Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You don’t want to be downstairs with the bridal party, so you drift to the mezzanine bar that pretends it isn’t part of the hotel. It’s quieter there; the carpet hushes footsteps, the brass rail catches candlelight, and the bartender looks relieved that you aren’t ordering a round of neon cocktails with sparklers. Your phone keeps buzzing with messages from your friends, but you turn it face down and tell yourself you’ll answer after you finish this drink and this breath and this tiny rebellion.

At first, nothing pulls your attention — but almost instantly, you feel her before you see her, which sounds ridiculous, but there’s a shift in the room that nudges your shoulders into better posture. She takes the corner stool, not the middle, like someone who understands sight lines. Dark jacket, pale blouse, hair that does exactly what it’s told, and a face that could sell you a lie with a receipt. When she speaks to the bartender, it’s a low, steady line, the kind of voice that doesn’t need to repeat itself.

“Gin and tonic. Tall. No fruit.”

You look up because, obviously, you would. She doesn’t look over — not at first. She has the stillness of someone who never has to chase attention but still commands a room without saying a word. You take a sip you don’t actually need and do your best not to stare, which goes badly almost immediately.

You tell yourself you’ll mind your business. You fail at that, too.

“Sorry,” you say, because the apology escapes on instinct. “I just— I like your… I mean, your order’s perfect. They keep putting a whole garden in mine. It tastes like potpourri married a lemon.”

Her mouth tips — not quite a smile. She glances at your glass and then at you. “You can ask them not to,” she says. “They’ll forgive you.”

You try to nod casually, and for some stupid reason, the effort makes you laugh — an actual, embarrassingly loud, sudden laugh that bubbles out before you can stop it. You clap a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. That… wasn’t that funny. I swear… I’m not crazy.”

She raises one perfectly unimpressed brow. “Mm.”

You flail for dignity. “I’m working on it. Boundaries with citrus.”

“Admirable,” she says, granting you a fraction more attention. “And what brings you to this… circus?”

You laugh under your breath. “It’s my friend’s big day. I love her, but what I don’t love are coordinated dances and men named Callum giving speeches about grit.”

“I don’t love speeches either,” she says. “They usually start too late and end too proud.”

You blink because that’s exactly it. “Exactly. I don’t think romance needs a PowerPoint.”

“I don’t think anything needs a PowerPoint,” she says, and that almost-smile returns. “Diana.”

Your name comes out smaller than you planned. You try again. You manage it without tripping, which feels like a personal victory. “I’m… yeah. Hi.”

“Hi,” she says, and she takes her first sip, assessing the drink like it’s a witness. “You look like you’re waiting for a reason to leave and hoping one arrives with plausible deniability.”

You start to joke, then it sits too close to the truth. “I told them I’d just be a minute. It’s already been ten. I’m a terrible friend.”

“You’re a person who needed air,” she says. “It’s not a crime.”

There’s a beat where you do something reckless and brave in a very small way. You turn on your stool, so you’re facing her fully. “Are you with the wedding too, or are you hiding from a conference downstairs?”

“Work,” she says smoothly, the words landing without effort. “Someone else booked this hotel. I’m borrowing the bar.”

You nod like you accept that and don’t need details. “Office work?”

“Mostly,” she says. “Nobody throws rice about it.”

You laugh because her delivery is so dry it sparks. “I’m in town for four days. We got in this morning, but it was already too late for one of those bus tours, so we gave up and decided to take it easy. And drink.”

“That’s the real London experience,” she says. 

You want to be cool, but your mouth keeps getting there before your nerves finish checking in. “Do you travel a lot?”

“Often enough that my dry cleaner treats me like a missing person,” she says. “Not often enough to be interesting about it.”

“That’s already interesting,” you say, then wince because you sound too eager. “Sorry, I’m… I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

“You talk when you’re unsettled,” she says, tone light but exact. “Better than staring at the wall.” She studies you without intruding, which should feel clinical and doesn’t. “Crowds aren’t your environment, I take it?”

“Not wedding crowds, if that makes sense.”

The bartender drifts back and checks your glass. You look at Diana’s, then at her, and try to sound casual while you ask if you can get the next one. The words tangle for a second, not enough to fall, just enough to show your hands. “If that’s okay. I― I mean, if you want. I’m not trying to… You don’t owe me conversation.”

“I never do,” she says, which should be cold and isn’t. “Thank you. I’ll have another of the same.”

You order the same drink she did, and before you can say anything else, your phone buzzes; you flip it over long enough to see: WHERE ARE YOU, TRAITOR. You put it back face down and catch Diana reading your expression rather than the screen.

“They’ll survive,” she says.

“Yeah, well,” you say. “I’ll make it up to them with photos of me pretending I’m having the time of my life.”

“That’s also the London experience,” she says. “Curated distress.”

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been lodged in your ribs since the vows. “What’s your London experience, then?”

“Meetings,” she says. “Filtered air rooms. Bad coffee. The occasional decent view.”

“And bars with better lighting,” you say, because the light here does the nicest things to her mouth.

“Occasionally,” she says, and she doesn’t glance at the mirror behind the bar because she doesn’t need the reassurance. “What do you do when you aren’t avoiding bouquets?”

You try to make it sound less chaotic than it is. “I work at my friend’s restaurant. Mostly front of house, but I’m also a server, and sometimes I help with menus or stock. It’s loud, but it pays rent and keeps me moving.”

“That sounds… unpredictable.”

“It is. But people are easier when there’s food involved. They complain less if you give them something good to eat.”

“I don’t have the patience,” she says. “Reading’s better.”

You blink because you didn’t expect approval. “What do you read?”

“I read what crosses my desk,” she says, and there’s a faint shift in her tone — something you can’t name but recognize as guarded habit. “And I read for sanity. Mostly crime and fiction that pretends to be about something else. People are honest when they’re lying on paper.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “I like that.” The nerves settle into something fizzy, like being pulled closer by a tide you can’t see. “So, office work that travels, prefers control, reads for sanity, drinks gin without salad… God, you’re terrifying.”

She looks amused in a way that doesn’t break her composure. “That seems overstated.”

“It isn’t,” you say, then swallow because you hear yourself. “I mean, you’re… You carry the room. You don’t even raise your voice. It’s— I’m not usually this—”

“Nervous,” she finishes for you, crisp enough to make the word land but not enough to wound.

Heat crawls up your neck. “Yeah. I’m not usually this nervous.”

“It’s not a fault,” she says. “It’s information.”

You blink. “Information about what?”

“That you care how you’re being received.” Her gaze holds yours just a fraction longer than it needs to. “People who don’t care rarely bother with nerves.”

Your pulse spikes because that stare feels like she’s cataloguing you. “Are you nervous?” you ask, reckless enough to surprise yourself.

“No.” She says it instantly, without the courtesy of a pause. “Nervous people make mistakes. In my line of work, mistakes are expensive.”

There’s something in the way she says it — steady, unembellished — that makes your breath catch. You take another sip, trying to level yourself, and tilt your head toward her. “What’s your line of work, then?”

She studies you over the rim of her glass, the corner of her mouth tugging like she’s already two steps ahead of you. “Go on,” she says. “Try and guess.”

It’s not an invitation. It’s a challenge.

And the way she’s looking at you makes your face heat all over again.

You point your own glass at her, narrowing your eyes with exaggerated seriousness. “You own a flower shop.”

For a split second, she only blinks, and then — this woman with the carved-from-stone composure, who’s barely shown more than a flicker of expression since meeting — actually laughs. It’s not a polite sound or one of those dry exhalations you’d expect from her; it’s a real, startled laugh that escapes before she can stop it. It warms her face and knocks the air out of you a little, because you hadn’t realized how beautiful she looks when she forgets herself.

You frown, pretending to be wounded. “Okay, that’s a no.”

“Quite.”

“Lawyer?” you guess next, trying to recover your dignity.

She raises a single brow, unimpressed, like the question itself offends her time.

“Okay, not a lawyer,” you say, thinking aloud now. “Politics, then? You’ve definitely got the ‘destroy someone with a memo’ energy.”

There’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes — quick, controlled, gone.

You tap your glass, narrowing your eyes at her. “Alright… government-adjacent, maybe? In the States, that would be CIA or FBI, but here it’s— what? MI6? MI5? One of those?”

She takes a slow sip, her expression giving you absolutely nothing, but her silence feels… intentional. Very much calculated.

“No,” she says finally.

You stare at her. “That is the most suspicious ‘no’ I’ve ever heard.”

She glances, just once, toward the corridor that leads to several unlabeled doors. “You said you were here for four days?”

“Yes, four days,” you say, utterly certain she didn’t want to talk about her work anymore. “Then home. Back to work, and avoiding small talk with customers.”

“Small talk can be useful,” she says.

You lean your elbow on the bar, mirrored in her posture without meaning to. “You seem to use it like camouflage.”

“I use it like a screwdriver,” she says, and the corner of her mouth lifts as if the metaphor pleases her. “It opens things.”

“Like people,” you say, and your pulse tries a new rhythm because you feel opened in the most ridiculous, specific way.

“Sometimes,” she says, not crowing about it. “Sometimes it reminds them to shut the door.”

You wet your lips because your mouth went dry at that. “Do you want me to shut the door?”

“If I did,” she says, tone level and eyes warm, “you’d know.”

The new drinks arrive. You pay before she can reach for her card, because you feel brave about exactly one thing, and it’s this. She accepts it without ceremony, which reads like respect rather than indifference.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, but it’s more observation than protest.

“I wanted to,” you answer, surprising yourself with how steady it comes out. “And you look like the sort of person who doesn’t often let people do things for her.”

Her mouth tilts again, a subtle admission. “That’s because they usually do them badly.”

“That sounds a lot like experience talking,” you say.

“It’s a recurring theme,” she replies, and takes a sip of her gin. The ice clicks softly against the glass, precise and unhurried, like everything else about her.

You shift slightly toward her, careful not to crowd. “You’re in town for work, then. You said meetings earlier?”

“I live here. My job requires neutral meeting points, so I use this place. When I’m done, I go home.” She glances briefly toward her phone on the counter — screen dark, the reflection of the bar lights caught across it — before she looks back at you. “I don’t usually leave the country,” she adds. 

“Regardless, whatever you do sounds thrilling,” you say, and she huffs, a sound so faint it might not even count as laughter.

“It’s as thrilling as it needs to be,” she says. “There are worse ways to make a living.”

You tilt your glass toward her. “I don’t know, listening to men named Callum give speeches might be a close tie.”

She smirks into her drink. “At least I can leave mine early.”

You laugh quietly. “Is it one of those meetings where no one actually wants to be there, but everyone wants to be seen being there?”

She looks at you then, really looks — and for a heartbeat, it feels like you’ve brushed against something real beneath all that control. “Something like that,” she says, softer now. “It’s a performance more than a discussion. Diplomats love a stage.”

“Ah,” you say, feigning lightness while you chase the intrigue. “So you are in government?”

Her pause is deliberate — half a beat too long — before she says, “Close enough.”

That answer shouldn’t feel loaded, but it does. You can’t decide if she’s teasing or warning you off.

“Do you like it?” you ask, because curiosity always wins. 

“Like is a strong word,” she says. “It’s... necessary. Someone has to keep the machinery running, even when it’s a bit rusty.”

There’s something about the way she says it — weary, practiced, almost affectionate — that makes you wonder what her version of machinery looks like. “And you’re the mechanic,” you say, lightly.

“I’m more of a systems analyst,” she says. “I don’t get oil on my hands.”

“That’s a shame,” you say before you can stop yourself, and she looks up sharply, amused in a way that makes your pulse trip.

“Is it?” she asks, voice smooth as glass.

You feel the heat crawl up your neck. “I mean— I just meant you seem like someone who’d fix things. That’s all.”

“Mm,” she says, clearly unconvinced but not unkind. “Sometimes it’s easier to dismantle them.”

“Do you do that often?”

She looks at you sidelong, her expression unreadable, but her tone not quite detached anymore. “When I have to.”

You take a breath and try to steady yourself. “And tonight? Are you here to dismantle or to… fix?”

“Neither,” she says. “I’m waiting.”

“For your meeting?”

Her gaze drops to her watch — slim, and by the looks of this woman, quite expensive — then to her phone, which she unlocks with a thumbprint before setting it aside again. “Something like that.”

You nod, because the conversation’s turned into a thread you’re not sure you should pull. You glance away, trace the condensation down your glass with a fingertip, and tell yourself not to push.

“Am I keeping you from something?” you ask quietly.

“No,” she says, quick enough to sound true. “You’re… a distraction. A pleasant one.”

It takes a moment for your brain to catch up with the compliment buried in there, understated but very intentional. “You don’t seem like someone who gets distracted easily.”

“I don’t,” she says. “Which makes this inconvenient.”

There’s no smile this time, just the softest gleam of amusement in her eyes before she turns her glass slightly, the movement as neat and calculated as the rest of her.

You try not to stare, which fails almost immediately. “You’re hard to read, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“By ex’s?”

“By people who assume I’m not listening.”

That makes you laugh, maybe a little too loudly. She lets you have it without comment, though her mouth curves again like the sound pleased her.

You study her for a moment, the precision in her posture, the way she measures her words, but never seems rehearsed. “You must be good at your job, then,” you say.

“I am,” she replies easily. “That’s why I still have it.”

“Okay, come on. Spill the beans. What is it, exactly?”

“You already guessed,” she says, eyes flicking briefly to yours. “You simply guessed wrong.”

You grin. “Then I’ll keep guessing.”

“I’m sure you will,” she says, glancing at her phone again as it lights up briefly with an unread message. She doesn’t open it, only sighs through her nose and locks the screen.

“International liaison?” 

Diana’s mouth curves at that — faintly, politely — but the kind of polite that means she’s quietly entertained. “That sounds far more glamorous than it is,” she says.

You lean in a little, curiosity outweighing common sense. “So that’s a yes?”

“It’s a no,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “But I’ll allow you the illusion for now.”

“You’re not making this easy,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “You’re not even giving me a hint.”

“Hints are overrated.” She takes another sip of gin, slow and unbothered, the ice brushing her lip as she lowers the glass. “And you seem like someone who prefers the chase to the answer.”

You blink at her, caught. “You’re not wrong,” you admit, trying to laugh it off. “But that sounds like something you’ve said before.”

“Occupational hazard,” she says. “Observation.”

You shake your head, half in awe. “You really could be MI6. You’ve got that whole calm-and-knowing thing down.”

“If I were,” she says, tone low and intentional. “I’d tell you I work in public relations. And you’d believe me.”

You narrow your eyes. “Would I?”

She smiles, and it’s the kind that doesn’t reach her eyes but still manages to pull something in your chest loose. “Yes.”

The bartender passes, setting a napkin beside her glass as if in deference. She glances up at him, gives a quiet thank you, and returns to you like she never left the thread. “What would you do if I said I was in government?”

“I’d ask if you’re one of the good ones.”

“Most of us think we are.”

“Do you?”

Diana’s gaze holds steady on yours — level, sharp, and unreadable — and for a long moment, you think she won’t answer. Then: “Most days,” she says softly. “Some days, I prefer not to check.”

You feel that somewhere under your ribs. “That’s an answer I’d believe.”

“It’s an answer you’ll forget in the morning,” she says. “That’s safer for both of us.”

You study her, the measured grace, the way she sits, like every movement has already been accounted for. “You always sound like you’re defusing something.”

“That’s because I usually am,” she says, not missing a beat.

“Right,” you say, smiling even as you feel the faint hum of something heavier under the surface.

The squeal hits first, bright and feral, bouncing off the marble and the glass. Arms wrap around you from behind before you can brace. You almost lose your grip on the glass and manage to save it with a small, undignified noise that absolutely isn’t a yelp.

Diana’s hand closes around her own drink with surgical steadiness; you see it, but she doesn’t flinch. She does, however, raise one eyebrow in a way that says she has seen far worse and refuses to be impressed by joy at this volume.

“Babe, we’ve been looking everywhere,” Maya crows in your ear, rocking you side to side. “You’re a traitor, by the way. Now get back upstairs, because we have an emergency, and I refuse to let Leslie and Gen face it without backup.”

You turn, half-laughing, half-dying. “What kind of emergency?”

“Entertainment,” Clara announces, too pleased with herself. “Gen ordered… talent.”

“Male strippers,” Maya whispers loudly, as if it’s state secrets. “You can’t miss this.”

Diana’s other eyebrow considers joining the first. It doesn’t. She looks at you instead, and the line of amusement that touches her mouth is so small you might’ve imagined it.

You close your eyes for a beat because you don’t want to go, not yet, not when the room feels like it finally learned your name. Not when you’ve met the most amazing woman in existence. But when you open them, she’s still there — composed, attentive, every inch of her a quiet, necessary problem you want to keep having.

“I should—” you start, and your friends chorus yes, yes, obviously, now, and Maya’s already tugging gently at your wrist.

“Go,” Diana says, voice even. “Before they send a second extraction team.”

“That’s what this is,” you say, helplessly fond. “A very sparkly extraction team.”

“Mm.” She checks her watch again, then sets the glass down and reaches for the leather folio with the same clean movement you’ve started to recognize as hers. A pen appears. She flips your napkin over, writes a number in neat, impatient strokes, and slides it across with one finger. “Use it,” she says. “Preferably at an hour that won’t make me regret giving it to you.”

Your friends are watching, as if you’ve just been handed contraband. You try to play it cool and fail charmingly. “Thanks.” You glance at your two friends, “Guys, give me a second. I’ll meet you upstairs.” 

“Sure,” Maya says before she and Clara say goodbye to Diana and move back to the hotel room.

“I’m sorry,” you say, because of habit. “They’re— They’re— a lot.”

“They love you,” she says, and then, almost as an aside, “I don’t envy you for the strippers, though.”

You take a sip to stall, though your drink’s gone lukewarm. “You and me both,” you echo, smiling over the rim of your glass. “You definitely don’t strike me as the type for… novelty acts.”

“Correct,” she says, then looks up at you. “If I’m going to be distracted, I prefer it to be by choice.”

You huff a laugh, tracing the edge of the napkin she’s just marked with her number. “Your number,” you say, before you can overthink it. “Was it for show or… because you actually want me to text you?”

Her gaze rises from the rim of her glass to you, steady and unhurried, as if she’s already weighed every possible answer. “I could say both,” she replies, voice low and certain. “Though that would make it seem as if I’m hedging.” 

You tilt your head, emboldened by the flicker of warmth under her words. “And are you?”

“Always,” she says, then studies you with that same careful attention that makes everything else in the room fall out of focus. “But not tonight.”

You blink. “Not tonight, what?” 

“Not hedging,” she says, and the quiet between you folds itself into something that hums. “Tomorrow,” she says. “If you’re still curious.”

You glance down at the napkin again — neat numbers, her handwriting somehow both elegant and hurried — and then back at her. “Curious,” you repeat, the word tasting new. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.”

“Good.” She finishes the last of her drink, placing the glass down with precise, almost ceremonial care before rising. “I’ll look forward to your impeccable timing — and your punctuality.”

Chapter Text

You keep pretending you’re not checking your phone every ten minutes. You keep pretending the only reason you’re looking at it is because the group chat has been buzzing nonstop with selfies and how excited they were. You keep pretending you’re perfectly calm, but it isn’t true. You know exactly what you’re waiting for.

You’d texted her twenty minutes ago — twenty-two now, not that you’re obsessively keeping track — and the second your thumb hit send, your stomach plummeted like a guy who jumps out of a plane and only then remembers he forgot the parachute.

Hey, Diana.
So the rehearsal dinner was actually a lunch/afternoon thing.
I’m free now, if you’d like to do something?

You stare at the message again, wincing at your own choice of words. Was it too eager? Too flat? Too formal? Too casual? Somehow all of them? You reread the punctuation as if that’ll change anything, as if you can will the tone into something effortlessly cool and not the mild emotional meltdown it suddenly feels like.

You lock your phone, put it down on the bed, and immediately start second-guessing whether you should have added something else. A joke. A follow-up. A second follow-up apologizing for the first. You tell yourself to stop spiraling, to go brush your teeth again for absolutely no reason, and give yourself a pep talk you’re ninety percent sure Diana would find deeply embarrassing.

By the time you walk back into the room, your phone’s lit up on the duvet.

You freeze.

You reach for it like it might vanish if you move too fast, thumb unlocking it, and her reply’s already there.

My meeting just ended. Meet me in the lobby.

That’s all it says — one clean sentence, a full stop at the end, no softening phrases, no emoji, nothing remotely resembling hesitation. Not even the polite buffer of if you’re free or if you’d like. Just… meet me in the lobby.

And somehow it still manages to make your pulse jump. You grab your jacket before you can second-guess it.

