hotel lighting, studying your face.
Then the familiar cocky smirk returned slowly beneath his moustache.
“I could’ve had worse wives than you.”
You pulled back with a surprised laugh before he could see it affect you properly.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
You rolled your eyes fondly before trying to focus back on the mission.
“Alright,” you muttered, thinking aloud now. “Anything else we need to settle?”
You counted on your fingers.
“We’ve been tragically unsuccessful at having children.”
You continued casually:
“We still live in France, but you’re constantly away for work…”
Tangerine nodded slightly, picking up the thread immediately.
“Import-export business,” he added. “Fake company. Boring enough nobody asks follow-up questions.”
You snorted softly.
“Very believable for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You look like you commit tax fraud.”
Tangerine’s mouth twitched upward faintly again.
Then he gestured vaguely toward you.
“And you run your family’s art gallery in Lyon while I’m away.”
You nodded approvingly.
You leaned back against the headboard slightly.
“I think that covers most small talk.”
Tangerine looked horrified.
“Small talk…” he repeated. “Bloody hell. I’d rather get shot.”
“You probably still will tonight.”
“Yeah, but at least that’s honest.”
Across from you, Tangerine stretched his shoulders back slowly, expensive dress shirt pulling tight across his frame before he glanced down at his watch.
6:45 PM.
Fifteen minutes until you should be there.
Fifteen minutes until the mission officially began.
“We should finish getting ready,” you said finally.
You stood from the bed and grabbed the black satin dress along with your heels before heading toward the bathroom.
Just before disappearing behind the door, you glanced back over your shoulder.
Tangerine was still sitting on the edge of the bed watching you.
Then the bathroom door clicked shut between you both.
The suite suddenly felt strangely empty without you in it.
Tangerine exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand over his jaw before leaning back against the mattress.
“Could’ve had worse wives,” he muttered to himself under his breath.
“…Fuckin’ hell.”
Tangerine exhaled slowly through his nose and stood from the bed.
Time to get dressed.
He stripped off his shirt and swapped it for the crisp white dress shirt laid across the armchair earlier. Buttons fastened quickly. Black tuxedo jacket next. Tailored perfectly to him.
The silver cufflinks clicked softly into place.
Then came the weapons.
A slim dagger slid neatly into a concealed insert inside his dress shoe.
A compact pistol disappeared beneath the inner lining of his jacket.
Extra magazine tucked beneath the waistband at his back.
Finally, Tangerine reached toward the gold chain resting near the edge of the dresser.
He hesitated briefly before fastening it around his neck.
At the exact same moment, the bathroom door opened.
You stepped back into the suite wrapped in black silk and perfume, heels clicking lightly against the floor as you crossed toward the bed.
The dress clung to you perfectly.
The open back exposed the length of your spine along with the delicate tattoo trailing there, something intimate he hadn’t seen in a while.
Your hair was pinned neatly upward, exposing your neck and shoulders.
And despite how beautiful you looked, the first thing Tangerine’s eyes automatically searched for was the weapon strapped discreetly against your thigh beneath the slit of the dress.
You moved casually toward the bed, grabbing your clutch while adjusting the pistol holster against your leg.
“Are you done?” you asked calmly.
Tangerine blinked once like he’d nearly forgotten where he was.
For one dangerous second, he simply stared.
Then you glanced up and caught him looking.
“Yeah,” he answered finally.
His voice came out lower than before.
“I’m ready.”
You studied him briefly then.
Black tuxedo.
Gold chain glinting faintly beneath the open collar of his shirt.
“You almost look respectable,” you mused dryly.
He scoffed immediately.
“Careful, love. Compliments like that’ll ruin my reputation.”
You rolled your eyes, slipping the clutch beneath your arm before checking your reflection one last time in the mirror.
Behind you, Tangerine adjusted the cuffs of his jacket before reaching for the hotel keycards.
Then his gaze flicked toward you again through the mirror.
“You remember the plan?”
“Don’t die,” you answered automatically.
A faint smirk tugged at your mouth.
Despite everything, slipping into old rhythms with him felt dangerously easy.
“Well then, Mrs. Lemoir,” he said, extending an arm toward the door with mock politeness, “shall we go mingle with the rich and morally bankrupt?”
You slipped your hand lightly through his offered arm.
“Lead the way, husband.”
a/n: someone has to feed the 3 ppl that are still interested in the pornstache fruit man!! and its me!
