You aren't innocent either

This place? Yeah, it didn’t need a sign. No neon, no cutesy chalkboard out front. Just a slick black awning and a line of people doing their best not to look like they’d sell their grandma’s teeth to get a spot inside.

Eren? He slipped past the bouncer with a look and a half-remembered name. Sometimes it’s that easy, if you know how to move. Inside, it hit like a punch: haze in the air, chrome everywhere, temptation practically dripping off the walls.

Lights thumping, but not in your face. Music deep—like, you could feel it in your chest. The kind that makes you think of bad ideas. Or maybe just really good ones.

But Eren? Nah. He wasn’t here for kicks tonight.

A few hours back, he’d cracked some crusty old firewall on the professor’s so-called “retirement stash.” Under all the dust? A fat data trail, looping through some embassy number like a snake with secrets.

A lead. Something solid. He almost let himself hope.

And then—

“I’ll be waiting.”

God. That voice. Bastard.

He’d nearly forgotten. Hauled ass across the city, dropped Nadia with the nosiest neighbor on the planet, and now here he was—soaked to the bone, heart iced over, looking like he’d wrestled a storm.

Then he saw him.

Dead center. Lucien Vale—or, hell, Rime. Moving like sin on legs.

Dancing, but not that delicate, floaty crap. This was sharp. Precise. Like he was pulling the room’s strings and making people beg for more.

Leather gloves, shirt hanging open, light treating his skin like it was in on the secret. The way his hips moved? It was basically illegal. Eren’s jaw clenched. Couldn’t help it. Smoke, sweat, and Rime’s eyes burning straight through him, daring him to come closer—or maybe daring him to run.

People watched like wolves. Drinks tight in their hands. Some whispering deals, some just staring, like they could buy him if they offered enough zeroes.

Eren’s hands balled up. He couldn’t help watching for the cracks—Rime’s tension under all that silk, the smile that never quite reached his eyes. Every move was calculated, a kind of code: distract, seduce, scan the room.

This wasn’t for them, Eren realized. It was a show, sure, but it wasn’t for the crowd. Rime was working. Watching.

They didn’t get it. All they saw was a fantasy.

Some punk thought he could get a handful as Rime danced past his table.

Nope. That was it.

Eren moved before he even knew he was doing it.

Cut across the floor, slid between them.

“I thought I told you he was taken.”

Guy blinked, all attitude—until Eren flashed a badge. Not even the real one, but it did the trick. The dude went pale.

“Someone with jurisdiction,” Eren snapped. “Move.”

And that was that. Guy disappeared.

Rime stopped, sucking breath, chest heaving under that barely-there shirt. He looked at Eren—too close now, heat crackling between them. Not just leftover anger. Not just the job.

Rime’s voice came low, rough, frayed from dancing and lying. “That in the boyfriend contract too?”

Eren just dug in his coat, pulled out the note, held it up. Didn’t say a word.

“You invited me, remember?”

Rime’s smirk flickered, but his eyes—yeah, they looked tired. Worn out. There was something raw underneath all that swagger.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“Why not?”

“Because I honestly don’t know what I’ll do if you stay.”

The dressing room reeked of powder, sweat, and that weird thing you call showbiz magic—like someone tried to bottle up a fever dream and just let it loose backstage.

Out in the hall behind the club’s stage? Yeah, it was narrow as hell, throbbing with the bass that made your chest vibrate. The walls had these beat-up mirrors in tired gold frames and the bulbs overhead buzzed like they were sharing secrets nobody wanted to hear. Eren elbowed through a swirl of half-dressed dancers and side-eye, chasing the only thread that mattered to him.

Way at the end, Rime had his back turned, wiping sweat off his neck with a black towel. His hair? Wet. Post-show wild. He hadn’t even bothered to button up that silk shirt all the way, and his pants looked painted on. Real casual.

“You don’t belong here,” Rime shot over his shoulder, not even glancing up.

Eren didn’t give a damn. He went in, shut the door with a click.

“Then why the hell did you ask me to come?”

Finally, Rime turned. He looked chill, but his eyes? Pure gasoline behind glass.

“Maybe I wanted to see what kind of man tries to stake his claim in front of a crowd.”