The lobby’s quieter than you expect — most of the guests for the wedding are probably still at “lunch”, which leaves the place feeling almost theatrical in its emptiness. The afternoon sun spills through the glass facade, catching on polished marble and the long sweep of the reception desk. You spot her instantly, standing there as composed and striking as she was last night, impossible to mistake for anyone else.

She’s by the windows, phone in one hand, sunglasses hooked into the neckline of her blouse. She looks like she’s already been everywhere, and it’s not even 3 p.m. She looks crisp, precise, completely unfazed. When she notices you, the smallest smile lifts the corner of her mouth, controlled enough to make you wonder if it’s rehearsed or just her default setting.

“Afternoon,” she says, tucking her phone away. “You’re punctual.”

You blink. “You said you preferred that.”

“And you remembered,” she says, like that’s rare. “Good.”

It shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it does. “So… what are you up to?”

“You’ll see,” she says, and gestures toward the doors. “Follow me.”

Outside, a black car waits at the curb — sleek, immaculate, driver in a suit. You try not to look surprised, but she catches it anyway.

“You didn’t mention having a chauffeur,” you say as the man holds the door for you.

“I didn’t mention a lot of things,” she replies smoothly, sliding in beside you. “He’s attached to my office. It’s simpler than dealing with taxis.”

The word office sounds too neat to be true, and you almost ask what kind of office employs someone to drive her around, but she’s already turning her head toward the window, watching the street roll by.

You study her reflection instead — the stillness, the exactness. She’s the kind of person who could walk into chaos and make it look planned.

“Is it a very stressful office?” you ask finally. “I don’t think anyone else gets a driver unless they’re, like, a spy.”

That earns you a glance — not annoyed, not exactly amused either, but a kind of patient disbelief. “Do you always assume government espionage if someone has a chauffeur?”

“Only when they order a Gin and Tonic as you did.”

Her mouth twitches, that almost-smile she keeps on a short leash. “And here I thought I’d been discreet.”

“You’re not,” you blurt, the words out before you can reel them back. “You stand out. A lot.”

She lets out a small laugh — quiet, surprised, like she isn’t used to being caught off guard and isn’t entirely sure she minds it. It softens her just enough that you feel it.

“Well,” she says, giving you a look that is far too observant to pass for casual, “good to know. Should I take that as a good thing?”

You blink. “Of course it is. You’re—” Heat crawls up your neck. “You’re beautiful.”

The older woman’s eyes stay on yours, steady, the corners just thinking about curving. “You’re very direct,” she says. “Most people spend half their lives avoiding the truth.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not most people,” you reply, feeling braver than you should. “And I think you already knew that.”

Diana doesn’t answer. She only tips her head a fraction, the kind of acknowledgment that contains several possibilities and confirms none of them. It’s a silence that feels intentional — like she’s weighing your words, cataloguing them, deciding what they mean to her.

The car slips through traffic, the driver silent and seemingly oblivious to your conversation. Diana crosses her legs, but there's something in her eyes now — a spark of interest that wasn't there before.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"Somewhere quiet," she says. "A place I go when I need to think. I thought you might appreciate it after the... entertainment last night."

You wince at the memory. "The strippers were terrible. One of them kept calling himself 'The Professor' and trying to teach us economics between hip thrusts."

Diana's eyebrow arches perfectly. "Educational."

"I've never been so bored by someone's abs before."

Her laugh comes again, softer this time, but still real, not fake for a second. "I can imagine."

The car eases to a stop beside a small, gated park that definitely isn’t in any tourist guide you’ve seen — wrought-iron fence, old stone, the kind of place that looks like it keeps its own secrets.

You take in the quiet garden, then her. “So… what makes this place special?”

“This does,” she says, as the driver opens her door, like that answers everything worth knowing.

When you step out after her, the air smells different — cleaner somehow, with hints of lavender and fresh earth.

The driver remains with the car as the older woman leads you to the gate. She produces a small key from her pocket, unlocks it, and gestures for you to enter first.

Inside, the park unfolds like a secret. Stone paths wind between carefully tended flower beds and ancient trees. A fountain bubbles at its center, the water catching light in ways that seem intentional, choreographed.

"How do you have a key to this place?" you ask, unable to keep the wonder from your voice.

"It belongs to the department," she says, as if that explains everything. "Most people forget it exists."

"What department?"

She gives you that look again — patient, amused, withholding. "The boring one."

You laugh despite yourself. "Right. The one with the drivers and the private parks and the mysterious meetings."

"Exactly that one," she says, and guides you toward a bench nestled beneath an oak tree that must be hundreds of years old. "It's quiet here. No speeches, no strippers, no expectations."

You sit beside her, close enough to notice the faint scent of her perfume — something clean and expensive, nothing sweet about it. "Why did you bring me here?"

The older woman studies you for a moment, her gaze steady, assessing. “Because last night,” she says, “you weren’t looking for anything.”

You blink, surprised by the directness. You’d expected another elegant evasion, a clean sidestep back into neutrality.

“I’m still not,” you say quietly, because truly you weren’t. A woman like Diana isn’t someone you expect to notice you twice, let alone on purpose.

“I’m aware.” Her tone doesn’t soften, but something in her face eases by a degree — a shift you feel more than see. “It’s rare.”

“Not being evaluated?” you ask.

“Not being… handled,” she corrects, choosing the word with care. “Most people look at me with an agenda — something they want, something they think I owe.”

You shake your head. "I'm just trying to figure out who you are."

"And what have you concluded so far?" she asks, turning slightly to face you more directly.

"That you're someone who values control," you say, the words coming easier than you expected. "That you're careful with your words because they matter. That you notice everything but reveal very little. And that you're..." You hesitate, heat rising in your face as you search for something that isn’t presumptuous. “Hard to reach,” you finish quietly.

Diana's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in her eyes — surprise, perhaps, or recognition. "That's quite an assessment based on one drink and a car ride."

"Am I wrong?"

She doesn’t answer at first. Her gaze follows a sparrow hopping along the path, quick and jittery. When she finally speaks, her voice is measured. “No,” she says. “Not entirely.”

The admission hangs between you, delicate as spun glass. You want to push further, to ask more questions, but something tells you to wait — that Diana’s someone who opens doors slowly, carefully, checking each room before allowing entry. 

"I don't usually do this," she says after a moment.

"What? Bring strangers to secret gardens?"

Her mouth tips, the closest she gets to a smile. “That, yes. And… conversation of this sort.”

You swallow. “So why now?”

Diana turns fully, and the directness of her attention hits with the force of something chosen, not accidental.

“Because your questions weren’t transactional,” she says. “You weren’t trying to extract anything yesterday. You were sweet, and you noticed me, not the job.” A pause — brief, measured. “Which is why, when I wrote my number on that napkin… I intended for you to use it.”

Heat climbs your neck before you can stop it. “I’m glad I did.”

"So am I," she says, and there's something in her voice — a warmth, a certainty — that makes your heart beat faster.

You look down at your hands, suddenly aware of how close you're sitting, how private this moment feels despite being outdoors. "So, not a spy, not a lawyer, not a flower shop owner. What does Diana actually do when she's not rescuing strangers from bad wedding entertainment?"

She laughs again, and you decide you like making that happen — cracking the perfect composure just enough to see what's underneath.

"I work for MI5.” She finally admits. "I am the Deputy Director-General and Head of Operations." 

"Holy fuck, you are a spy." 

"I'm not, I don't work in the field." 

You stare at her, your brain momentarily refusing to load the information. “Okay— wait. So what I said yesterday? I was actually right? Damn. That’s… the serious one, isn’t it? The one people aren’t supposed to talk about.”

“It’s a job,” she says, calm as ever. “Some days it’s more talk than work.”

You laughed, unable to stop yourself. "Okay, you're not a spy, you just run all the spies."

"I don't run—" she stopped, then shook her head with a small, reluctant smile. "It's more administrative than people think."

"Administrative?" You raised your eyebrows. "With a driver and a private key to secret gardens and meetings that make you check your watch like you're waiting for a countdown?"

"The driver is a security protocol. The garden is a historical property maintained by several government offices. And the meetings..." She paused, studying your face. "The meetings are often tedious."

"But necessary," you added, remembering her words from last night.

"Yes." Something in her expression softened, almost imperceptibly. "Necessary."

A breeze stirred the leaves above, sending dappled sunlight dancing across her features. You watched as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture so ordinary it seemed out of place against everything else about her.

"So why tell me?" you asked. "Aren't there rules about that sort of thing?"

“We are allowed to tell people.” She says, glancing at you, “Our work isn’t a secret; the operations are. We don't advertise what we do," the older woman continued, "but we're also not required to lie about it." She shifted slightly on the bench, turning toward you with a directness that made your breath catch. "And sometimes... sometimes it's exhausting to construct elaborate fictions about mundane realities."

"I can understand that," you said, watching the way her shoulders seemed to relax slightly at your acceptance. "Though I have to admit, when I said that yesterday, I wasn’t actually being serious. But now that I know, I wasn’t expecting something quite so… important.” 

“Most people don’t,” she replies. “They hear ‘government’ and assume something dull and respectable. Banking is a popular guess. HR, occasionally, if they’re feeling imaginative.”

You couldn't help but laugh. "I definitely didn't guess banking."

"No," she said, that almost-smile returning. "You went straight for espionage."

"What, I have an active imagination."

"So it seems."

A comfortable silence settled between you, punctuated only by the gentle splash of the fountain and distant city sounds beyond the garden walls. You studied her profile against the light — the clean lines of her jaw, the careful composure that seemed less like a mask now and more like a habit formed by necessity.

"Does it ever get lonely?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could reconsider. "Having to be so careful all the time?"

Diana didn't answer immediately. She looked toward the fountain, her expression thoughtful rather than guarded.

"Yes," she said finally. "But you adapt. You find moments of... authenticity where you can."

"Like secret gardens with wedding refugees?"

Her laugh was soft but genuine. "Something like that."

"Thank you," you said. "For bringing me here and for telling me the truth about your work."

"Don't thank me yet," the older woman replied, turning back to you. “Someone could actually come to kidnap you.” 

Before you can answer, you hear rustling in the bushes, and both of you turn to find an older-looking man coming into view. 

The branches shift once more before he fully emerges, which would be ominous if he didn’t look like he’d lost an argument with a laundry basket and a pub floor on the same day. He takes you in, then Diana, then the fountain, like he’s rating the décor and finding it wanting.

“Well,” he says, voice like gravel dragged over concrete, “would you look at that. The Deputy Dawning herself, glowing like a bloody lamppost — and with a young thing in tow. Thought you preferred rooms with CCTV and alibis.”

Your mouth opens, then closes, because the word young lands like a pin.

Diana doesn’t flinch. “Jackson,” she says, the name lined with fatigue and warning. “What do you want, and how — exactly — did you know I was here?”

He lifts a shoulder, the gesture lazy and contemptuous all at once. “River’s been tailing you,” he says, tone like gravel rolled in stale whisky. “Badly, mind you, but even he can spot when someone’s gone off-script. You’ve been keeping things from me, Diana. Rude in my business. Bloody suicidal in yours.” His gaze drags over to you, blunt as a boot. “Sweetheart, jog on, would you? The adults are mid-conversation.”

You look to Diana. She meets your eyes for a long, steady moment — not quite an apology, but enough for you to understand this interruption has everything to do with her work.

“Go,” she says, voice low and level. “I’ll join you shortly.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs as you slip out of the garden and leave them alone. The man called Jackson’s already lighting a cigarette, smoke curling around him in lazy spirals, and you can’t help wondering whether he’s even supposed to be smoking here in the first place.

She waits until the gate clicks shut, then rounds on Lamb, her composure stretched thin enough to gleam. “You have some fucking nerve.”

He snorts, a wet, derisive sound. “And you’ve got some fucking taste, for once. Upgrade from the human beige you usually get stuck standing next to at these diplomatic bunfights.”

“Spare me,” she says, voice like a scalpel. “Get to the point, and try not to fumigate the shrubbery while you’re at it.”

He exhales a ribbon of smoke, eyeing her like she’s an inconvenient form he’s been forced to fill in. “Langston didn’t bother showing for his three o’clock. Supposed to knock on a very dull door, mutter a very dull line, and toddle off. Instead, he’s auditioning for ‘Missing Idiot of the Month.’”

She checks her watch: 15:18. Her phone stays stubbornly blank. “If he missed his mark, your watchers—”

“—saw nothing worth filing?” Lamb cuts in, lip curling. “Oh, they filed plenty. Just not him. Which leaves two options: he’s run off to reconnect with his conscience — unlikely, the man didn’t have the spine — or the people you’re pretending don’t exist have realized we were gift-wrapping him and opened the present early.”

She inhales once, deeply. “I’ve been in meetings since yesterday. If someone leaked, it wasn’t me.”

“I didn’t say it was,” he replies, managing to sound both sincere and accusing in the same breath. “But someone did leak, and now the floor’s sticky.”

“I don’t share your fondness for kitchen metaphors,” she says. “Names. Locations.”

“Safe flat near Gloucester Road,” he grunts. “Third-floor walk-up. Lovely view of a pizza joint that can’t deliver a pizza to save its life. Langston was due at three. He isn’t there. He wasn’t on the way. And he isn’t anywhere my herd of halfwits could trip over by mistake.” A beat. “He did ping the dead drop at noon. Then — nothing.”

She runs the board in her head. “Comms?”

“Cold,” he says. “Which means they’re not. Sweeps look clean because someone smarter than my lot wiped the fingerprints. Our friend across the chessboard brought a cloth.”

“Langston had one job,” she says. “Stay breathing and stay boring.”

“He’s shit at both,” Lamb replies, smoke curling out on the words. “But he’s ours, and I’d prefer him back before he starts telling bedtime stories to people who don’t appreciate plot.”

Her phone vibrates twice — an internal alert, not a message. She ignores it for the moment. “Why send River to tail me?”

“Because you’ve been very busy not telling me things,” he says. “Because your diplomat friends are doing what diplomats do best, which is smiling while someone bleeds out in the hall. Because every time Whitehall says ‘steady as she goes,’ I assume someone’s set the engine room on fire.” He jerks his chin toward the bench she’d been sitting on. “And because if Langston’s burned, anyone who breathed the same air as him is warm on a scope. That includes you.”

“Then why announce yourself in a public park?” she asks. “Subtlety not in your budget this quarter?”

“I picked the hedge instead of the bench,” Lamb says, gesturing with his cigarette. “That’s me subtle. Besides, if someone’s watching you, they’ll enjoy the show. I know I am.”

She lets the contempt show for one beat, then pockets it. “What do you have that isn’t a rumor?”

“CCTV puts a white van near the drop lane between 12:04 and 12:11,” Lamb mumbles. “Plates belong to a plumbing firm that went bust in 2019. Driver has the posture of a man who owns a balaclava. We’ve got a partial on a tattoo. There was a second car shadowing two blocks out. And before you ask, yes, I told my lot to stop picking their noses and start earning wages.”

“Any chatter on Langston’s name?” she asks. “Any of the usual euphemisms.”

“Nothing with his marinade. Plenty of chatter about a ‘package’ that never made the porch. Forgive me if I assume they’re talking about our missing moron.”

Diana’s expression tightens by a millimeter — thought, not fear. “If they took him, they’ll keep him warm until the next window. They won’t burn him early; he’s only useful if he still thinks he has a bargaining position.”

“And if he walked,” Lamb says, flicking ash toward the path without shame, “he’s already off telling bedtime stories to someone who’s thrilled to hear about our pipes.” He jerks a thumb at the gate. “Meanwhile, you’re out here picnicking. Lovely optics.”

She lets that pass. Barely.

“I want someone watching the flat from a bit of distance, nothing obvious. If that white van shows up again, find out who it belongs to and who they drink with. Check the shops nearby — somebody’s camera will have caught something useful. And if our mystery guests ordered pizza on the way out…” She gives him a pointed look. “Make sure we ask the owners if they heard anything.”

He snorts. “Look at you. Doing the job you keep insisting isn’t yours.”

“My job,” she says icily, “is to ensure yours doesn’t end up leading the ten o’clock news.” She finally checks her phone — another secure alert. A diplomat’s travel request is almost an hour late. Excellent. As if today wasn’t already unraveling. “What else?”

Lamb scratches his cheek, lowers his voice without lowering the condescension.“Your after-hours girl hasn’t posted anything regrettable anywhere regrettable. River checked.” He smirks. “Nice one, that. Big on Instagram, but the ‘quiet life’ variety. Plays by the book. So don’t thank him — he gets insufferable when thanked.”

“She’s not your concern,” Diana says, too quickly for her own liking.

He doesn’t deny it. He just shrugs, tone almost lazy. “Who exactly are you meeting in that hotel anyway? Nothing in my reports.”

“It’s classified,” she says, crisp as glass.

His smirk widens, lazy and needling. “Classified, is it? Or did you just book yourself a little getaway and forget to file the bloody paperwork?”

Her head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

Lamb lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Only asking questions. It’s what we do, remember? No op listed, no briefing, no intel trail. Looks less like national security and more like you checking into a hotel to shag the first pretty face who smiled back.”

Her composure doesn’t exactly crack, but something in the air shifts — a tightening you can feel more than see. “I was meeting the ambassador,” she says, her tone level but edged like a ceramic blade. “The same ambassador funding the Baltic operation you keep trying to torpedo. Care to accuse me of anything else while you’re at it?”

Lamb’s smirk falters. “Didn’t know it was tied to that.”

“Because it’s classified,” she snaps back.

He exhales through his nose, looking away toward the pond. “All right. Point taken.”

“Good,” she utters before facing the water again, arms folded, posture immaculate, silence sharp.

He drags on his cigarette, then jerks his chin toward the gate. “You can toddle back to your little cupcake now,” he says, gravel-dry. “Bet she’s perched somewhere, missin’ that ray-of-bloody-sunshine personality you’re famous for.”

The older woman doesn’t grant him the dignity of a glare, not at first. Her jaw ticks once — a tiny, traitorous flicker — before she turns with that engineered calm that shuts men up in committee rooms.

“Do me a favor, Jackson,” she says. “Try not to drown in your own cynicism. I’d hate to have to file the paperwork.”

He grins around the cigarette, unbothered.  “Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve written me up for bein’ right.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you weren’t,” she returns, already stepping away, heels crunching over gravel with surgical finality. “And tell River to stop following me. If he wants practice tailing someone, I’ll assign him a jogger.”

Lamb snorts. “Look at you — human for five minutes. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Diana doesn’t waste breath responding. She keeps walking, spine straight, coat immaculate, leaving him in a haze of smoke and attitude.

Lamb watches her go, flicks ash toward a duck that glares back at him, and mutters just loud enough for the wildlife to register. “Bloody women and their bloody secrets.”

***

By the time Diana steps through the park gates, the city has begun to hum again — cars moving in slow ribbons, a bus sighing to a stop somewhere around her, the faint pulse of evening starting to settle over London. She spots you easily by the car, standing near the driver, your hands moving as you talk. He’s leaning against the door, polite but clearly amused, nodding at whatever story you’re telling him.

The sight is almost disarming. You look utterly at ease — open, bright, unguarded in a way that feels foreign to her world. For a woman who has spent years navigating faces that mean nothing and words that mean less, the simplicity of yours — the warmth when you notice her — hits harder than she’d like.

You turn toward her when she approaches, and that smile, that soft, unthinking one that reaches your eyes, melts away the thin frost she’d built up in the last fifteen minutes.

“I’m sorry about the wait,” she says, voice steady but quieter than usual, as if she’s recalibrating to match the stillness of the moment.

You shrug, a grin tugging at your mouth. “No worries. Your chauffeur kept me entertained.”

Diana glances at him. “Did he now?”

He shifts, looking appropriately guilty. “Only conversationally, ma’am.”

“Mmh.” Her attention lingers just long enough to make him sweat. “Wait for us in the car.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gives a brief nod, opening the rear door before slipping into the front seat. The soft thunk of the door closing leaves the two of you cocooned in the faint hush of passing traffic and rustling trees.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The air carries that curious mix of tension and ease, something that feels like anticipation but hasn’t quite declared itself yet.

The older woman exhales, her hands folding lightly in front of her. When she finally speaks, her tone is intended — professional by instinct, but softened at the edges. “Have dinner with me.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Dinner?”

“Yes,” she confirms, unbothered by your surprise. “Somewhere quiet. A real conversation, without the… theatrics of Jackson Lamb.”

A grin tugs at your mouth before you can stop it. “Only if you’ll be my date at my friend’s wedding.”

The faintest lift of her brow, but her lips curve — a subtle, knowing thing that almost, almost looks like surprise. “That’s a rather bold counteroffer.”

“You started it,” you say softly, triumphant.

For a moment, she studies you like she’s weighing something that isn’t part of the conversation — an assessment, perhaps, or a risk. Then the corners of her mouth tilt again, this time warmer. “Very well,” she says, the syllables smooth and precise, but the meaning unmistakable. “Dinner first.”

“Dinner first,” you echo, still smiling.

She reaches for her phone, then the shift so unhurried it feels like punctuation. “One moment,” she says. “A message I need to send.”

You nod while her thumbs move with clipped efficiency — a brief message to Whelan about that diplomatic delay she refuses to let slide into something worse. The phone locks with a quiet tap, and her attention returns to you as if it had never shifted in the first place.

Her gaze, to her own surprise, lingers on you a fraction too long before she finally opens the rear door and gestures for you to slide in before her. There’s a flicker of hesitation — something she quickly buries under composure, because she’s never done this before. Still, the faint smile remains as she settles into the seat across from you, her tone almost conversational again.

“Do you have a preference,” she asks, “or shall I choose somewhere that won’t end up on social media?”

You laugh, buckling your seatbelt. “You choose. I’d trust your judgment over mine.”

“That’s the correct answer,” she says lightly, eyes forward as the car glides away from the curb.

"So," you said, settling into the leather seat, "is this what dates are like in your world? Secret gardens, mysterious colleagues, and cars with chauffeurs?”

"Hardly," Diana replied, her voice dry. "Usually there's more paperwork and fewer interruptions."

The car slipped through early evening traffic with practiced ease. The older woman kept her gaze forward, but she was acutely aware of your presence beside her — the subtle shift of your weight as the car turned, the faint scent of shampoo that hadn't quite faded from your hair.

"Where are we going?" you asked, peering out at the passing streets.

"A place in Marylebone," she said. "Small. Discreet. The food is excellent, and they don't take photographs of their patrons."

You laugh. “Right. The dangers of being extremely important.”

“Or extremely inconvenient,” she says, and the corner of her mouth threatens another smile before she smooths it away.

The car hums along a quieter street, the city softening around the edges as the sun dips lower. A pedestrian glances at the tinted windows, curiosity wasted; whatever world exists inside this car is invisible from the outside.

You rest your hands in your lap, resisting the impulse to fidget. You want to look at her again — studying the clean line of her jaw, the way authority is just… baked into her posture — but you try to be subtle about it.

Diana notices anyway.

“What?” she asks, not unkindly.

You almost choke on your own breath, heat creeping up your neck. “Nothing. Just… wondering how someone like you ends up having dinner with someone like me.”

Her eyes flick to yours — one quick, precise cut of attention — and then back to the window. “Someone like me?” she echoes, as if the phrase is suspect.

“You know,” you say, trying not to squirm. “Beautiful, brilliant, intimidating, high-status… and I’m just—”

“Someone I chose to spend time with,” she interrupts, voice low but firm, leaving no space for argument.

You go still.

The older woman doesn’t soften — not really — but there’s a calm certainty in the way she looks at you now, as if the matter has been decided and that’s the end of it.

“So,” she says, gaze forward again, “try not to talk yourself out of a perfectly good evening.”

Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. “Yes, ma’am,” you breathe, before you can think better of it.

A quiet, knowing curve touches her mouth. “Careful,” she murmurs, eyes still forward, “I might get used to that.”

You swallow — thick, too loud in your own ears — and she turns her attention back to the window as if she didn’t just rearrange every coherent thought you had.

The city rolls on around you — streetlights flickering to life, the sky shifting from gold to slate — and for the first time since you arrived in London, you don’t feel like a tourist at all. You feel like someone who’s somehow been invited into a world that isn’t meant to be seen, much less touched.

And sitting beside Diana, you want to touch everything. 

Chapter Text

The car slowed as it approached a narrow street lined with Georgian townhouses. The restaurant occupied the ground floor of one.

Diana watched you take it in, wondering what you saw. To her, it was simply practical: a place where conversations weren't overheard, where she could momentarily shed the weight of constant vigilance. But through your eyes, she imagined it might look like something else entirely — exclusive, perhaps. Secretive.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, as the driver opened her door. "It's quieter than most places."

"It's perfect," you said, and there was something in your voice — a warmth, an openness — that made her pause.

Inside, the restaurant was a study in understated elegance. Dark wood, soft lighting, tables spaced far enough apart that conversations remained private. The maître d' greeted Diana by name, his deference subtle but unmistakable as he led you to a corner table partially screened by a carved wooden panel.

"Your usual, Ms. Taverner?"

"Please," she said, settling into her chair. "And a bottle of the Barolo."

You glance at her, a smile tugging at your mouth, realizing she’d not once mentioned her last name. “Taverner,” you repeat, as if you’re trying it out. “I like it.”

The older woman nodded, a small smile touching her lips. "Yes. Taverner. I should have mentioned it earlier."

"It's a good name," you said, unfolding your napkin. "Strong. Like it belongs on a brass plaque somewhere."

"My father would have appreciated that assessment," she replied, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. "He had a fondness for things that endured."

The waiter appeared with the wine, presenting it with practiced efficiency. Diana watched him pour, her attention shifting between the dark liquid and your face across the table. The candlelight caught in your eyes when you smiled, creating tiny amber points that reminded her of surveillance cameras – warm instead of cold, inviting rather than intrusive.

"So," you said after the waiter departed, lifting your glass. "What should we toast to? Successful meetings? Secret gardens? The excellent timing of wedding escapes?"

She considered you over the rim of her glass. "How about unexpected detours?"

"I like that," you replied, and the glasses clinked with a delicate ring.

The wine is good — better than most you’ve tried, and she can tell you think so by the small shift in your eyes when you taste it. Diana notices the reaction without meaning to, filing it away with the rest of the details she’s gathered about you tonight. She isn’t usually this way, paying attention beyond what’s necessary, letting someone matter more than the moment requires. And yet here she is, wanting this to continue even though the clock is already ticking down. 

“This is so good,” you say, setting your glass down with a little more care than necessary.

“I’m relieved you approve,” Diana replies. “You have good instincts.” A brief pause, then, almost casually, “Try the salmon. It’s consistently excellent.”

You nod, a small smile breaking through before you can stop it. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

She notices the way your shoulders ease at that — the subtle release, the way you settle back into your chair as if you’ve been given permission to do so. It’s refreshing, she decides. And unexpectedly disarming.

“Tell me,” she says, leaning forward just enough to reclaim your attention, “what made you agree to dinner with me? After that rather… awkward interruption in the park.”

You laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "Are you kidding? Mystery woman with a secret garden key and government connections? That's basically the start of every interesting story."

Her mouth curves, slow and pleased. “You’re observant,” she says. “And generous with your conclusions.”

Your cheeks warm at that, and you glance down at your plate before meeting her eyes again. “I just call it as I see it.”

“Mm,” she hums, clearly satisfied. “And you do it well.”

There it is — the flicker of approval, measured but unmistakable. She sees the way your posture shifts again, the way your expression softens under the weight of being noticed.

"As for interesting stories,” she continues, “they tend to be the ones people wish they’d avoided." She replied dryly, but her eyes were bright with amusement.

"I'll take my chances." You took another sip of wine, watching her over the glass. "Besides, I like talking to you. You don't fill silences with noise just because they're there."

The older woman was struck by how much she enjoyed your company — the ease of it, the absence of calculation. In her world, conversations were tactical maneuvers, words chosen for effect rather than truth. Yet here she sat, wine glass between her fingers, actually considering what she might say next because she wanted to, not because some operational objective demanded it.

She found herself analyzing your expression the way she'd analyze intelligence reports — looking for patterns, for tells, for some hidden message beneath the surface. But there was none. Just honesty, curiosity, and that disarming smile that made something in her chest tighten with unfamiliar warmth.

"What about you?" you asked, breaking into her thoughts. "Why ask me to dinner? You strike me as someone who doesn't usually extend impulsive invitations."

She considered deflecting, offering some polished half-truth. It would be safer, certainly. But something about the directness of your gaze made her want to match it.

"I enjoy your company," she said. "You ask questions I don't expect. You notice things most people miss." Diana paused, running her finger along the stem of her glass. "And neither are you afraid of silence, which is rarer than you might think."

The waiter appeared with menus, but Diana waved them away with a polite murmur about the chef's choice. When he departed, she leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering.

"Also, I'll admit I was curious what might happen if we weren't interrupted by your friends or my... well, that brute.”

“He seemed charming," you said, the corner of your mouth lifting. "A walking hangover with opinions."

Diana's laugh was unexpected — a brief, genuine sound that seemed to surprise even her. "That's possibly the most accurate description of Jackson Lamb I've ever heard."

"Is he always that..." you gestured vaguely.

"Abrasive? Disheveled? Inappropriately familiar?" Diana supplied. "Yes. To all of the above. He's also excellent at his job, which is the only reason I tolerate him."

“And what job is that exactly?” you ask, leaning in as if you’re about to receive state secrets.

The older woman’s gaze cuts to you — cool, measuring, always five moves ahead. “He manages the department MI5 likes to pretend doesn’t exist,” she says. “A holding pen for agents who have… stumbled.” A faint, razor-thin smile. “They call it Slough House.”

“So he’s their boss?” you say.

“He is their reminder,” she says, voice dry as cut glass. “A living example of what happens to brilliant people when they become inconvenient.”

You blink. “So… exile with paperwork?”

“Exile with paperwork,” she confirms. If you end up with Jackson, it means London would rather forget you exist.”

"And you?" you begin, “What does the Deputy Director-General and what was it? Head of Operations?”

"Yes, that’s it. I oversee his department, among others." She took a measured sip of wine. "I'm the one who decides which problems need solving."

The first plates arrive without fanfare — a pair of small starters you don’t remember actually choosing. A few elegant bites of something crisp and green layered over a soft cheese, finished with a drizzle that probably tastes far more expensive than it looks. It’s the kind of dish that suggests the kitchen already knows what Diana likes and sends it without needing to be asked. Because you clearly didn’t order this, and you don’t remember her asking for an entrée. She lifts her fork with easy familiarity, and you follow her lead, realizing she has probably eaten here often enough that the staff could set her table blindfolded.

"This is amazing," you said, eyes widening slightly.

The older woman felt a small, unexpected pleasure at your reaction. "The chef trained in Paris before deciding London needed him more."

"Lucky London," you murmured, taking another bite.

The conversation flowed more easily than Diana had expected. You told her about your friend’s restaurant, about the wedding that had brought you to London, about the groom’s mother slipping on her way to the bathroom, and about the grandmother who confidently opened the emergency exit, convinced it was the way out. Against her better judgment, Diana found herself laughing — not politely, not strategically, but genuinely — more than she had in months, perhaps longer than she cared to calculate.

In return, she offered carefully edited stories of diplomatic functions gone wrong, of the absurdities of government hierarchy, of the time she'd been stuck in an elevator with the Foreign Secretary during a power outage and discovered he carried emergency biscuits in his briefcase.

"For blood sugar," Diana said, "or so he claimed. Though I suspect it was more for morale."

"Smart man," you replied. "I'd trust someone with emergency snacks to run foreign policy."

"You'd be surprised how many international incidents could be avoided with proper nutrition," she said dryly.

The main course arrived — perfectly cooked lamb for her, salmon for you. Diana found herself watching your reactions to each bite, cataloging the small shifts in your expression, the way your eyes closed briefly when you tasted something extraordinary.

"Can I ask you something?" you said, setting down your fork.

She nodded, wariness sliding beneath her skin like a familiar coat.

"Why MI5? I mean, there must be easier ways to serve your country. Less... complicated ways."

She considered the question, rolling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. "I was recruited out of university," she said finally. "I had languages, analytical skills, and what they called 'appropriate skepticism.' Which meant I didn't trust easily but could pretend to when needed."

"And you stayed because...?"

The older woman looked at you, really looked, weighing what to say against what was true. "Because I was good at it," she said. "Because the work matters, even when it's ugly. And because..." She paused, searching for words she rarely voiced. "Because I understood the rules. The world makes more sense when you can see the machinery beneath it."

You nodded, seeming to absorb this. "Do you ever wish you'd chosen differently?"

"No," she said immediately, then reconsidered. "Sometimes. In small moments. But regret is a luxury in my line of work. You make choices, you live with them."

The wine doesn’t disappear quickly. Diana drinks it the way some people read legal documents — looking for the flaws, deciding whether they’re tolerable. Each motion is neat and intentional, like she refuses to surrender control even to gravity.

“You work long hours,” you say, once the hush of the restaurant settles into something steady.

Her eyes flick to you, one brow tipping the slightest bit. “Time isn’t really mine,” she replies. “It belongs to whatever crisis misbehaves first.”

You give a small smile. “Sounds relaxing.”

“It isn’t,” the older woman says simply, cutting her lamb with surgical precision. “But structure softens the blow. Hell is easier when the calendar’s organized.”

She waits a beat — watching for your reaction — and when you smile wider, she accepts it with a subtle shift of her mouth, like yes, you got the joke.

“People assume intelligence work is glamorous,” she goes on. “Martinis. Tuxedos. Cryptic notes slipped under the right pillow.” A dry pause. “Mostly it’s paperwork explaining why someone decided a commuter train was an appropriate storage facility for classified material.”

You snort. She allows it — which somehow feels like victory.

“And when it isn’t paperwork?” you ask.

“Meetings,” she answers. “With senior officials who think cybersecurity begins and ends with capital letters.” She lifts her fork delicately. “One insisted that his password was safe because he wrote it on a sticky note and turned it upside down. As if the Russians can’t flip a piece of paper.”

You take a sip of water to hide your grin.

“Most of my job,” she says, “is convincing people who should know better to do the absolute minimum to keep the country intact.”

“And the rest?” you ask.

She pauses, wine glass half-raised. “The rest,” she says, “is what ends up redacted.”

There’s no bravado in the way she says it — just a truth with sharp edges.

“You said the world makes more sense when you can see the machinery beneath it.”

“I did.”

“That doesn’t weigh on you?”

“It does.” A breath. “But ignorance isn't a relief. It’s just a prettier form of oblivion.”

You stare at her for a moment, food forgotten. She speaks in the kind of sentences that rewrite how you see the world.

“Better,” she continues lightly, “to know where the gears might snap than be crushed by them while smiling into a camera.”

The room is warm, and the tablecloth is soft beneath your hands. And suddenly you’re very aware that you’re sitting across from a woman who saves the country before most people have breakfast.

“Must get lonely,” you say.

Her eyes shift to you. “Loneliness is manageable. Catastrophe isn’t.”

The words land because you hear what she doesn’t say — that her life has been shaped by the work, narrowed and sharpened by it, and that whatever loneliness came with that was something she accepted.

She studies you again, long enough that you shift slightly in your seat — not from discomfort, but from the unsettling awareness that she’s really looking at you. Taking stock. Deciding.

“Most people who sit across from me want something,” she says. “Access. Influence.”

You don’t look away. “And what do you think I want?”

Her gaze stays on yours. “That,” she says, “I’m still trying to work out.”

And there it is — the truth as clean as a blade.

She folds her hands together on the table. “For once, I would like to be wrong.”

“Wrong about what?”

“That everyone always wants something.”

You hesitate just a fraction, then say it anyway. “Well, I just wanted to spend time with you.”

It’s the truth — you weren’t angling for anything else. You just wanted to know her — a woman who’s clearly out of your league, who still, somehow, seems to find you worth her time.

She doesn’t answer right away. There’s a pause — not awkward, just very deliberate — while looking away as if to decide whether to take you at your word. When she looks back at you, something in her expression eases, barely, but enough that you notice.

“That,” she says, voice quieter, “is a problem I might be willing to explore.”

Your pulse stutters before you can rein it in.

“You’re not intimidated by me,” she observes, her eyes squinting slightly, watching you closely.

“Oh, I am,” you admit, letting out a small breath of a laugh. “I just try not to show it.”

A soft sound leaves her — not quite a laugh, but close enough to count.

“Good,” she says. “Fear makes people stupid.”

Dinner drifts into talk about the quiet absurdities of bureaucracy — meetings that exist solely to delay decisions, diplomatic dinners where nothing meaningful happens until the second bottle of wine.

She’s animated in her restraint, if that makes sense — passion filtered through discipline.

The plates are cleared. Neither of you reaches for your phones, because why would you? She might have a crisis, but you're enamored. She taps one fingertip against her wine glass — a barely there rhythm.

“You are very unexpected,” she says finally. “And that is… surprisingly pleasant.”

That might possibly be the most romantic sentence she’s ever spoken.

After a moment of you being stuck in the present, dessert appears — a glossy ribbon of dark chocolate with gold leaf — and she waits for you to taste it before she lifts her own fork.

Her eyes stay on you just a moment too long — like she’s trying to commit your reaction to memory — before she takes her first bite.

“Okay, this place has literally ruined any other restaurant for me.”

Diana smiled, her expression softening in the candlelight. "The chef would take that as the highest compliment."

The restaurant had thinned out as the evening wore on. Tables emptied quietly, chairs tucked in, conversations dissolving into a low, ambient hum that made your corner feel increasingly private, like time had narrowed itself around the two of you.

You let out a soft laugh, a little self-conscious now that you noticed it. “Sorry,” you said, “I think I’ve been talking too much.” You glanced at her, warm but earnest. “Why don’t you tell me something else about yourself?”

The older woman tilted her head slightly, considering. Her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass, a habit you'd noticed when she was thinking. "What would you like to know?"

"I know it sounds corny," you said. "But, maybe something that isn't in your official biography."

She studies you for a moment, long enough that you start wondering if she’s going to answer at all. Then she exhales, barely a shift in posture. “I collect fountain pens,” she says. “Older ones. Forties, mostly. They’re well-made, reliable, and they don’t break if you look at them the wrong way.”

Your smile slips out before you can stop it. “Yeah, I can picture that,” you say, “Seems a lot like you, old-fashioned.”

She immediately raises a perfect brow, "Should I be offended by 'old-fashioned'?" Diana asked, but there was amusement in her voice.

"Not at all. Old-fashioned means things were built to last, not to be disposable." You reached for your wine glass. "It's a compliment."

"Then I'll take it as one." She finished her dessert and set the spoon down with calculated precision. "Your turn."

"My turn?"

"Something that isn’t in your official biography," Diana said. "As you’ve asked me… something you haven’t told to anyone."

You hesitated, weighing what to share. The older woman waited, patient and attentive in a way that made you feel both exposed and strangely safe.

And then you tell her, something you haven’t told anyone...

Diana watches as you speak, her attention complete. The candlelight softens the lines of her face, but her eyes stay sharp, steady, taking in every word without interruption. When you finish, she doesn’t rush to fill the space.

“Thank you for sharing that.”

You shift slightly. “I— yeah. I didn’t plan to say it.”

“No,” she replies, calm but warm. “I imagine you didn’t.” Her gaze lingers a second longer than before. “You’re quite lovely when you blush.”

You blush even more, lowering your eyes and biting the side of your bottom lip before reaching her eyes again. 

Her compliment lands, and you feel heat bloom, bright and helpless. You manage a breath, then another. She watches you take both, and something about the way she does it tells you she’s counted breaths in rooms that mattered a great deal more than this.

“Look at me,” she says, quietly but firmly, like she’s giving an instruction she fully expects to be followed.

You do, and your pulse stutters. The corner of her mouth softens, pleased that you listened without making a meal of it.

“Good,” she says, and it’s astonishing what that single word does to your spine.

You swallow, trying to steady yourself, trying to make sense of the way the air has shifted — the way she’s suddenly not just present, but focused, like a decision has already been made and you’re only now being briefed on it.

“What are you doing?” you ask, and the nerves leak through despite your best effort. It’s not an accusation. It’s closer to awe. Or fear. Probably both.

“I’m choosing to be clear,” she says, calmly, as if clarity were the most natural thing in the world.

You sit very still while the waiter clears dessert. Diana thanks him, waits for the last clink of porcelain to vanish, then leans in a fraction. The candle turns her eyes to warm amber; the line of her jaw is all decision.

“Here’s what I know,” she says. “You like being seen. You like being understood. And when I compliment you, your shoulders drop, and your mouth betrays you.” A ghost of a smile. “There it is.”

You feel it — the reflexive pull to please, the relief when someone competent names the thing you’ve been trying not to speak aloud. “You make it sound like a profile.”

“It’s a courtesy,” she says. “You don’t want guessing. You want instruction.”

Your breath catches, traitorously loud in your ears. “I— okay, maybe a little.”

“A lot,” she corrects, gentle but immovable. “Which is not a flaw. It simply means I don’t insult you by pretending we’re improvising.”

You try to laugh it off and fail. The sound comes out thin, a little breathless. “Why didn’t you talk like this yesterday?”

“Because I didn’t know you yesterday,” she says, as if that explains gravity. “I’m not careless with people. Even when I want to be.”

You tighten your grip on your napkin because your hands need something to do. She notices and slides the wine gently out of your reach.