“I only did that because you looked trapped.”

“And now you look trapped.” Rime drifted closer, air getting thick enough to swim through.

“Why are you really here, Elias?”

Eren’s jaw set, stubborn as ever.

“Because you slipped me a note like it was a dare. Because you strut around half-naked with wolves in the crowd and act shocked when someone bites.”

Rime just shrugged, voice gone soft. “It’s the gig. I’m supposed to be seen. Make people feel safe. Pretty things don’t scare anyone.”

“You’re playing with fire.”

Rime tilted his head, his mouth twisting, but there’s nothing friendly in his eyes.

“Says the guy who dragged his kid along on a foreign job.”

And boom—silence. Just like that, the air snapped cold.

Eren’s breath snagged in his throat for half a beat.

That wasn’t public knowledge. Not even close.

His voice dropped, all gravel and threat.

“How do you—”

“Chill.” Rime held up both hands, all innocent. “You told me she was your kid. I just listen.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“You bailed me out. I got interested.”

He took another step, way too close now. Almost close enough to taste the sweat in the air.

“Are you always this reckless, Agent?”

Eren opened his mouth, but, honestly, words just bailed on him.

Something in Rime’s voice had slipped. Not as polished. More…real. Like he’d forgotten to put up the act for a second.

And Eren couldn’t stop staring at his lips. Or the sweat beading on his collarbone. Or the way his chest kept rising, like he still hadn’t caught his breath.

“This isn’t a date,” Eren muttered.

“It never is,” Rime breathed.

They just stood there, stuck in the half-dark, surrounded by old mirrors and things nobody wanted to say out loud. Two liars. Two ghosts. Two knives, circling.

“You’re hiding something,” Eren bit out.

“So are you,” Rime shot back.

Nobody moved.

Because if either of them did, one of them was definitely going to cross that last line.

And honestly? That’d be the most dangerous thing they’d done all night.

The silence between them got so sharp you could’ve snapped it in two with your teeth.

Then Rime snorted—like he couldn’t help himself.

Low, under his breath, not exactly friendly. More like he was slicing through the tension, not soothing it.

“You look like you’re about to slap cuffs on me,” he said, backing off and flinging the towel over a chair. “Chill out. I’m not the monster under your bed.”

Eren just stared. Didn’t even blink.

“Don’t act all innocent.”

Rime just grinned, lazy as hell. “Nobody who matters is.”

He turned away, drifting toward the dresser. Maybe looking for a shirt. Maybe just done with the whole thing.

Then—bam. His foot caught on some half-open duffel bag.

He tripped. Totally not suave for once.

“Rime—!”

Eren lunged, pure reflex.

And Rime—whoops—crashed right into him.

Mouths met, all teeth and surprise. No Hollywood slow-mo, just a mess.

But Rime didn’t back off. Not even a little.

He grabbed Eren’s coat, yanked him closer like he’d been waiting for this.

Eren froze. Every muscle wound tight, eyes huge.

He wanted to pull away, say something sharp, put some edge back between them.

But nope. Rime went right in for round two.

This time, no accident about it.

The kiss hit different—purposeful, deep, way too good at it.

Rime’s hand slid up, thumb tracing Eren’s jaw, and suddenly Eren’s chest was on fire.

He clutched at Rime’s wrist, breath totally gone.

Bodies pressed together, chest to chest. Like magnets that couldn’t decide if they hated or needed each other.

And for a heartbeat—a tiny, reckless second—Eren just let go.

No mission. No fake names. Just—

heat.

Rime broke the kiss, but didn’t step back. Lips barely apart, foreheads almost touching.

“Still think I’m just a dancer?” he murmured.

Eren’s voice came out rough, like gravel and thunder.

“I think you’re a nightmare in silk.”

Rime’s grin was wicked, eyes dropping to Eren’s mouth.

“Then why do you taste like you’ve been dreaming about me?”

Eren shoved him—not hard, just enough.

“Shouldn’t have come,” he muttered, breath all jagged.

“But here you are,” Rime said, quiet and way too smug.

Eren turned and stormed out—straight into the pounding bass and haze of smoke.

But his hands were shaking.

Because, damn it all, that kiss? That felt more real than anything else in this whole screwed-up mission.