“I like you attentive,” she says. “Clear-headed.”

Your throat goes dry.

“Let’s agree on a few things,” she says, tone warm but undeniably in charge. “You’ll tell me if I push too far. You’ll use real words, not hints. If you need me to stop, you’ll say stop. If you want more, you’ll ask for it.”

You nod, a little too fast. “I can do that.”

“I know,” she says, and there’s something quietly pleased in it. “You’re very good when you’re given a line to hold.”

You’re blushing again, and she doesn’t let it pass unnoticed. “There,” she murmurs. “You color beautifully when you’re praised.”

You look down,

"Yes on me,” she says.

You obey without thinking.

“Good,” she adds, and the approval in that single word sends a shiver straight down your spine. Not theatrical. Just… certain. “I enjoy how responsive you are. I enjoy it even more now that I understand it.”

That does something reckless to your ribs. “Okay.”

She watches the word land, then tips her head — a decision settling. “I took a room at the hotel this morning. I didn’t wish to go home.” Her tone stays even, impeccably polite, but there’s no mistaking the invitation beneath it. “Would you care to join me?”

Your brain supplies too many answers at once. The one that makes it to your mouth is honest and a little breathless. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Excellent,” she says, and somehow that one word rearranges the air between you. Her tone is measured — controlled, but carrying that quiet authority that makes people fall in line before they realize they have. “We’ll keep it simple. Coffee first.”

A beat passes — her eyes still on you, steady, unreadable, but with the faintest trace of something warmer underneath. “And whatever happens next,” she adds, voice lowering just a touch, “we’ll handle it.”

You take a breath, steadying yourself as she asks for the cheque. You offer to pay, but she brushes off the offer politely. 

Once outside, the night air feels cool against your flushed cheeks, a welcome contrast to the warmth that's been building inside you since she spoke those words. Coffee. Whatever happens next.

The car appears almost instantly, her driver materializing from shadows like he’d done it a million times before. He opened the door without comment, his expression professionally blank, though a soft smile flickered across his face when you locked eyes before you slid into the backseat. Diana follows, the space between you on the leather suddenly charged with something neither of you is naming yet.

“The hotel, please,” she said to the chauffeur once he settled into the driver’s seat, her voice carrying that same quiet authority that had straightened your spine at dinner without her needing to raise it at all.

The drive passes in weighted silence. London slides by outside the windows — streetlights blurring, late-night pedestrians laughing on corners, the city pulsing around your private bubble of anticipation. You catch Diana watching you in the reflection of the window, her gaze steady and assessing. When you turn to meet it directly, she doesn't look away.

"Nervous?" she asks, the word soft but direct.

"A little," you admit. "But not... not in a bad way."

Her mouth curves slightly. "Good."

That single word again — so simple, yet somehow laden with approval that makes your chest tighten pleasantly.

Chapter Text

The hotel appears ahead, and the same doorman nods as you pass through, but this time you're not heading toward the cacophony of the reception hall or the chaos of the bridal suite. Instead, you follow Diana to the elevator, where she presses the button for the top floor with the same precision she’s applied to everything since meeting her.

The elevator rises smoothly. You stand beside her, aware of every inch of space between you, neither touching nor speaking. Her reflection in the polished doors looks composed, controlled — but you notice her fingers tapping once, twice against her thigh before stilling.

She's not as unaffected as she appears.

The doors slide open to reveal a hushed corridor. Diana leads the way without hesitation, her heels clicking softly on marble, then falling silent on plush carpet. The key card appears in her hand like a magician's prop, and the door to her suite opens with a soft electronic chirp.

Inside, the room unfolds in understated luxury. If only your room looked like this. All cream and gold and dark wood, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights. It's larger than your room by several degrees, with a sitting area and what looks like a separate bedroom beyond a partially open door.

"Make yourself comfortable," Diana says, setting her bag on a side table with practiced ease. "I'll order coffee."

You nod, moving toward the windows while she speaks quietly into the house phone. The view draws your attention — London spread out below, a tapestry of lights and shadows, buildings and spaces. You hear her finish the call, then the soft sound of her approaching from behind.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she says, standing close enough that you can smell her perfume — something expensive and subtle that makes you want to lean in.

"Yes," you answer, though you're not entirely sure if you're talking about the view anymore.

When you turn, she's watching you with that same measured attention, as if cataloging your reactions for future reference. Her jacket is gone now, draped over a chair, leaving her in just the silk blouse and tailored trousers that somehow manage to be both professional and devastatingly elegant.

"Coffee will be up shortly," she says. "In the meantime, perhaps you'd like to sit?"

You follow her to the sofa, settling onto the cushions as she takes the chair opposite, crossing her legs with that same precise movement you've come to recognize. The coffee table between you feels like a buffer.

"I should be clear about something," Diana says, her voice level. "I don't typically do this."

“You said that already.”

"This isn't the beginning of something," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "You leave soon. I have commitments that don't allow for... entanglements. So whatever happens between us stays only while you’re here."

The honesty was both disappointing and oddly refreshing. "I understand."

"Do you?" She leaned forward slightly. "Because I need you to be very clear about this. I don't want misunderstandings or regrets."

"No expectations. I'm okay with that," you say — too quickly, too brightly — and you both know it. But you stand your ground anyway, meeting her eyes.

The truth of it was that you weren’t, but she made it clear that nothing would happen after, and why would it? She lives in London for fucks sake, and doesn’t seem like the type for long-distance relationships.

A knock at the door interrupted the moment. Diana rose smoothly, crossing to answer it. A waiter wheeled in a small trolley with a silver coffee service, nodding at her instructions before departing quietly.

She poured two cups with practiced grace, handing you one before taking her seat again. The coffee was rich and dark, perfectly made. You sipped it slowly, aware of her watching you over the rim of her own cup.

When you set your cup down, the silence stretched between you. The lamplight caught the angles of her face, softening her sharp edges just enough to make your chest ache.

"I appreciate your honesty," you said. "About this being… temporary."

"It seemed only fair," the older woman replied, her voice smooth as the coffee. "I don't believe in false promises."

You nodded, registering the dull ache in your chest and choosing, intentionally, not to examine it too closely; whatever it meant could wait, because tonight you were going to have sex with this woman, and you were determined to let yourself want that without apology.

"Right," you said, deciding to be brave. "So if we're being clear about things, I should tell you what I want."

The older woman raised an eyebrow, interest flickering across her features. "By all means."

You set your coffee cup down, mirroring her precision. "I want you to kiss me."

The corner of her mouth lifted. She placed her cup beside yours, then stood, her movements unhurried but purposeful. She crossed the space between you, each step intentional, until she was standing directly in front of where you sat.

"Stand up," she said quietly.

You rose, your body responding to her command before your mind had fully processed it. She was close enough now that you could count her eyelashes if you wanted to.

She raised her hand, brushing her fingertips along your jawline with such delicateness that your breath caught. Her touch was feather-light, a question and a promise all at once. When her palm came to rest against your cheek, you leaned into it instinctively.

"You’re beautiful," she murmured, and before you knew it, her lips were on yours.

The kiss began softly — a gentle press, a careful exploration. Her lips were warm and impossibly soft. You stood perfectly still, afraid that any movement might break whatever spell had fallen over the room.

Then her other hand found your waist, fingers splaying across the small of your back, and she pulled you closer. The kiss deepened, her tongue tracing the seam of your lips before slipping inside to meet yours. A small sound escaped your throat — half sigh, half moan — and you felt her smile against your mouth.

"I've been wanting to do that since I saw you at the bar last night," she admitted, her voice slightly rougher than before. Her fingers traced idle patterns at the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

"Well, if I can be honest, me too.”

"Is that so?" she asked, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, "Doesn’t anticipation make everything sweeter?"

Her hands moved to your shoulders, sliding your jacket down your arms until it fell to the floor. You reached for the buttons of her blouse, but she caught your wrists gently.

"Not yet," she said. "I wish to see you first."

Heat bloomed across your skin as Diana stepped back, her eyes never leaving yours as she guided you toward the bed. You'd noticed when walking into her hotel room that the sheets had already been turned down, as if she had known exactly how this evening would end.

She takes off your clothing in a swift motion, and her gaze travels over you — taking in the underwear you'd decided to wear, the goosebumps rising on your skin — with such focused appreciation that you feel simultaneously exposed and adored.

"You're so beautiful," she said, and somehow those simple words carried more weight than any elaborate compliment could have.

She guided you to sit on the edge of the bed, then knelt before you. The sight of her on her knees sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

Her posture was immaculate, even kneeling — aristocratic and controlled, yet her eyes had darkened. She placed her hands on your knees, gently urging them apart. The touch of her fingers against your skin sent electricity racing up your thighs.

"May I?" she asked, her voice low and husky.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and the older woman smiled, that same measured smile that had captivated you across the dinner table, but now with an edge of hunger that made your breath catch.

She leaned forward, pressing her lips to the inside of your knee. The kiss was soft, almost chaste, but the promise behind it was anything but. She worked her way slowly upward, each kiss slightly firmer than the last, leaving a trail of heat across your skin. Her hands followed, stroking up your calves, over your knees, along your thighs, always stopping just short of where you wanted them most.

"Diana," you whispered, your voice breaking on her name.

She looked up, her eyes meeting yours — dark, patient, devastatingly calm. "Oh, patience," she murmured against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, lips brushing so lightly it felt like they never made contact. "I want to savor this."

Her fingers drifted higher, tracing the edge of your underwear. You were already soaked through; the cotton was dark and clinging, heavy with arousal, the fabric molded obscenely to your folds when she hooked two fingers into the waistband and gave a small tug, the wet material peeled away from your skin with a faint, slick sound.

She paused for a fraction of a second — her gaze dropping, taking in the glistening evidence of how ready you already were, how thoroughly you'd soaked through everything before she'd even really touched you. No words, no smirk, just that quiet, lingering look you’d seen her give you since meeting her, and that made your pulse hammer harder.

Then she continued as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Lift," she commanded softly.

You raised your hips without hesitation. Diana slid the ruined underwear down your thighs, past your knees, letting them drop forgotten to the floor. The cool air kissed your now-bare, slick center, and you shivered hard, thighs trembling from more than just the temperature shift.

Still fully clothed — silk blouse buttoned to the collar, trousers crisp — she rose smoothly to her feet and stepped between your parted legs, standing over you with that same unhurried possession.

Then, still fully clothed, she rose to her feet and stepped between your parted legs. "Lie back," she said.

You obeyed, shifting up the bed until your head rested on the pillows. Diana watched you settle, then began unbuttoning her blouse one button at a time, unhurried, the kind of patience that made it almost unbearable not to reach for her and take matters into your own hands. Each revealed inch of skin made your mouth go dry. She shrugged the silk from her shoulders, revealing a black lace bra that contrasted beautifully with her skin.

Her skirt followed, sliding down her legs to pool at her feet. She stepped out of it gracefully, standing before you in nothing but matching black lingerie. The sight stole your breath — she was all elegant lines and subtle curves, strength hidden beneath softness.

"You're staring," she observed, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Can you blame me?"

She smiled then, a real smile that transformed her face, making her look younger and less guarded. "I suppose not."

She moved to the bed, her movements fluid and controlled as she crawled up to join you. She hovered above you, her hair falling forward to frame her face, creating an almost private curtain around you both.

"I'm going to touch you now," she said, her voice soft but certain. "I want to hear every sound you make. Don't you dare hold back."

That's when her lips found yours again, more demanding this time. Her tongue swept into your mouth, claiming and exploring while her hand traced patterns across your collarbone, down between your breasts. She unhooked your bra, drawing it away and tossing it aside.

When her palm finally cupped your breast, you gasped into her mouth. Her thumb brushed across your nipple, circling gently before pinching just hard enough to make you arch upward.

"Beautiful," she murmured, breaking the kiss to trail her lips down your neck, across your shoulder, over your collarbone, and finally to your breast. The wet heat of her mouth closing around your nipple made you whimper, your hands flying to her hair.

She worked you methodically, alternating between gentle suction that hollowed her cheeks and the precise edge of teeth that left crescent-shaped tingles, while her fingers lightly pinched your other nipple, rolling the hardened peak between thumb and forefinger until it ached sweetly.

But it wasn’t until her hand finally slid between your legs, her palm resting against your lower belly, that the full extent of it became impossible to ignore. You were embarrassingly wet. The state of your underwear should have been warning enough, but this felt excessive — undeniable in a way that made heat rise to your face. The older woman made a sound of approval against your flushed skin, a low purr that vibrated through your sternum.

Her fingers parted your slick folds with care, the pad of her middle finger tracing the sensitive edges before circling your entrance, teasing without entering, gathering your wetness, and spreading it upward. Your hips thrust involuntarily, a desperate moan escaping as molten arousal flooded your center. She hummed against your nipple, the vibration once again shooting electricity through your body, before she finally pushed a finger deep inside you, slowly and purposefully, curling it just right to brush that ridged spot that made your vision blur at the edges and then had your eyes rolled back in pleasure.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, your hands leaving her head to clutch the sheets, knuckles whitening as your back arched off the mattress when she added a second finger, stretching you with perfect rhythm. Her thumb found your swollen clit, pressing in firm circles that matched the thrust of her hand, building a pressure that had you trembling beneath her, thighs quivering uncontrollably.

She lifted her head from your breast, her lips glistening with saliva, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made you feel utterly claimed, possessed. "That's it," she whispered, her voice a velvet rasp against your oversensitized skin. "Let me hear you."

The words unraveled something inside you, and you moaned louder, the sound raw and unrestrained as her fingers pumped faster, slick sounds filling the room in time with your racing heartbeat. Her free hand roamed up your side, pinching your nipple in time with each thrust of her hand. It amplifies every sensation until you’re teetering on the edge.

But just as the wave crested, she slowed, withdrawing her fingers with a wet glide that left you clenching around nothing. You whined in protest, reaching for her, but she caught your hand and brought it to her lips, kissing your knuckles while her other hand — still glistening with your arousal — trailed slowly down her own body, dragging slick lines from the hollow of her throat down between her breasts and across her stomach, leaving shining streaks that caught the low light.

Your eyes widened at the sight of her elegant form now marked with you, a fresh surge of heat flooding your core as she held your gaze.

"Not yet," she said, her breath coming quicker now, a flush coloring her cheeks. She unclasped her bra, letting it fall away to reveal full breasts, nipples hardened peaks that begged for attention. Her panties followed, slid off with a graceful shimmy, and then she was bare before you, her body a masterpiece of poise.

She climbed fully onto the bed, straddling one of your thighs as she guided your leg between hers. The heat of her center pressed against your skin, slick, so very slick, and you felt her arousal coating your thigh as she rocked experimentally, a soft groan escaping her.

"Kiss me," you pleaded, pulling her down until her mouth crashed into yours, tongues tangling in a messy, desperate dance. She tasted of coffee and need, her lips devouring yours while her hands roamed your body, tracing your hips, squeezing your breasts.

As the kiss deepened, she repositioned herself, bringing your bodies flush against each other so that your cores met. The first grind of her hips against yours sent lightning through you, her bundle of nerves rubbing against yours in friction that was almost too much. She held the rhythm steady after that, rolling her hips in circles, each movement building up the pressure within you.

"Yes, like that," Diana gasped, her breath hot and ragged against your cheek as she held your gaze, foreheads nearly touching. She drove her hips forward harder, faster, scissoring against you with fierce, slippery precision — every grind sending fresh sparks through your core. The bedframe groaned under the tempo, your sweat-slicked bodies locked together, the mounting pleasure so consuming it left no room for anything else.

Your hands slid down her back and gripped her ass firmly — fingers digging into the firm, flexing muscle, pulling her even tighter against you, urging her on without words. She responded instantly, hips rolling quicker, before she shuddered above you, a low moan vibrating through her chest, her movements growing more frantic as she chased release. "Don't stop," she commanded, though it came out ragged and pleading.

Then her whole body tensed, arching sharply against you as she came with a broken, raw cry — her clit throbbing hard against yours, her thighs trembling violently, a sudden warm flood of her release slicking you both even more. The raw sound of her pleasure, the way she clenched and shook above you, tipped you over instantly; your own orgasm crashed through you in the next heartbeat, sharp and overwhelming, your hips bucking up into hers as waves of ecstasy ripped through you, drawing out every last spark of shared bliss while your fingers stayed locked tight on her ass, holding her through the aftershocks.

After a moment, she propped herself up on one elbow, tracing lazy patterns on your stomach. "That was..." She trailed off, searching for words, but you understood. She didn’t need to voice it. 

You lay there, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat, the scent of her perfume mingling with the musk of your shared release. Diana's fingers traced idle circles on your abdomen, her touch light enough to raise fresh goosebumps. You turned toward her, capturing her lips in a languid kiss that tasted of satisfaction and lingering hunger. Your tongue slipped into her mouth, exploring with renewed curiosity, and she responded with a soft hum, her hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck.

"More?" you murmured against her lips, your voice husky from the cries she'd drawn out of you.

She pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, her eyes still dark with want. "If you're offering."

You didn't hesitate, rolling over to straddle her hips, pinning her gently beneath you. Her body felt warm and pliant, her breasts pressing against yours as you leaned down for another kiss, deeper this time, teeth grazing her lower lip.

She arched into you, her nails scraping lightly down your back, sending shivers racing along your spine.

Your hand wandered down her side, tracing the soft curve of her hip until your fingers dipped between her thighs. She was soaked, her arousal warm against your fingertips as you teased her entrance, circling slowly before sliding two fingers inside.

Diana gasped into your mouth, her inner walls clenching tight around you. You curled your fingers, stroking that sensitive spot that made her hips buck against your hand.

"Yes," she breathed, the word breaking on a shaky exhale as you found a steady beat, thrusting in and out while your thumb brushed firmly over her clit. Her fingers dug into your shoulders, anchoring herself as she rocked into every stroke, chasing the rising heat.

You watched her face in awe — the way her composed features softened and unraveled: lips parted, eyes fluttering shut, a deep flush blooming across her cheeks and down her neck.

Emboldened by that breathless "yes," you eased your weight up off her body just enough to create space, careful not to pull your fingers free from where they stayed buried deep inside her.

Still kneeling between her thighs, you gently lifted one of her legs, guiding it up and over your shoulder so her knee hooked behind you, opening her wider and letting you sink your fingers even deeper with the new angle.

You couldn’t help but marvel at how easily she let you do it — how limber she was for a woman her age, her thigh sliding up without the slightest hesitation or strain, muscle warm and supple under your palm as though the years had never touched her in the ways that usually stiffen a body. The new position opened her beautifully wide, letting you sink your fingers even deeper while freeing your other hand for better, more deliberate access to her clit.

The view of her like this — spread beneath you, trembling, completely surrendered — sent fresh fire racing through your veins. Your other hand moved down and rubbed her clit back and forth, fingertips slippery with her wetness, pressing just right to make her thighs quiver against your sides.

Diana's breath hitched sharply, turning into a low, throaty moan that vibrated straight to your core. Her leg flexed over your shoulder, muscles tightening as she pushed back into your touch, meeting every thrust and circle with desperate little rolls of her hips.

You drove your fingers deeper, curling them rhythmically against that perfect spot inside her, her walls fluttering and clenching harder around you. The wet, obscene sounds of her body yielding to yours filled the room, a raw symphony of need that had you both moaning in unison.

Sweat beaded once more on her skin, glistening in the low light, and you watched her chest rise and fall faster, her breasts heaving with each ragged inhale. The flush had spread down her neck, blooming across her collarbone, and her fingers dug into the sheets beside her, knuckles whitening as she gripped harder. 

You increased the pace, fingers pumping in and out with conscious force, while your other hand worked her clit relentlessly, which drew sharp gasps from her.

"Fuck," she whispered, her voice cracking, eyes squeezing shut as her head tipped back against the pillow, exposing the elegant line of her throat. You leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses along that exposed skin, tasting the salt of her sweat mingled with the faint remnants of her perfume. Her body arched beneath you, hips rolling to meet every thrust, every swirl of your fingers, and you felt the heat building in her, the way her inner muscles tightened like a vice, pulling you in deeper.

You didn't let up, driven by the way her moans grew louder, more desperate, spilling from her lips in a cascade that made your own arousal throb anew between your legs. 

The friction against her bundle of nerves had her shuddering, her free leg wrapping around your waist to anchor you closer, as if she couldn't bear even an inch of space. 

Her hands flew to your hair, tugging sharply, the sting sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through you that only fueled your movements.

“Faster,” she gasped, the word barely coherent, her body writhing now, slick heat coating your fingers as you fucked her harder. You could feel her edging closer, the tension coiling in her like a spring, her breath coming in short, frantic bursts that brushed hot against your ear. 

The scent of her — musky and intoxicating — filled your senses, and you savored the way her composure shattered piece by piece, her usual poise giving way to raw, unrestrained want.

She bucked against your hand, a keening cry breaking free, and you pressed down harder, rubbing in rapid, tight motions while your fingers pumped inside her, hitting that spot over and over. Her whole body tensed, trembling violently, and then she shattered — her orgasm ripping through her with a force that had her crying out your name in a broken sob, walls pulsing wildly around your fingers, a rush of warmth flooding over your hand. 

She convulsed beneath you, hips jerking erratically as wave after wave crashed over her, her moans dissolving into whimpers, until finally, she went limp, gasping for air, her body spent and quivering in the aftermath.

You eased your fingers out slowly, careful not to overwhelm her further, and she shivered at the loss, her eyes fluttering open to meet yours, hazy and unfocused. 

The satisfied look in her gaze, the way her lips parted in exhausted bliss, made your heart pound.

You traced lazy patterns along her thigh, savoring the way her body relaxed into the mattress, the tension melting away like wax under flame.

She reached up, her fingers threading through your hair with a gentleness that contrasted the wildness from moments before, pulling you down for another kiss — slow, languid, her tongue brushing yours in a way that tasted of contentment and something deeper, something she surely didn’t want to feel. When she broke away, her eyes held yours, the haze clearing just enough to reveal a vulnerability you'd glimpsed only in flashes during your negotiations earlier that evening.

"Stay," she murmured, her voice husky and soft, barely above a whisper, as if the word itself carried the weight of invitation and plea. Her hand slid down to your arm, gripping lightly, her thumb stroking your skin in small, persuasive circles. The hotel room felt smaller in that moment, the city lights filtering through the curtains casting a golden glow over her features, highlighting the faint sheen of sweat on her brow and the way her lips curved into a tentative smile.

You hesitated, your pulse quickening at the implication, the air thick with the scent of sex and her perfume, a heady mix that made it hard to think straight. But she didn't let go, her leg still hooked loosely around yours, keeping you close as she added, "Just for tonight. No expectations beyond that."

The words hung in the air, simple and unadorned, and they landed harder than you expected. Something sharp flickered through your chest — familiar, unwelcome — and for a brief, treacherous moment, you wondered if it showed on your face. You hoped it didn’t. You hoped she hadn’t caught the way your expression tightened before you smoothed it over, before you folded the hurt away where it wouldn’t complicate things. You searched her face instead — the faint lines around her eyes that spoke of years spent in shadows, the vulnerability that slipped through only now, in the afterglow. This wasn’t the composed MI5 director with a commanding presence; this was Diana, stripped of her armor, offering what she could, and no more.

"I'd like that," you whispered, your voice steadier than you felt. You shifted closer, tucking your head against her shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of her breath sync with yours. Her arm wrapped around you, fingers tracing absent patterns along your spine — not possessive, but present, a grounding touch that chased away the city's distant hum.

“I assume the invitation still stands,” she says, watching you carefully. “For tomorrow.”

“Of course,” you blurt, eyes lighting up, the answer tumbling out before you can stop it. That’s when you realize, no expectations beyond that, she’d said… “I… I mean, if your schedule allows it.”

Diana hums, thoughtful, the sound a low vibration against your temple. “I have a meeting in the morning,” she says after a moment, voice still soft from the haze between wakefulness and sleep. “Eight to eleven. After that, I’m—” she exhales, the faintest curve tugging at her lips, “meeting-free.”

You smile against her shoulder. “So… that’s a yes?”

“That’s a provisional yes,” she corrects, her tone shifting back toward the dry precision you’re starting to love. “Assuming I survive three hours of men who enjoy hearing themselves talk.”

You tilt your head up, catching the faint glint of humor in her eyes. “And if you do?”

“Then I’ll shower,” she says matter-of-factly. “Put on something less… MI5, and meet you before one.”

“Perfect.” You grin. “I’ll save you a seat.”

“Save me two,” she murmurs, and presses a brief kiss to your hair — so fleeting it could almost be imagined. “One for me, and one for my patience.”

You laugh quietly, the sound swallowed by the room’s stillness. Diana’s arm tightens around you, just slightly, her body warm and steady against yours. The city hums below, restless and endless, but here, wrapped in her calm gravity, everything feels temporary and safe all at once.

“Get some sleep,” she says, voice a whisper now. “We have a wedding to attend to.”

She settles beside you at last, the movement unhurried, practiced even in its tenderness. The bed dips slightly with her weight, and then her arm comes around you, warm and steady, pulling you in until your cheek rests against her shoulder. Her skin is still warm from exertion, her breathing gradually evening out beneath your ear.

Outside, London carries on — distant traffic, a siren somewhere far below, the faint glow of the city leaking through the curtains. Diana’s fingers trace absent lines along your upper arm, not possessive, not quite comforting either, just present. As if she’s anchoring herself as much as you.

You let yourself enjoy it. The quiet. The closeness. The undeniable fact that you’re here, in this bed, with a woman who feels impossible and real all at once.

And then, uninvited, the thought slips in.

You're leaving soon.

You try to push it away — the reminder that this has edges, that it has an ending she’s already named, already contained. That no expectations don’t mean no consequences, and that wanting more doesn’t somehow summon it into being. Your chest tightens just enough to notice, just enough to fracture the perfection of the moment.

Because you know this isn’t how her life works.

Because Diana Taverner doesn’t look like the type of person to collect people. She doesn’t seem as if she builds her days around anyone else’s needs. Her life is made of meetings and decisions that ripple outward, of rooms where her name carries weight and her presence shifts outcomes. She has places to be, crises to manage, and men who answer to her whether they like it or not. She exists at the center of things that matter.

And you’re… not that.

You’re someone she met by chance. Someone she wanted, briefly, precisely because there was no room for you beyond this. You know she’d never allow a real entanglement, never invite a complication that could be used against her or distract her from the work that defines her. There’s no version of this where you slot neatly into her life, where you’re anything more than a weekend she permits herself before closing the door again.

The thought hurts more than you expect.

You hope she doesn’t feel it — the way your body stills despite yourself, the way your breath catches for half a second before you force it back into something even. You don’t want to ruin this with something as inconvenient as hope, don’t want her to see the wanting and decide she’s made a mistake.

Diana shifts slightly, her chin tilting to rest against the top of your head. Her arm tightens, not much, but deliberately, as if she’s felt the change even if she hasn’t named it.

“Sleep,” she murmurs.

You nod against her shoulder, closing your eyes, letting the warmth of her body anchor you where you are. Whatever comes later — the leaving, the recalibration, the quiet disappointment — can wait. You choose, consciously, to stay in this moment, to take what’s being given without reaching for what isn’t.

For now, you let yourself believe that being held like this is enough, because you know it’s a moment you’ll remember long after it’s gone.

Chapter Text

You’re at the wedding, half speaking with your friends, half scanning the crowd for her. It’s ridiculous, how restless you are — you’re technically supposed to be focused on the bride, your friend, but the thought of Diana showing up in that quiet, composed way of hers has you glancing toward every door as if it owes you something.

And then there she is.

She stands at the edge of the room, framed by soft lights and the sweep of chatter. White blouse, long grey skirt — understated, perfectly pressed, perfectly her. The kind of simplicity that somehow feels more calculated than anyone else’s effort. When her eyes find yours, something flickers — the faintest smile, small enough to miss if you weren’t watching for it.

You are.

“Guys, I’ll be right back,” you whisper to the girls and make your way over, weaving through tables and floral centerpieces. When you reach her, she tilts her head slightly, that polite amusement glinting in her gaze.

“You clean up nicely,” you say.

“So do you,” she replies, voice smooth as ever. “Though I had the advantage of knowing this wasn’t a tactical operation.”

You grin. “You’re assuming weddings aren’t battlefields.”

“Judging by the looks here, I stand corrected.” 

Someone calls your name — the bride, already halfway toward you, beckoning you into place for the photo lineup. You groan softly, already torn. “Duty calls,” you say. “I’ll come find you after the ceremony.”

“I’ll be right here,” Diana replies, and there’s a softness to it that lands harder than it should.

You hesitate, just a second too long. The room is loud, warm, full of people who belong to you, and suddenly the idea of walking away from her feels wrong in a way you hadn’t expected. She stands there alone, composed as ever, but separate from it all — an observer by nature, not a participant.

“I feel bad,” you admit quietly, lowering your voice. “Leaving you on your own like this. You don’t really know anyone.”

Her brow lifts, faintly amused, but her tone stays gentle. “Darling,” she says — and the word lands unexpectedly, sending a flutter of nerves through your stomach because she’s never called you that before, because it sounds too intimate for something she insists is temporary, and the fact that it slips out now, so unguarded, makes your breath catch. “I’m quite used to being alone.”

But then the flutter in your stomach settles into something heavier at her words. There’s no bitterness in the way she says it. No self-pity, no invitation for reassurance. Just fact, and somehow that’s what makes it sting.

“Oh,” you say, stupidly, because you don’t know what else to do with the sudden ache in your chest.

She watches the reaction cross your face and softens, just a fraction. “Go,” she adds, nodding toward the bride. “I won’t disappear.”

You search her eyes, as if to make sure of it, and she holds your gaze steadily, anchored, unmovable.

“I’ll be back,” you say.

“I know,” Diana replies, and there’s quiet certainty in it — not a promise, exactly, but something close enough that it stays with you as you turn away, already missing her even though she’s still standing right there.

***

The ceremony passes in a blur of vows and laughter and the familiar ache of happy things that don’t quite belong to you. You do your duty — smile when you’re meant to, laugh at the right moments, dab at your eyes when the bride’s voice wobbles — but all the while you’re aware of Diana somewhere behind you, a fixed point in the room you keep orienting yourself around without meaning to.

When it ends, and the room exhales, you don’t hesitate. You find her almost immediately, like some instinct has been quietly guiding you back. She’s near the back, hands folded, observing rather than intruding, as if she’s been at events like this her entire life and learned exactly how to exist at the edges.

You stop in front of her, suddenly breathless, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin.

“See?” she says lightly. “No disappearing.”

You don’t answer. You just lean in and kiss her — quick, soft, impulsive, the kind of kiss you’ll think about later and wonder how you had the nerve. Her hand comes up at once, steadying you by the wrist, thumb pressing briefly against your pulse before she returns it just as simply, just as naturally, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

When you pull back, her eyes are warm, amused. “You look relieved,” she murmurs.

“I am,” you admit.

Dinner follows soon after, a gentle herding of guests toward round tables and place cards and the promise of food. You walk beside her as if it’s already settled, as if this is where she belongs. When you reach your table, she takes her seat without fuss, smoothing her skirt, adjusting the cutlery with quiet precision.

Now you’re seated beside the older woman, close enough that the warmth from her arm bleeds through the air between you. She’s effortlessly composed — posture straight, napkin folded, a glass of white wine untouched in front of her, condensation collecting in a perfect crescent where her thumb could be but isn’t. She glances at you once, a small, private look, and the noise of the room fades just enough to remind you that somehow, impossibly, she’s really here.

Across the table, Maya catches your eye. She leans over, pretending to fix the hem of her dress, and murmurs — absolutely not quietly enough— “She’s hot.”

You nearly choke on your water. Diana’s brow arches, turning just slightly toward Maya, the corners of her mouth tipping into a smile that is entirely too aware.

Maya freezes, then gives a mortified little laugh. “Oh my God, I— uh— hi, I didn’t mean—”

“I imagine you meant every word,” Diana says mildly, her tone cool but not unkind. “Still, thank you. Compliments are rare in my line of work.”

Maya blinks. “What line of work is that?”

“Boring government things.” She says while she sips her wine as though that closes the matter. 

It does.

Maya clears her throat, suddenly fascinated by the far end of the table. “Right. Well. Enjoy your evening,” she says, already half-turned away, cheeks pink as she retreats back into the noise of the reception.

You’re grinning now, cheeks warm from embarrassment and affection both. “You handled that very diplomatically.”

“It’s part of the training,” she replies, glancing at you. “Though I’m not sure which was more entertaining — the compliment or your reaction to it.”

“You could’ve rescued me.”

“And deprive myself of watching you turn that particular shade of red?” She considers her glass, amused. “Not a chance.”

A ripple of applause spreads down the room as a speech concludes at the far end of the marquee. Fairy lights strung across the ceiling throw polite constellations onto the linen; candlelight makes everyone temporarily more beautiful. Somewhere to your left, someone laughs like a bell being rung. You don’t look away from Diana for long.

The speeches wind down in reluctant waves rather than a clean break — laughter trailing off into polite applause that swells, crests, then ebbs like a tide finally tiring of its own rhythm. 

Plates clatter softly as servers move in with efficiency, clearing remnants of cake and half-empty wine glasses while fresh bottles appear immediately. Chairs scrape back across the parquet floor, people rising with the loose-limbed relief of a long meal finally over. Ties loosen, heels are kicked off under tables, voices rise in pitch and volume as the formal evening exhales into something warmer, freer, more careless. The marquee lights catch on sequins and silk, turning every small movement into a flicker of gold.

Diana remains seated.

She doesn’t fidget or check her watch. No phone appears in her hand, no glance darts toward the exits or the dance floor. Instead, she folds her napkin once, then again, the edges aligned with surgical neatness, before setting it beside her plate. 

Her hands settle in her lap — relaxed, but never idle — palms upturned just enough to catch the candlelight. She looks exactly as she has all evening: composed, watchful, entirely self-contained. Yet there’s a subtle softening now, visible only if you’ve spent the last twenty-four hours + learning to read her in glances and silences. The sharp line of her shoulders has eased a fraction; the faint tension at the corners of her mouth has smoothed away. She is still Diana — still the woman who commands rooms without raising her voice — but tonight, in this soft pocket of after-dinner light, she allows herself to simply *be*.

At the far end of the marquee, the DJ cues up the next track, a low beat humming through the speakers as he adjusts the volume. The music rolls in easy and unhurried, filling the space without demanding it. Someone cheers when it kicks in properly, another whistles, and just like that, the room shifts, the night opening up into whatever comes next. 

Your friend and her husband step onto the cleared floor, newly married and glowing amid delighted cheers, her dress catching the light in a thousand tiny sequins, his tie already askew. They share a private smile before the music begins in earnest — familiar, a classic that doesn’t demand movement so much as invite it. A gentle sway at first, then others join: hands extended, fingers laced, bodies drifting together in pairs. Fabric rustles, heels click softly against wood, laughter rises in bright bursts as the dance floor fills like a promise being kept, one couple at a time.

You stay seated.

Diana notices, and her head turns just enough for her eyes to find yours, calm and assessing, as though she has already catalogued your stillness and filed away the reason.

“You’re not dancing,” she observes. The words are quiet, factual, with no curiosity or judgment attached.

“Neither are you,” you answer, and your voice sounds closer than the space between your chairs should allow.

A small pause. Her mouth curves — not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. “That’s because no one’s asked me.”

She says it without self-pity or flirtation, again, simply stating a fact the way she might report the weather or the time. Yet the words land like a quiet ache in your chest. You picture her at a hundred other events — standing at the edge of ballrooms, boardrooms, diplomatic receptions — watching the room move around her while she remains perfectly still, perfectly untouched. 

Not because she lacks invitations, but because she has learned to make herself unclaimable. Invisible when she chooses. And tonight, in this sea of silk and laughter, she has chosen to be invisible again.

Until now.

You reach for her hand before the impulse can second-guess itself.

Your fingers close around hers gently, almost tentatively, as though you’re asking permission rather than offering it. Her skin is warm, steady; no rings, no bracelets, nothing to interrupt the clean line of contact. She looks down at the joined hands for a single heartbeat — long enough for you to register the faint surprise that flickers across her features — then lifts her gaze back to yours. One perfect brow arches, just enough to be noticed.

“Come with me,” you say, voice low. “Please.”

The please is intentional. You want her to hear it.

There’s a pause — brief, but long enough for you to see the quick internal calculation: the room, the eyes, the implications of being seen, of being chosen in public. Then she rises, smooths her skirt with one fluid motion, and lets you lead her away from the table as though the decision was made hours ago.

You don’t take her to the crowded dance floor.

Instead, you guide her toward the far side of the marquee, past swaying curtains of fairy lights and a screen of tall potted ferns that create a natural partition between the main space and a narrow side terrace. 

The music follows — muted now, filtered through canvas and distance — while the chatter fades to a gentle hum and the night air slips in cool and fragrant, carrying the scent of cut grass, roses, and the faint smell of incoming rain.

Strings of bulbs loop overhead in lazy arcs, casting soft golden pools that don’t quite reach the corners. The terrace feels private without being secret — half-hidden, half-exposed — like it was designed for moments people aren’t ready to share with the entire room. It's quite beautiful, and quite Diana.

You stop and turn to face her.

For a single breath, she stiffens — shoulders drawing back a fraction, weight shifting as though bracing for something unpredictable. Not fear, exactly; more the instinctive recoil of someone unused to being led, to having the beat dictated by anyone else.

You don’t rush her; rather, you step closer slowly, giving her time to adjust, to retreat if she needs to. One hand settles lightly at her waist — no pull, no demand — while the other finds hers again, palm to palm, fingers loose. You hold the space between you open, an invitation rather than a claim.

“We can just sway,” you murmur. “No expectations.”

She lets out a quiet breath that nearly turns into a laugh, something soft and genuine slipping through before she can quite stop it.

“You’re very reassuring,” she says, the words dry but warm at the edges. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Not in those exact words,” you admit. “But I’m good at going slow.”

That earns you a look — sharp, amused, and quite assessing. Then, gradually, she relaxes. Her hand settles more firmly at your shoulder; her body eases forward until the distance between you narrows to something intimate but unhurried. She’s still elegant, still composed, but the guard has lowered just enough for you to feel the warmth of her through silk and cotton.

The music drifts around you, understated, a melody that doesn’t insist but rewards attention — and you begin to move together. Not a proper dance, not yet; just a gentle shift of weight, a shared rhythm so subtle it could be mistaken for breathing. Diana follows without comment, and it strikes you how rare this must be for her — letting someone else set the tempo, trusting the lead even for a handful of minutes.

She smells of clean linen, faint jasmine, and the warmth of wine still lingering on her breath. You feel the shape of her beneath your hands — the subtle strength in her frame, the way she fits against you as though the distance has been measured and found acceptable. Not too close. Not too far.

“Is this acceptable?” you ask, half-teasing, half-earnest.

She huffs softly. “You’re doing fine.”

The understated praise lands like sunlight on skin — warm, unexpected — and you feel something loosen behind your ribs. She notices, because why wouldn’t she? Her thumb shifts against your shoulder in quiet acknowledgment.

“You like this,” she observes.

“Being here with you?” you ask.

“Yes.”

You nod. “I do.”

The honesty feels dangerous, but somehow, you simply couldn't stand here and lie.

Her gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second before returning to your eyes. “You’re aware this won’t last.”

The words are gentle, factual, and offered without cruelty. But they land anyway.

“I know,” you say. “But can't I enjoy tonight?”

She studies you for a long moment, as though weighing whether granting you that small mercy might unsettle the careful boundaries she’s already drawn. Then she gives a single, measured nod.

“Yes.”

You sway together in silence after that. The music folds around you like a held breath; laughter breaks out somewhere behind the ferns — bright, careless — but it feels miles away. Your forehead drifts closer to hers until they nearly touch. The world narrows to the slow circle of your feet, the warmth of her hand in yours, the quiet rise and fall of her breathing against your cheek.

“I’m glad you came,” you whisper.

“So am I,” she answers, without deflection or qualification, as though the truth of it doesn’t require ornament.

The sway between you shifts almost imperceptibly, becoming less tentative and more assured, still restrained and careful, but unmistakably intimate now, like the two of you have found a rhythm that belongs only to this small pocket of space.

When she leans in, she does it without haste, closing the distance with intent rather than urgency. Her lips brush yours once, soft and testing, as if confirming you’re still exactly where she expects you to be, then again, deeper this time, slower, her mouth fitting to yours with an ease that makes your breath catch. 

Nothing about it feels rushed or borrowed; it feels chosen, planned, the kind of kiss that exists because neither of you wants to pretend this moment is smaller than it is.

You linger there longer than you probably should, exchanging another kiss that’s warmer, more confident, her thumb pressing lightly at your shoulder as if to steady you, or perhaps herself. When you finally part, she doesn’t pull away, but rests her forehead against yours instead, eyes closed, her breath warm against your cheek.

“This,” she murmurs, her voice low and threaded with quiet amusement, “is dangerously pleasant.”

You smile, still close enough that your noses nearly brush. “We can stop,” you offer, knowing full well you don’t mean it.

She opens her eyes and looks at you, one brow lifting just enough to convey both disbelief and challenge. “I didn’t say that,” she replies, dry but unmistakably pleased.

You laugh softly, the sound swallowed by the music drifting around you, and instead of stepping back, you lean in again, stealing another kiss just because you can. 

She hums against your mouth this time, indulgent, before allowing you to keep moving together, letting yourselves exist in the fragile pocket of time you’ve carved out. 

You both know it has edges, and you both know it has an ending waiting patiently beyond the lights and music, but for now, neither of you looks too closely at either.

When the song finally fades, you don’t separate right away. Diana remains within the circle of your arms for a heartbeat longer than necessary, her body warm and solid against yours, before she straightens at last. She smooths her skirt with that familiar, precise motion as her composure settles back into place like a well-tailored coat, though her gaze lingers on yours, steady and unreadable, with something softer flickering just beneath the surface.

“Thank you,” she says, evenly, but not distantly. “For that.”

You nod, still smiling. “Anytime.”

One perfect brow arches, the corner of her mouth threatening a smile. “Careful.”

You don’t even pretend to reconsider. “Bah, it was worth it.”

That earns you a small, genuine smile in return, before she takes your hand again and allows you to lead her further down before the path curves gently away from the noise of the reception, narrowing as it threads through the garden, where the lights are fewer, and the air feels cooler, heavier with the scent of leaves and late-blooming roses. Gravel crunches softly beneath your shoes, the music from the marquee drifting after you in softened fragments, still there but no longer demanding your attention.

Diana walks beside you with her hands loosely folded at her waist, posture relaxed in that careful way you’re beginning to recognize as a choice rather than a habit. Fairy lights catch briefly in her hair as she passes beneath them, turning silver to gold and back again.

“This,” she says, glancing around, “is considerably more tolerable.”

You smile. “The wedding, or the people?”

“Yes,” she replies smoothly.

You chuckle before you walk for a few moments in companionable quiet, the kind that doesn’t press for conversation but makes space for it, until the night itself seems to invite something more personal.

“Can I ask you something?” you say.

She looks at you, attentive but unguarded. “You usually do.”

You hesitate, then decide not to overthink it. “Were you ever married?”

“No,” she answers without pause, without drama. “It was never something I allowed myself to drift toward. Too many variables. Too many compromises that would’ve required me to be someone else.”

“And children?”

Her expression softens, not with regret but with certainty. “No. That, at least, was always very clear.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and she doesn’t turn the question back on you. Instead, she waits, patient and unassuming, giving you the space to speak if you want it.

So you do.

You tell her more about your past then — not in neat bullet points, not as a confession, but as a series of impressions and memories. You talk about where you come from, about your family, and the way love in your life has been loud in some places and quiet in others.

Diana listens.

She doesn’t interrupt or redirect, doesn’t offer commentary or analysis, just stays with you, her attention complete and unwavering. When you glance at her mid-sentence, you find her eyes on you, sharp but warm, taking in every word as though it matters simply because you chose to say it.

Eventually, the words taper off on their own.

You’ve stopped walking without realizing it, the path widening into a small clearing bordered by rose bushes, their blooms heavy and dark in the low light. One leans toward you, petals already beginning to droop, past its best moment but still beautiful.

Without quite thinking about it, you reach out and break it from the stem, the sound soft and final in the quiet.

You turn and hold it out to her.

“I know,” you say, the words catching just enough to betray what you’re trying not to linger on, “that this,” you gesture between the two of you, “is only happening while I’m here.”

Her gaze sharpens perceptively, and you know she hears the ache threaded through the sentence. She doesn’t comment on it. She never does, as naming something would only make it heavier.

You straighten, offering a small, earnest smile. “But take this,” you add, pitching your tone lighter than you feel. “My lady.”

For a heartbeat, the older woman simply stares at you.

Then she laughs — a real, unguarded sound, surprised and warm, as she accepts the rose from your hand and lifts it slightly, examining it with mock solemnity.

“My lady,” she repeats. “You’re either very bold or catastrophically unserious.”

“I prefer bold, because I'm quite serious,” you say.

She looks at you over the bloom, one brow lifting. “That would explain quite a lot.”

She tucks the rose carefully against her wrist, fingers closing around the stem as though it belongs there, then steps closer, lowering her voice. “You do realize,” she says, “that you’ve just given me a symbol that implies gallantry, impermanence, and an alarming amount of intention.”

You smile, softer now. “I meant all of it. A little something to remember me by.”

Something shifts in her expression, and when she speaks again, her voice carries a note of fondness and sadness she doesn’t bother to disguise.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, then leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips that’s slower and gentler than before, as if committing the moment to memory rather than claiming anything at all. When she pulls back, her forehead rests briefly against yours.

“We should go back,” she murmurs. “Before someone decides to come looking for us.”

“Right,” you agree, even though neither of you moves immediately.

When you do turn toward the light again, you walk closer than before, shoulders brushing, the rose vivid against the night where she holds it. The music swells as you approach the marquee, laughter and voices closing around you once more, and the ache in your chest eases just enough to be bearable.

***

You make your rounds, saying your goodbyes to your friends, and by the time you’re ready to leave, her driver is waiting just outside.

He knows which door to open, which lane to take, and which lights in the city run long enough to make conversation optional. You sit with your knees nearly touching and watch her watch the streets like an old film she’s seen a dozen times — attentive, amused, distant when she chooses. When your fingers find the hem of her sleeve, she doesn’t look down, but the smallest shift of her wrist slots your hand underneath the cuff. Her pulse is a quiet, disciplined thing. It steadies you even as it sets you off balance.

You invite her up to your room, because why not? It was technically your last day; tomorrow, you’d be flying home and never see Diana Taverner again. 

You don’t talk because you don’t need to. No need to name a thing that’s already opening its hands. She takes off the day like a jacket and lays it across your chair. You take off your fear and leave it near the door.

What happens isn’t urgent. It’s attentive, purposeful, and unshowy. You think, fleetingly, that if love’s a noun, this is the verb it deserves: a careful, considerate making. It feels like kissing a secret out of a locked drawer and putting it back exactly where you found it. It feels like a warm summer day by the ocean, feeling the wind in your hair. 

It feels like home. 

The city recedes to a smear of sound. Somewhere, a siren remembers its lines. Somewhere, a lift opens and closes. Here, there’s only the click of her watch on your nightstand, the faint slide of sheets, the sort of quiet that isn’t absence but shelter. You don’t keep count. The hour dissolves and reforms elsewhere, like weather.

When it’s over — when the rhythm that held both of you loosens — silence returns with the authority of a tide. You’re more bare now than undressed, and it feels correct. You end up exactly where you promised yourself you would: tucked under the sheet, head on her chest, ear pressed to a steadiness you didn’t expect to memorize. 

The curtains are almost closed, and London sneaks through the seam in thin blades, the city reduced to a heartbeat you can ignore if you want to. 

Her skin’s warm under your cheek. Her breathing’s controlled in a way that suggests it doesn’t want to be. Your hand finds hers, and you trace each finger slowly, as if learning the shape of them, never wanting to forget them. The pads of her fingertips are softer than you’d expect from someone who works at a computer all day and sometimes all night. You think you could draw her hands from memory tomorrow and still get the tendons and veins right. You think about tomorrow, and your chest complains like a hinge.

“I’m glad I met you,” you say quietly. The words feel too small for what you mean, but they’re all you can manage.

Diana exhales — a soft, tired sigh that barely reaches the air between you. “I’m glad you spoke to me at the bar,” she says. Her voice is low, careful. “Timing is mostly luck. We were lucky.”

You nod against her shoulder. Her skin smells faintly like soap and hotel linen. For a moment, it feels simple — like the world isn’t waiting to separate you. Her hand rests between your shoulders, the weight of it grounding you, even though you know it won’t stay.

“When do you leave?” she asks.

“Late afternoon,” you say. “We’ll do one last half-hearted brunch, take an Uber, and I’ll eat some overpriced sandwich at the airport.”

“Efficient,” she murmurs. Then, after a pause, “You’ll be tired.”

“I’ll sleep on the plane.”

She makes a faint sound — something between a breath and a laugh, dry and almost dismissive. “Good plan.”

The silence that follows feels different this time. No trace of the closeness that used to fill it. It’s thinner now, sterile, like the room’s been quietly evacuated of feeling. You shift slightly, searching for some sign of softness in her, but she stays still.

When she finally speaks, her tone is measured and distant, the cadence of someone explaining a simple fact. “I’ve always thought of life as a train,” she says.

You glance up. “A train?”

She nods, eyes on the ceiling. “People get on. You share a seat, a drink, a few conversations. Sometimes something more. Then one of you leaves, and the train keeps going.” She turns her head just enough to look at you. “That’s how this works.”

You try to smile. “So I’m a fellow passenger.”

“You are,” she says. “A good one.” Her voice doesn’t waver, doesn’t reach for comfort. “But your stop’s tomorrow.”

You laugh under your breath, though it doesn’t sound right. “That’s… efficient.”

“Necessary,” she corrects. “We agreed this wouldn’t continue.” Her tone sharpens just slightly — not raised, but decisive, the way she closes a file that’s been dealt with. “And I meant that. I am glad we met, but this isn't anything more.”

You look at her, searching for a trace of hesitation — some fracture, some sign that this costs her the way it’s beginning to cost you — but there’s nothing. You shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t have admitted you were glad you met her, shouldn’t have reached for something that was never being offered. She remains composed, eyes clear and deliberately unreadable, already a step ahead, already moving on. Whatever passed between you has been folded away with the rest of it, neatly filed, and you’re left standing at the platform, realizing she never once intended to ask you to miss your stop.

“I know, we established that already,” you say, a brittle edge creeping in despite your effort to keep your voice even, “but you don’t have to sound like you’re firing me.”

“It’s better this way.” Her gaze doesn’t soften, doesn’t waver. “We had what we agreed to. It was pleasant. But that’s all it was meant to be.”

The words land with precision — cool, calculated, unmistakably intentional — and something inside you cracks quietly under the weight of them. What surprises you most is the anger that follows, sharp and immediate, flaring before you can make sense of it. You don’t quite understand where it’s coming from, or why it feels so disproportionate, so personal, when nothing she’s saying is technically untrue. You’d agreed to this. You’d nodded along, told yourself you understood the terms. And yet here it is, this heat in your chest, this sudden urge to argue against a conclusion that’s already been decided.

“Right,” you manage. “Clarity.”

“Exactly.” She inclines her head slightly, as if acknowledging a job well done. “We understand each other.”

She lies back against the pillows, eyes closing in a way that signals finality rather than fatigue, as if the conversation has been filed away and neatly set aside. You recognize it now, that precise shutting-down, probably the same decisiveness she applies to everything else. It isn’t unkind. It’s just complete.

You turn your gaze to the ceiling because looking at her would undo you, and you can already feel the pressure building behind your eyes, the tightness creeping into your throat. 

Tomorrow, you’ll leave. The word lands with a dull, physical weight. You'll return to a life that no longer feels quite like it did before, and this — her, this room, the way she’d looked at you — will already be something past. The thought hits you harder than you expect, sharp and sudden, like having the ground pulled out from under you without warning.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” you say abruptly, the words tumbling out too fast, too thin, spoken before your voice can betray you. You don’t look at her when you say it, and she doesn’t stop you.

The bathroom door closes behind you, and the sound feels final in a way that makes your chest ache. The first sob escapes before you can stop it — sharp, humiliating, too loud in the small space — and you turn on the shower immediately, cranking the heat high enough that the rush of water fills the room, drowning out whatever else might follow. Steam blooms quickly, fogging the mirror, wrapping around you like a barrier you desperately need.

When you catch your reflection through the haze, it’s worse than you’d expected. Red eyes. Flushed skin. An expression that looks painfully, foolishly hopeful, as if some part of you hadn’t quite believed her when she said this would end. You grip the edge of the sink until your knuckles pale, grounding yourself in the cold porcelain while your chest tightens and releases in uneven breaths.

She isn’t cruel, you think, swallowing hard. She never was, but she's just already gone.

And standing there alone, with the water pounding and the steam rising, it finally sinks in that wanting something didn’t obligate it to last. That knowing something in theory doesn’t prepare you for the moment it ends, especially not when the ending arrives so quietly.

Steam curls even more into the small bathroom, ghosting against the mirror until your reflection fades completely. You lose track of time somewhere between the steady hiss of water and the ache hollowing your chest, until the skin on your fingers starts to prune and your throat feels raw from holding everything in.

When you finally turn it off, the silence feels heavier than before. You wrap yourself in a towel and just stand here, waiting for something — anything — to shift. 

It doesn’t.

You dry your hair and dress in your pyjamas and don't care how they cling to your damp skin, before opening the bathroom door. The air outside feels colder, still carrying the faint trace of her perfume. The kind that lingers, stubborn, long after she’s done talking to you.

She’s asleep when you look over. Or at least, she’s pretending to be. Her breathing’s even, measured, back to you like a line drawn between your bodies. The sheet’s pulled up to her shoulder, her hair still a little messy from before. She looks peaceful. Unbothered. Like this was just another night in a long, unbroken line of them.

You stand there, motionless, and it’s as if she’s already made peace with it — like she’s good at this. Must be, you think. Meet someone, fuck them, then return to her polished, curated life as if none of it ever happened. Efficient. Professional. Perfect. Just like Diana Taverner is. 

Resentment blooms despite yourself as you swallow hard. Your bag’s already packed, zipped, and leaning against the chair by the door. You could just go.

You glance back at her one last time. Moonlight traces the line of her shoulder, rises and falls with the steady rhythm of her breathing, catching on the quiet calm of someone already elsewhere. She doesn’t stir. Doesn’t turn, doesn’t look over her shoulder as if sensing your gaze lingering on her back. You think, distantly, that she’s MI5 — trained to notice everything — and the irony stings. She doesn’t wake. She doesn’t say stay.

Maybe that’s your cue.

Maybe you could tear the band-aid off faster than dragging this on for hours. You could just go to the airport, wait there, rather than simply lie in bed with a woman who’s already forgotten you. 

You move quietly, grabbing your suitcase and pulling it into the bathroom, unzipping it, and taking the clothes you’d wear for the plane. You move quickly, sliding your shoes on, careful not to let the floor creak. Every sound feels too loud — the click of your phone screen, the rustle of fabric as you lift your jacket, the way your breath shudders when you zip the last compartment.

When everything’s done, you pause by the door, hand on the knob. There’s this stupid, irrational hope clawing at the back of your throat that she’ll wake up, that she’ll say something — anything — to stop you. But the only sound is the soft hum of the city outside and the even cadence of her breathing.

You could stay… but it would only prolong the inevitable…

So you twist the knob, and the door opens with a faint sigh, like even it knows this should feel heavier than it does.

The hallway light spills in, sterile and unforgiving. You step through it, pulling the door closed behind you.

For a second, your reflection catches in the hallway mirror — eyes hollow, expression numb. You look like someone halfway between leaving and disappearing.

You hadn’t expected her to be so cold, but again, she’d told you, right from the start, that it would end after these four days — clear, concise, like she was setting the terms of a contract. But that train metaphor... that one landed harder than you were willing to admit. It was almost elegant in how neatly it hurt. She’d chosen her words like she always did — with care, with precision — and maybe that had been the point. Maybe she’d planned it that way, to cut it clean before it could turn into something messy, something real. Maybe it was her version of mercy. Breaking it quickly to save you from a slower kind of pain.

She’s right, you think bitterly. Life’s a train. People get on. They get off. You just happened to sit on her carriage and ultimately fell for the most amazing woman before your stop came up.

Maybe she’ll wake up tomorrow, stretch, check her phone, and move on to her next station without missing a beat. Maybe that’s what she does best — compartmentalize, categorize, survive.

You’re not sure you can.

By the time you reach the elevator, your hands are shaking. You press the button at last, the light flickering back at you in that dull, indifferent way that feels almost personal. When the doors slide open, the air inside is stale and humming, metallic and empty. 

You step in, watching the mirrored walls close around you until there’s nowhere left to look but at yourself — a blur of red eyes and quiet defeat. The elevator starts to move, smooth and soundless, carrying you down and away, and for the first time, you understand what she meant. 

The train doesn’t wait.

***

The morning light slips through the thin hotel curtains, pale and uninvited. Diana stirs, turning toward your side of the bed, instinctively reaching for warmth that isn’t there. Her hand meets nothing but cool sheets.

Her eyes open — sharp, alert — and she sits up too quickly for someone who’s supposed to be calm about such things. 

You’re not there. 

Her gaze moves immediately, methodically, taking inventory of the room. The chair by the window is empty. No jacket draped over it. No shoes tucked beneath. Your suitcase is gone.

A faint frown forms, subtle but unmistakable.

You said tomorrow afternoon.

She glances at the clock on the nightstand. 7:42. Not even breakfast service yet.

Did you really leave without saying goodbye?

The thought lodges somewhere between disbelief and irritation, though irritation’s easier to The thought settles somewhere between disbelief and irritation, and she allows herself to wear the irritation because it’s easier, sharper, more familiar. Disbelief implies hope. She doesn’t indulge that.

Her phone is already in her hand before she’s fully aware of reaching for it. Surely there’s a message. She glances at the nightstand, maybe a note? Something tidy and considerate, the way you tend to be.

There’s nothing.

Just notifications she doesn’t care about, and one from Lamb that makes her mouth tighten.

Call me when you’ve finished playing house.

Her thumb hovers for half a second before she deletes it with more force than strictly necessary. The message disappears, but it doesn’t take the ache with it.

She exhales slowly, forcing her shoulders back until they settle into their usual alignment. This is what she wanted. Clean. Efficient. No lingering sentiment. No awkward goodbyes, no last looks that might have complicated things.

Except now, sitting there in the quiet aftermath of her own efficiency, the words she said last night replay in her mind like a tape she can’t stop rewinding. Cold. Detached. Almost cruel in their precision. She’d meant every one of them in the moment — had needed to. Because if she hadn’t drawn the line so clearly, she might have faltered.

She’d told herself it was necessary that the distance between your lives would’ve broken it eventually anyway. You in your city, she in hers. Different jobs, different worlds, different rules. She’d convinced herself that ending it before it could unravel was the right thing to do. That it was kindness.

But now, as she stares at the empty space beside her, it doesn’t feel right. It just feels hollow.

She runs a hand through her hair and catches sight of her reflection in the mirror opposite the bed. The woman looking back is composed as ever — every inch of the Deputy Director, the impenetrable wall. But her eyes betray her, faintly red at the corners, heavy with something she refuses to name.

“Pathetic,” she mutters under her breath and swings her legs off the bed.

She straightens the sheets out of habit, smoothing them until they’re precise, then pauses and adjusts the pillow you used, flattening the crease your head left behind. She stands there longer than she means to, staring at the space where you slept, where she told herself not to care.

It’s easier to pretend it’s for the best. Easier to believe that she’d saved you from the inevitability of disappointment. Easier to tell herself you were never meant to stay.

You were too kind. Too open. Too willing to see something in her she’s spent years ensuring no one ever mistakes for an invitation.

And she’s too old, too practiced at walking away before anyone can ask her to stay.

She crosses the room and pulls the curtains wide, letting the full morning light flood in. It’s cold and colorless, washing over her face until it burns away whatever softness remains.

Her gaze then drifts to the nightstand, where the rose rests beside the lamp, its petals already softening. She stares at it for a beat longer than necessary.

Then, with a sigh that sounds almost like defeat, she murmurs to the empty room — quiet, dry, and unmistakably sad,

“Your stop came early, didn’t it?”

Chapter Text

The hum of the office is low and constant — computers whirring, distant phones, a faint murmur of conversation below that never quite reaches her office. Diana sits behind her desk, posture immaculate, one hand resting on the mouse, the other lightly tracing the edge of a file she’s not reading. On her screen: the NATS flight tracker.

Your flight.

A little blue icon crawling across the map, heading toward home. She tells herself she’s only looking because she likes to know where things are — people, planes, problems. But she’s been watching the same screen for ten minutes, eyes unfocused, jaw set. You’d said afternoon. And you’d left before she even woke up.

It had been efficient. She can’t fault you for that.

Still, the insult lands a lot sharper than she’d ever expected. You’d left without a word, no note, no text, nothing. Which, fine. She’d made her position clear. She’d made it cold enough to burn. It was exactly the kind of damage control she’s perfected — better to wound once than to drag it out. And yet, the silence you left behind feels heavier than it should.

The knock at her door barely registers before the handle turns and security’s voice comes muffled through the wood — “Sir, you can’t go in there, not without clearance—”

“Oh, fuck off,” comes the immediate reply.

The older woman exhales through her nose, a quiet, resigned sound. She doesn’t even look up until the door swings open and Jackson Lamb strolls in like he owns the building.

“Jackson,” she says without looking up. “This is either a mistake or a poor life choice. Which is it?”

He lingers in the doorway, giving the room a slow once-over like he’s checking for mold. “Thought I’d pop in, see if MI5’s resident ice sculpture had finally melted. Disappointed, obviously.”

She arches an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. “Your concern is touching. Do try to contain it.”

He looks at her properly then, taking in the shadows under her eyes, the stiffness in her shoulders, the coffee sitting untouched like a failed intention. “Christ,” he mutters. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

She closes the file in front of her with careful precision. “It’s called work, Jackson. You wouldn’t recognize it unless it came with a nap schedule.”

“Mm.” He drops into the chair opposite without asking, spreading out like damp laundry. “Don’t tell me it’s guilt. I’d hate to think Diana Taverner finally developed a conscience. Very on-brand midlife crisis.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she says calmly. “It’s fatigue. You should try it sometime. Apparently, it improves the complexion.”

He snorts. “You’re prickly today. Lose a bet? Or just another corpse that didn’t stay conveniently buried?”

She doesn’t rise to it. She simply reaches for the mouse and clicks the screen of your flight dark, before placing the dossier in front of him in one smooth motion. “We found Langston,” she says, voice stripped clean of anything personal. “Pulled from the river near Vauxhall. And MI5, displaying its usual creativity, is attempting to blame one of yours.”

Lamb’s brow twitches. “Naturally. Dead man, bad headlines, pin it on Slough House. Saves paperwork.”

She slides a document across the desk. “Except this one doesn’t fit the narrative. Two shots. Chest and abdomen. Clean work. Weapon’s untraceable.”

He glances at the page, then back at her, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “And you’re telling me you don’t know who pulled the trigger.”

“I’m telling you,” she says quietly, “to keep your people quiet before the Home Office decides one of them looks good in handcuffs.”

There’s a pause, and that’s when Lamb leans back, watching her. His eyes narrow — not with suspicion, but something closer to curiosity. “You look like you haven’t slept,” he says. “Something chewing on you, Di?”

She meets his gaze without blinking, expression already reset to something smooth and unrevealing. “No.”

He tilts his head, unconvinced, a faint sound of doubt escaping through his nose. “Huh. Funny. You’ve got that look you get when everything’s gone exactly to plan, and you still hate the result.”

Her fingers close around a pen, tapping it once against the desk with quiet precision. “You’re projecting.”

“Am I?” He leans forward a fraction, mouth curling into something pleased with itself. “Because for once you look… I don’t know. Almost human. It’s unsettling. Like seeing a shark yawn.”

Her eyes lift to him, cool and sharp enough to cut. “Don’t confuse fatigue with character development, Jackson. You’ll only disappoint yourself.”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “Wasn’t hoping for character. Just noting the bleed-through. Even ice cracks if you drop it hard enough.”

She gives him nothing in return, only turns back to the file in front of her, the pen now perfectly still between her fingers, as though the conversation has already been filed away and stamped irrelevant.

After a moment, Lamb hauls himself out of the chair with a soft groan of protest from joints he refuses to acknowledge. “Right, then. Good to see you’re vertical. Try not to float any more bodies down the Thames this week. Paperwork’s murder.”

“I’ll bear the administrative burden bravely,” she says, tone dry as dust.

He reaches the door, then pauses with his hand on the frame, glancing back over his shoulder. When he speaks again, the mockery’s still there, but dulled slightly at the edges.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “this look on you… It’s new. Almost makes me think you’ve got feelings tucked away somewhere. Terrifying thought.”

Her eyes lift, just a fraction too quickly, the only tell he’s likely to get. But she says nothing, and that silence is answer enough.

Lamb nods once, satisfied in the way of a man who enjoys being right even when he wishes he weren’t, then shuffles out and lets the door close behind him.

The room settles back into its low mechanical hum. Diana remains very still at her desk, posture immaculate, hands composed, as though nothing at all has shifted.

On her monitor, she moves the mouse back toward the screen, the cursor sliding into place as the page with your flight path appears again, still inching quietly forward.

She moves the mouse to close the window.

Pauses.

And leaves it open.

***

She leaves the office later than she intended, which is another way of saying later than she will ever admit to herself. By the time she collects her coat, the building has already begun to empty, the corridors dimmer, the constant computer hum reduced to something distant and hollow rather than surrounding. The elevator carries her down in uninterrupted silence, and when the doors finally open, the night air meets her with an unexpected sharpness, cool against her face as she steps outside.

The car is waiting exactly where it should be.

Her chauffeur straightens when he sees her, opening the rear door with the same practiced efficiency he brings to everything. She slides into the seat without comment, smoothing her skirt, placing her bag beside her. The door closes with a solid, final sound before the car pulls away from the curb and folds neatly into the slow current of London traffic.

She does not reach for her phone, and she does not look out the window either. Instead, she keeps her gaze fixed ahead, watching the city dissolve into reflections and shadow across the glass, lights stretching into thin streaks that blur together and disappear. Normally, this is the part of the evening she uses to compartmentalize, to set work aside and prepare herself for whatever waits at home. Tonight, there is nothing waiting that requires preparation, and the absence of it feels louder than the day ever did.

The drive passes without incident, quiet and efficient and entirely unremarkable.

When they arrive, the chauffeur steps out first and moves around to open her door. She pauses with one hand resting lightly against the seat, and for a brief moment, she considers saying something unnecessary, some polite acknowledgment of the hour or the day or the shared quiet. Instead, she steps out, gives a single, measured nod, and says only what is required.

“Thank you.”

“Good evening, ma’am,” he replies.

The door closes, and before she knows it, the car pulls away. The sound of it fades down the street, leaving behind a silence that feels more expansive than it has any right to be.

For a moment, she doesn’t move.

She stands on the pavement outside her own front door, the night air cool against her face, looking at the familiar black paint and polished brass as though she’s seeing them from a distance rather than a step away. The symmetry of the windows above, the clean lines, the quiet order of it all — everything exactly as it should be. A life contained. Controlled.

This is where she lives.

The realization arrives without ceremony, yet it lands with an unexpected weight, settling somewhere low in her chest. Not regret, not quite, but something uncomfortably adjacent to it. A life assembled piece by careful piece, each decision logical, necessary, defensible. She has never questioned it before. There was never time, and never reason.

Tonight, she finds herself wondering — briefly, unwillingly — what might have existed alongside it, if she had allowed room for anything else.

The thought irritates her almost immediately. She exhales once and reaches for the handle before the feeling can take shape into something more dangerous than reflection.

Inside, the house greets her the way it always does — lights dimmed to her preference, temperature exactly right, everything in its place. She sets her bag down on the console table by the door, removes her coat, and hangs it neatly. The motions are automatic, muscle memory refined over decades.

But something is different.

The space feels larger tonight, the rooms stretching out around her with an emptiness she can’t quite ignore. It isn’t that the house is unfamiliar — it’s precisely the opposite. It’s too familiar, too quiet, the absence of another presence suddenly conspicuous in a way it hasn’t been for a very long time.

Silence, she realizes, has weight. It presses gently against the walls, settles into the corners, and follows her from room to room. Usually, she doesn’t notice it. Usually, there is work humming beneath everything — a call to return, a document to review, a decision waiting to be made. Noise of another kind. Purpose.

Tonight, there is nothing.

She moves through the living room, then the kitchen, switching on a light here, another there, more out of habit than necessity. There’s nothing out of place. No signs of disruption. No evidence of a life interrupted.

And yet.

She slows near the doorway to the bedroom, her hand coming to rest lightly against the frame as a quiet weight settles in her chest, nothing sharp or dramatic, just a heaviness that lingers all the same. She recognizes it immediately, which almost irritates her. Loneliness is not new territory. She has lived alongside it for most of her adult life, making space for it, learning how to function without letting it interfere.

But this is different.

This loneliness isn’t structural or familiar, not the quiet, manageable absence she built her life around and learned to navigate with practiced efficiency, but something sharper and more defined, something with edges and context, with a clear before and an unmistakable after.

However, this is the first time in a long while she’s had to acknowledge it without distraction, without urgency, without a crisis demanding her attention. There’s no work to review, no calls to make, no damage to contain. Just the quiet knowledge that she is here, and you are not, and that this is not an accident but the result of a decision she made deliberately.

She exhales then straightens, rolling her shoulders back as if correcting her posture might alleviate the feeling. The wine can wait. A shower can wait. Everything can wait.

For now, there is only the house, empty and immaculate, and the unmistakable truth she allows herself to name just once, silently, before setting it aside.

She is alone.

And for the first time in years, the realization sticks. It doesn't fade or shrink to something she can file away. It fills the room, makes the silence feel like forever. This is it: standing alone with no one waiting.

***

Six weeks later, the glass of red wine in her hand is her second, which is unusual for Diana, because one drink is ritual and two begins to resemble something she would never willingly name as confession.

She sits barefoot on the sofa, half-lit by the slow bleed of city light through the tall windows, the open bottle resting on the coffee table beside a neat stack of folders that have followed her home each evening without ever being opened. It has been a month and a half since you left, six weeks of disciplined silence carried out with the same precision she applies to everything else, the sort of clean break she has always believed she executes without hesitation, without residue, and without consequence.

Except it has not been clean, not in any way that matters.

The days immediately following your departure folded themselves back into routine with deceptive ease, because she went to work, chaired meetings, made decisions that altered other people’s lives in ways both subtle and irreversible, and returned each evening to a house that remained precisely as she had left it. Nothing slipped, nothing faltered, and to anyone observing from the outside, the machinery of Diana Taverner continued to function with its usual ruthless efficiency.

Yet the silence followed her home.

It threaded quietly through the hours between phone calls and briefings, settled into the spaces where conversation might once have existed, and lingered long after the lights were turned off, until the quiet itself began to feel less like peace and more like the absence of something she had not realized she was still capable of missing. She told herself it was nothing more than an adjustment, a habit reasserting control, the predictable closing of a temporary interruption in an otherwise ordered life.

Still, it remained.

She could have gone to the airport, because there had been time, and she could have walked through the terminal with her badge in hand, parting the small inconveniences of security and strangers as easily as she parts obstacles everywhere else in her life, and she could have said what needed to be said, something measured and contained such as I’m sorry, but this was inevitable, before turning on her heel and leaving before emotion had any chance to humiliate her or stretch the moment into something uncontrolled.

But she had not gone.

Because walking into that terminal would have required acknowledging, even briefly, that she cared enough to say goodbye, and caring, in Diana’s world, has always carried a cost she learned long ago not to pay.

She tells herself she doesn’t do regret; she’s built an entire career on not looking back. Regret gets people compromised. Regret gets people killed. And yet, here she is, barefoot and unguarded, staring at a wine-dark reflection in the window and wondering what it would have cost to see you one last time.

Not strategically. Not politically. Simply personally.

Her mind keeps replaying the conversation — the train metaphor, the way your face changed when she’d said it. She’d chosen her words precisely because they would land — quick amputation. Clean wound.

That’s what she does: she ends things before they have the chance to rot.

She has always maintained control through preemption — anticipating every move, every threat, every vulnerability before it could ever reach her. Distance has been her most reliable protection, a conscious boundary she draws around herself with quiet precision. That philosophy has served her flawlessly, time and again, in every arena that truly matters: power, survival, ambition, trust. It has never once failed to keep her safe, untouchable, sovereign.

So why does this moment feel so different? Why does the same careful distance, the same practiced restraint, no longer feel like mastery but instead settle over her like something closer to loss — quiet, aching, and strangely hollow?

She could have handled it differently. A softer tone, perhaps. A touch that lingered instead of retreated. She knows why she didn’t. Vulnerability, in her world, is an open target. You don’t offer it; you don’t survive long enough to.

And yet…

Her mind drifts to your conversation about where you work. She knows the name… she’s looked it up far more than she wishes to admit. Knows the address and the streets adjacent. Everything. 

Would it look desperate if she went? Foolish? She imagines it: turning up in some corner booth, ordered calm, masking the chaos under her ribs. You are in your element, that open, disarming warmth that still makes her chest tighten. What would she even say? Good evening. I was in the area.

It would sound ridiculous. Transparent. She isn’t built for that kind of honesty.

And worse, you would see through it immediately.

She swirls what’s left of her wine, watches the light fracture through it. She’s never been good at personal connections. Her relationships have always been transactional — alliances, leverage, power balanced by need. Friendship, love, affection: abstractions she’s studied from the outside. You were an anomaly. You didn’t want anything from her except time.

The thought unsettles her. Because she’d wanted to give it.

She draws in a measured breath and fixes the moment firmly in place, accepting that the train was never meant to circle back, that departures are final by design, and that she will let you remain part of a journey already finished rather than risk stepping onto a track that leads somewhere she cannot control.

***

Another three weeks pass, and then, without any real sense of when the decision was made, she finds herself boarding a plane. The ticket is already booked, the hotel suite arranged for the weekend as though the choice had been made somewhere beneath conscious thought and simply executed before she could interrogate it properly.

Christ.


She has survived countless operations, negotiated with terrorists, endured scrutiny sharp enough to ruin careers and lives, and yet here she is in first class, posture immaculate, knees crossed, hands folded too tightly in her lap, her palms damp with nerves she would never tolerate in anyone else. The absurdity of it does not escape her, nor does the faint edge of disbelief that she has allowed herself to get this far without stopping.

Diana Taverner — Deputy Director of MI5, once described by Lamb as the human embodiment of a steel trap — sitting perfectly still in a leather seat while her heart behaves in a way that feels perilously close to pounding, all of it because of you.

Ridiculous.

She adjusts her cuff, wipes her palm discreetly against her skirt, and reaches for the champagne the flight attendant has just placed before her. She doesn’t drink it. She just stares at the bubbles. They remind her of something she doesn’t want to name.

Three extra weeks of trying to put you out of her mind had achieved the opposite effect, each passing day fixing you more firmly in place. More than once, leaving the office late, she found her gaze drifting upward, scanning the dark stretch of sky above Whitehall with a quiet, irrational hope — as if a plane might turn back simply because she was looking for it. She despised that about herself, the way something as ordinary as a faint line of light or a distant engine could make her heart kick.

She tells herself she’s going for her work. That there are contacts she can speak to in the region. There’s always a plausible cover story when you’ve spent your life lying for a living. But the truth, the real and unvarnished truth, sits heavy in her chest: she’s going because she can’t stand the idea of you thinking she never cared.

The flight hums around her. A businessman snores softly two rows up. Somewhere behind her, a child asks for apple juice. Diana sits still as stone, the picture of composure, while her mind betrays her in quick loops.

What exactly are you hoping to accomplish? To see you? To talk? To apologise?

She almost laughs. She’s not sure she even remembers how to apologise properly. The last time she’d said I’m sorry and meant it might have been before she joined the Service. Maybe longer than that.

She shifts in her seat, takes a small sip of champagne at last. It tastes flat, overchilled.

She imagines your face when you walk to her table, she’ll ask for you, obviously, and hopefully you’ll be working this weekend, because she doesn’t believe she’d have the nerve to try this a second time. 

You’d be surprised, perhaps in disbelief. She knows the only reasonable answer to the look you would give her would be the one she also knows you wouldn’t believe— something perfectly controlled, carefully neutral, which could only be: I happened to be in town on business. She’s rehearsed it in her head more than once these past three weeks, testing the phrasing, the cadence, the effortless casualness she would need to make it convincing. Yet every version sounds faintly ridiculous to her own ears, too intentional to pass as chance, because you’d told her the name of the restaurant, and too thin to disguise the truth beneath it.

She isn’t casual by nature. Everything she does has weight, intent, calculation. The thought of stripping that away, even for a moment, is terrifying.

When the pilot announces the descent, she realizes her hands are clenched tight around the armrests. She forces herself to relax, uncoiling each finger slowly, as though she’s defusing something volatile rather than simply preparing to land.

For a moment, she considers not getting off the plane at all — the absurd, fleeting idea that she could remain seated, let the aircraft refuel, take off again, and carry her back to London, where everything is difficult but at least familiar. The instinct passes quickly, buried under habit and discipline, but the fact that it surfaced at all unsettles her more than she cares to admit.

The wheels touch down with a muted jolt, final and irreversible. Around her, passengers reach for phones, bags, and conversations already turning toward whatever waits beyond the terminal. She stays seated a second longer than necessary, gaze fixed ahead, as if motion itself might confirm this was a decision rather than an accident.

By the time she stands, her expression has already settled back into something composed.

The hotel car is waiting when she lands. The city air feels different — alive in ways London isn’t, carrying the distant noise of traffic and voices she doesn’t recognize. It reminds her of nothing she should enjoy, and yet she feels something anyway. Something inconveniently close to relief, threaded tightly with dread.

She tells herself it’s only jet lag. Disorientation. Geography playing tricks on the nervous system. Anything ordinary enough to explain why her pulse still hasn’t quite steadied.

She checks into the suite. It’s impeccable — neutral décor, clean lines, a view that overlooks the skyline. The sort of place designed to make you forget where you are, or why you came. She sets her suitcase on the desk, checks her watch out of reflex rather than need, then crosses to the window and looks out at the fading daylight, as though the city might offer some last, sensible reason to turn around before she does something she can’t easily undo.

She should shower. Change. Sleep. There’s a meeting tomorrow that she’s pretended exists. Instead, she sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone.

One call. One reservation. That’s all it would take.

But she hesitates. Because once she walks through that door, she won’t be Diana Taverner, Deputy Director. She’ll just be a woman who made a mess and wants to see if she can fix it.

For whatever reason that is.

And that might be the most dangerous operation she’s ever run.

The phone rests in her hand, the number to your restaurant already pulled up and waiting, and for a long moment she does nothing, holding herself suspended just before pressing the button, as though the single, simple tap might carry more consequence than she is prepared to face.

She tells herself she’s only calling to confirm the place still exists. That it hasn’t gone out of business, or moved locations, or turned into a sushi bar. That’s all. Just due diligence.

The line rings twice.

Then — your voice.

“Trattoria Trozzo, good afternoon. How can I help you?”

It’s so immediate, so unmistakably you, that it hits her like a punch to the chest. She can hear you smile through the receiver, that same unguarded warmth that once disarmed her completely. For one suspended second, she forgets how to speak.

“Hello?” you say.

Her throat tightens. She coughs, too sharply, like static breaking over the line.

“Ah— yes,” she says, now speaking with a surprisingly natural American inflection that would fool anyone. “I’d like to arrange a reservation.”

“For how many?”

“Just one.”

“Name, please?”

Diana pauses. Her mind, normally a precision instrument, blanks. Of course, you would be the one to answer. Of course. She should have predicted that. You were always at the front, greeting guests with that open, unstudied ease she could never emulate.

“Name?” you repeat, gently prompting.

“Ah— yes. Of course. It’s… Hart.” She swallows, forcing composure back into her tone. “Elizabeth Hart.”

“All right, Ms. Hart,” you say, typing, the faint clack of keys audible. “And what time would you like the reservation?”

She glances toward the window — the skyline, the spreading dusk. She should say tomorrow. That would be sensible. But something in her betrays her.

And now that it’s done, she realises the flaw in her plan.

She can’t exactly ask for you to wait her table. You’d find it odd — some stranger, alone, requesting you by name? 

“Ma’am?”

“Tonight,” she says quietly. “Eight o’clock, if possible.”

“Sure thing. We’ll see you at eight, Ms. Hart.”

You sound exactly the same. Polite, professional, a touch of warmth threading through the words that shouldn’t make her chest ache, but does anyway.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and hangs up before the silence can stretch into something dangerous.

She lowers the phone, staring at it as if it’s capable of judgment. Her pulse is still uneven. She feels absurd. A woman her age, her position, shaken by a thirty-second phone call.

Diana exhales slowly, sets the phone down, and stands. She walks to the mirror. Her reflection looks perfectly composed — hair precise, expression impassive. But her hands betray her, a faint tremor when she reaches for her bottle of water.

Hart.

She lets out a humorless breath, half a laugh. She’s used a hundred false names over her career, but this one — this one feels like a particularly cruel joke.

Chapter Text

The taxi drops her off just before eight, headlights sweeping across the restaurant’s painted brick façade before disappearing into the night. Diana smooths the front of her gray skirt as she steps in front of the door, the evening air warm.

Trattoria Trozzo.

It’s smaller than she imagined. Intimate, softly lit. A cluster of tables spills near the windows, candles flickering in wine bottles, laughter tucked into corners. It smells divine, even from outside — rosemary, lemon, and something slow-cooked and comforting. She feels out of place almost immediately, overdressed but too proud to admit it.

Her reflection lingers faintly in the glass of the door as she pauses, caught for a moment in the quiet space between intention and action. She had rehearsed this carefully, every detail arranged in advance — calm, composed, nothing personal, just dinner — yet the reality of stepping inside feels far less controlled than the version she constructed in her mind. After a breath that does little to steady her, she pushes the door open anyway.

The bell above it chimes, and warm air folds around her along with the low hum of conversation, the clink of cutlery, and the familiar, comforting scent of food that has been given time and care.

The restaurant is, she decides almost reluctantly, lovely — quaint without trying too hard, intimate without feeling cramped, the sort of place where time slows just enough to make room for lingering.

A couple leans toward each other by the window, while a family of four occupies a table near the back, their voices overlapping in easy familiarity.

And you—

Her breath stutters.

You’re there, across the room, weaving between tables with ease. A notepad tucked in your apron, hair caught by the lamplight as you smile at a customer. She remembers that smile — the way it used to catch her off guard, disarming her before she had time to put any of her usual defenses in place, even though she had only known you for four days, which by any rational measure should never have been enough to matter this much.

And just like that, her heart stills.

For a woman who’s handled hostage crises and parliamentary inquiries, it’s ridiculous that her pulse should leap at this.

She forces her gaze elsewhere and heads for the hostess stand, every movement measured, quite intentional.

The young woman behind the counter beams at her. “Good evening! Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes,” Diana says, voice steady even as her throat tightens. “Eight o’clock. Elizabeth Hart.”

The hostess scans the list and nods. “Of course, Ms. Hart. Table for one.”

The older woman nods in return, her expression composed, her tone carefully polite. “If possible,” she adds, the words arriving a fraction too quickly to feel entirely casual, “I’d like…” and then she says your name, each syllable placed with conscious care, as though speaking it aloud requires more steadiness than she is willing to show,  “—as my server.”

The hostess blinks. “Oh— uh, sure. Let me just check if she’s free.”

Diana inclines her head, masking the sudden spike of embarrassment. She hadn’t meant to sound so… insistent. But the words had slipped out before she could stop them, instinct over reason. She could almost hear her own internal voice chastising her — you absolute fool, she’ll think you’re some sort of stalker.

The hostess glances down at her book, no doubt checking how many tables you’re already covering, before lifting her gaze again with a small, professional smile. “She’s got a couple of tables, but she can take yours as well,” she says, gesturing lightly. “Right this way.”

The older woman exhales quietly. Relief, nerves, something else entirely — she simply cannot tell.

She follows the young woman through the restaurant, the sound of soft music and clinking glasses threading through her thoughts. She keeps her eyes trained ahead, refusing to risk another glance at you, not yet at least.

Her table is by the window, and before she knows it, she’s sliding into the chair, crossing one leg neatly over the other. Her hands come together in her lap, fingers interlacing, an old reflex meant to hide what the rest of her refuses to fully obey.

Tremors in her hands.

Small enough that no one else would notice, but undeniable to her. She shifts her hands slightly, sliding one palm over the back of the other as though the motion alone might steady them, might remind her body how to behave. Her gaze drops, drawn unwillingly to the fine lines at her knuckles, to the faint map of time written across skin she has never had reason to study this closely. For a fleeting, disorienting second, she feels both too old for this and absurdly, painfully young inside it — a contradiction that lands somewhere between embarrassment and something far more fragile.

Childish, she thinks.

Completely childish.

The judgment is automatic, strong enough to be familiar, yet it doesn’t quite settle the way it usually does. Because no matter how firmly she names the feeling, it refuses to disappear.

A candle flickers between the wine glasses, and outside, the city moves in its usual rhythm — headlights drifting past, life continuing with perfect indifference. Inside, the space feels smaller than it should, the air closer, every sound softened and muffled.

Diana hadn’t intended to stop breathing when you appeared.

But she does.

Just for a fraction of a second — a subtle, involuntary hitch she cannot quite control, and despite it all, to her it feels impossibly loud, like the single misstep in an otherwise flawless performance.

You moved toward her table with a notepad in hand, the same unhurried ease in your step, the same light in your expression that had once made her forget the world outside a hotel room window in London. And now, under the soft amber lights of this quiet restaurant, she was realizing just how unprepared she was to see you again.

“Hello, welcome to Trattoria Trozzo, I’m—”

The older woman saw everything in the space of a heartbeat — the shock, the disbelief, the way your hand tightened almost imperceptibly around the pen. The reaction landed harder than she had prepared for, sharper than any outcome she had rehearsed on the flight over. Every instinct in her body urged retreat, urged her to stand, to murmur an apology, to turn this into some harmless misunderstanding before the moment could fully exist.

But she stayed where she was, and before caution could overtake intention, your voice reached her first.

“Diana,” you said quietly, the single word unsteady in a way that betrayed you despite the effort to contain it. “What are you doing here?”

Her name left your mouth before you could stop it. It sounded strange now — like a word you hadn’t used in too long, one that still carried too much weight.

She didn’t flinch, but her posture shifted, the faintest ripple in that perfect composure she wore like armor. Her gaze flicked up from the menu to meet yours, steady, assessing, always assessing. “Having dinner,” she said evenly, as if she hadn’t just shattered two and a half months of silence with her presence.

You laughed — short, humorless. “Dinner. Right.”

You just stood there beside her table, staring, the restaurant humming softly around you — the clinking of silverware, the low murmur of conversation, the faint jazz from the speakers. It all felt distant, unreal.

Because she was here. Diana fucking Taverner, in your restaurant.

And she looked exactly the same.

Polished. Controlled. The same perfect posture, same unreadable calm. Not a hair out of place. Like she hadn’t once lain beside you on a rumpled hotel bed in London, whispering that people were on trains, only passing through each other’s lives — fleeting, transient — before you packed your bag and left while she slept.

“Why here?” you asked finally, because if you didn’t speak, you were going to drown in the silence. “Of all places.”

Her eyes softened for half a heartbeat, then shuttered again. “I heard the food was good.”

You huffed out a bitter laugh. “You came for the food.”

“I came,” she said quietly, “because I could.”

There it was — that same tone that, for such a short time, drove you insane. Cold, careful, untouchable. The voice of someone who could end a war but not start a conversation that mattered.

Your jaw tightened. “Two and a half months,” you said. “You tell me you can’t do… whatever this was, that I’m just some— some stop on your line. And now you show up here like it’s nothing?”

Her lips parted slightly, as if she might respond, but nothing came. You took a shaky breath, pushing through the sting building behind your ribs.

“You don’t get to do that,” you said. “You don’t get to say I was temporary and then sit here acting like you never meant it.”

“I did mean it,” she said, and the words hit harder than she probably intended. But then she added, softer, “At the time.”

That almost made it worse.

You blinked, once, twice, grounding yourself in the feel of the notepad against your fingers, the faint scent of garlic and red wine in the air. “At the time,” you repeated flatly.

The older woman tilted her head, her voice calm but unsteady around the edges. “You left before I could—”

“Before you could what?” you cut in. “Say goodbye? Don’t bother. You already did that when you made that whole stupid speech.”

Her mouth pursed into a light pout, and for once, you saw something raw flicker through — regret, maybe, or something dangerously close to it. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“No, it’s exactly what you meant. You made sure of it.”

The air between you felt charged, taut, and although you were dimly aware of movement from the next table, of a glance cast too quickly in your direction, neither of you made any effort to shift or soften the moment.

Diana’s gaze dropped first, tracing the edge of the tablecloth, the steady flicker of the candle positioned between you, as if grounding herself in the smallest, safest details. “You’re angry,” she said at last, the words quiet, almost observational, as though she were stating a fact she’d already accepted.

You let out a low, incredulous sound that barely qualified as a laugh. “You think?”

Her eyes lifted then, meeting yours with that familiar steadiness, though a quiet strain lay beneath it now. “You were never supposed to stay,” she said, her voice calm but careful. “That was the point.”

“Yeah, well,” you murmured, bitterness slipping through despite your effort to contain it, “neither were you.”

For a brief second, she looked as though she might respond, as though a piercing, more vulnerable truth was poised to surface, and you couldn’t quite bring yourself to watch it unfold. Before her expression could shift into a look you didn’t want to witness — too human, too late — you straightened, drawing your shoulders back and forcing the familiar cadence of professionalism into place.

“Would you like a drink?” you asked, the words landing with practiced neutrality.

The older woman looked taken aback by your sudden change of subject, but regardless, she held your gaze through a long, measured pause before finally saying, “Red wine. Italian. Dry.”

You nodded, turned on your heel, and walked away, gripping the notepad a little too tightly as your hands trembled, despite your best efforts; your pulse was loud in your ears as you moved back toward the bar.

Behind you, Diana remained perfectly still in her seat, candlelight moving softly across her features as her heart beat harder than it had any right to. For the first time since London, she couldn’t tell whether she had come all this way to see you again, or whether she was here to finally understand why she had never managed to leave you behind at all.

***

Dinner, as it turns out, is an exercise in endurance.

The older woman maintains perfect posture, her expression composed, each movement controlled with the same discipline that has defined her entire professional life. She has built a career on mastery of self, the kind of authority that can quiet a room or unravel a lie with nothing more than a measured breath. Yet this moment resists every instinct she relies upon, refusing to be contained within the rules that usually protect her.

She forces herself to eat, even though taste barely registers. Every bite feels like performance, as though she is inhabiting the role of a woman who arrived to enjoy a meal rather than one quietly unraveling behind a glass of Chianti.

Across the room, you move through your work as if time had not shifted at all.

She tracks your movements  — not consciously, at first, but like a compass that’s lost its direction. You’re laughing softly with a customer, scribbling a note on your pad, leaning against the bar as you talk to another server. You’ve grown into this space; it suits you. There’s a confidence in your body now that wasn’t there in London, a quiet certainty that both soothes and cuts her.

You do not look at her. Not once.

The restraint unsettles her more than anger would have. It's absolutely maddening.

She is accustomed to attention, not from vanity but from inevitability. Rooms tend to orient themselves around her presence; voices lower, eyes follow, conversations shift. Yet you move through the evening as though she were no different from any other guest seated by the window.

And perhaps, now, she isn’t.

When you finally approach, the interaction is purely functional. “Would you like anything else?”

Your tone remains courteous and distant, shaped by professional habit, and the careful neutrality of it makes her skin tighten because she recognizes the intention behind it.

You are pretending. And she fucking knows it.

Diana lowers her knife and fork onto the plate with careful, controlled precision. “No,” she replies, her voice even and composed, revealing nothing of what moves beneath the surface. Then, after a pause that stretches longer than it reasonably should, she adds, “The cheque.”

You incline your head once, that same unreadable expression still fixed in place, before turning away without another word.

Her gaze follows you as you move across the restaurant, the quiet rhythm of your footsteps dissolving into the low murmur of conversation. A challenge, she thinks. You would be one. She has always been drawn to challenges, even the rare kind that leaves her pulse unsteady and her palms faintly damp despite every effort at control.

By the time she pays the bill and steps outside, the night air has cooled, and it presses gently against her skin. Instead of continuing down the street, she crosses toward the small café opposite the restaurant and orders a coffee she already knows she will not finish. The barista offers an easy, friendly smile, unaware that she has chosen this place only because the alternative, walking away entirely, feels far more unbearable than she is prepared to admit.

She chooses a seat by the window and sinks into it slowly, her hands wrapped around the warm curve of the cup while her gaze remains fixed on the restaurant across the street. From this distance, she can see almost everything: the muted glow filtering through the curtains, the shifting silhouettes moving between tables, and your figure threading easily through the room with a familiarity that still feels intimate to watch. She notices the small gestures without meaning to, the way you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the quiet ease with which you lean against the counter when you believe no one is paying attention.

Two and a half months have passed, and still the simple sight of you is enough to draw a dull, persistent ache through her chest.

She finds herself wondering what occupies your thoughts now, and whether she ever enters them at all.

The café empties in slow increments around her as conversations fade and chairs scrape softly against the floor before settling into silence. The warmth in her cup disappears long before she finishes it, yet she orders another simply to give herself a reason to remain where she is.

Eventually, hours later, the lights inside the restaurant began to dim. Chairs are lifted and stacked, the final guests drift out into the night, and the windows darken one by one until only the softer glow from the kitchen lingers behind the glass.

You step outside a few minutes later, still dressed for work, a bag slung over one shoulder, and your hair slightly disordered from the length of the shift. You share a quiet laugh with someone she assumes is one of the cooks, exchange a brief wave, and then move out into the stillness of the street.

Diana’s breath falters before she can stop it.

She waits through one measured heartbeat and then another before rising from her chair. As she smooths her jacket into place, she gathers what remains of her courage as though it were a weapon she once carried with certainty and now must relearn how to hold.

She crosses the street slowly, accompanied only by the distant murmur of passing traffic and the measured echo of her heels against the pavement. You are already halfway down the block, moving with that quiet, familiar purpose she remembers too well, and she calls your name silently in her mind without ever daring to give it voice. By the time she closes the distance to ten paces, you stop without warning.

You do not turn around. Instead, a sigh leaves you, low and worn, the same sound that used to follow the most impossible moments, and then you say, “What?”

Just a single word, flat with exhaustion and unmistakably yours.

She falters, caught in the fragile space between pride and desperation. For one suspended heartbeat, she considers turning back, retreating into the safe anonymity she understands better than anything else. Yet the thought of never seeing you again settles more heavily than retreat ever could.

“I made a mistake,” she says at last.

The admission feels unfamiliar on her tongue, weighted with every truth she has spent years refusing to speak.

You turn, then, your eyes sharpened by the streetlight, your expression difficult to read yet not entirely unkind. There is tiredness there, deeper than the end of a long shift, a fatigue shaped by her and by whatever this moment has become.

“I shouldn’t have been cruel,” she continues, her voice quieter now as she steps closer, though not close enough to presume forgiveness. “And if I’m being completely honest, you haven’t left my mind since the moment we first met.”

Your lips part, and for a fleeting moment, surprise, disbelief, and something far more fragile flicker across your expression before it closes off again. You draw in a slow breath and shake your head almost imperceptibly.

“Thanks.”

There is no sarcasm in it, no anger, clean enough to wound. What remains is quieter and far more final, a note of resignation that lands heavier than either of those would have. It is the kind of gratitude that sounds uncomfortably close to too late.

Diana stands motionless, every instinct urging her to repair the damage, to say something that might still reach you, to close the distance between you and try in a way she has never allowed herself to try before. Yet she does nothing. She cannot. She was never made for pleading, and she has spent too many years mistaking restraint for strength to abandon it easily now.

You turn and continue walking, and to her own shock, she does not call your name. She only watches as the space between you widens, the rhythm of your footsteps dissolving gradually into the quiet of the night.

Only when the sound disappears completely does she realize she has been holding her breath.

“Thanks,” she repeats under her breath, so softly the word barely exists at all, as though saying it herself might somehow lessen the sting. It does not.

Her reflection catches faintly in a nearby window, composed and perfectly still, the familiar image of control she presents to the world without effort. Beneath that surface, however, a hollowness settles in her chest, an ache shaped unmistakably like consequence.

She looks toward you again, farther away now but still visible, your coat drawn close against the night air, your bag resting against your shoulder with the casual familiarity of routine. For a brief moment, she weighs the alternative, the simple act of letting you go, of retreating to the quiet anonymity of her hotel room where she could pretend this journey had always been professional, contained, insignificant.

But the truth rises before she can bury it.

That has never truly been who she is. Diana Taverner does not do what she did by accident, and she does not walk away from the rare moments that manage to reach her at all.

And for the first time in longer than she can remember, doing nothing feels far more dangerous than the risk of being seen.

She straightens, adjusts her coat, and follows.

When you turn the corner, the exasperation is already in your expression before the words reach your mouth. “Stop following me.”

She keeps walking.

“Do you ever stop issuing orders?” she replies, her tone cool and composed, though a thin edge of irritation slips through, carefully arranged to conceal everything beneath it.

You stop fully this time and turn to face her. 

“I’m serious, Diana,” you say, folding your arms across your chest in a gesture that feels more defensive than firm. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“No,” she cuts in, her voice sharp and precise, that familiar authority sliding back into place. “But I am. And I do not intend to be dismissed like an afterthought. I did not get on a plane, nor make a spectacle of myself in a public restaurant, simply to be ignored.”

You blink, caught off guard by the honesty threaded beneath the steel of her composure.

She steps closer, not enough to crowd you, only enough to make retreat impossible to pretend. Her jaw is set, though the certainty there is no longer entirely professional.

“I came because I enjoy your company,” she says, each word measured yet unmistakably sincere. “And because, despite my better judgment, and despite the rather long list of reasons I could produce to convince myself otherwise, I wanted to see you again.”

“Diana—” you begin, but she does not allow the interruption.

“I made a mistake,” she continues, her voice quieter now, the sharpness giving way to something heavier. “I’m not proud of it. I said things I should not have said. I believed that being honest about my limitations might spare us both a certain kind of unpleasantness, but it appears I only managed to create a different one.”

You release a slow breath, studying her as though trying to reconcile the woman standing in front of you with the one you thought you understood. She remains composed, yet there is a visible strain beneath the surface, like pressure held too long behind glass.

“My world is not particularly accommodating to… people like you,” she goes on, choosing the phrasing with care. “I work late, I disappear without warning, and I spend most of my life in a profession where sentiment is treated as a liability. You were right to walk away, especially after what I had said. Truly. But you should know this much—”

She pauses, a small tension tightening along her jaw before she finishes.

“Being apart has made something rather inconveniently clear. I should never have asked you to behave as though what we had meant nothing.”

Her words hang between you, sharp and soft at once. You look at her for a long time, seeing not the Deputy Director-General of MI5, but the woman who had leaned back in a hotel armchair with a glass of whiskey and a fleeting smile that had seemed, at the time, almost human.

“You’ve really been thinking about me?” you ask quietly.

She lets out a slow breath, her eye drifting briefly toward the pavement as though weighing whether the admission is worth the trouble.

“Everything’s been rather dull since you left,” she says at last. “Even Lamb noticed.” Her tone shifts, turning dry and faintly irritated. “He’s been unbearable about it. Keeps asking whether I’ve misplaced my sense of humour.”

You laugh under your breath, a short, incredulous sound. “So… still the same, I take it?”

“Regrettably,” she mutters, and that almost-smile appears again, brief and involuntary.

For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. The street has gone quiet. A distant taxi hums past. The restaurant lights across the road are completely dark now, and in the dim glow of the city, Diana looks… different. The sharp lines of her face are softened by exhaustion, by resolve.

“I’m not expecting forgiveness,” she says eventually, her voice quieter now, almost conversational. “And I’m certainly not here asking for absolution or second chances. I simply thought you should know that if I could take back that last conversation, I would. Because I’ve come to realise I don’t particularly like the idea of a world where you were only ever passing through.”

Your chest tightens at that, the anger you’d been holding onto beginning to unravel into something messier, more complicated.

“You said people like you don’t have space for… for this,” you say, your voice soft but steady.

“I said that because I believed it,” Diana replies evenly, her eyes steady on yours. “It’s far easier to live by rules you understand than feelings you don’t.”

A faint breath escapes her, something almost like reluctant amusement.

“But you’ve been a bloody nuisance in that regard.”

You can’t help it — you smile. “High praise coming from you.”

Her mouth twitches. “Yes, well.”

For a moment, she hesitates — not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but you do. The tiny pause before she steps closer, the fraction of uncertainty that lives behind her control. You can smell the faint trace of her perfume, expensive and subtle, familiar.

“I’m here until tomorrow night,” she says, each word precise, rehearsed. “And I’d like to see you again. Perhaps…” Her gaze flicks to your mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes. “…later tonight.”

It slips out too naturally, too smoothly. There’s a loaded pause before your expression shifts — a flicker of disbelief, maybe even hurt — and she sees it.

Immediately, her composure tightens. “That’s not—” she cuts herself off, inhales quietly through her nose, then corrects with brisk precision, “That’s not what I meant.” A faint, almost imperceptible huff of self-annoyance follows. “I meant we should talk. Properly. Without the—” she gestures between you with a small flick of her hand “—drama.”

You raise a brow. “You sure that’s what you meant?”

Her eyes narrow, sharp again. “Don’t get clever.”

There it is — the tone you remember, the iron under the silk. But it doesn’t quite hide the strain.

“Perhaps,” she continues, smoothing the cuff of her sleeve — a small, habitual act of control — “I might be back before the end of the month. If you’d… be open to dinner.” The pause around dinner is almost imperceptible, but you hear it. “A proper one, this time. I’d rather not sit alone again while you ignore me all evening.”

You huff out a small, reluctant laugh. “Maybe don’t be an ass and show up unannounced next time.”

“Duly noted,” she says dryly. Then, after a beat, quieter, “I’m aware I didn’t handle things well. You don’t need to tell me that.”

She exhales slowly — a rare moment where her voice softens, not out of weakness, but exhaustion. “I don’t… do this. The explaining, the—” her hand lifts, vague and dismissive “—emotionally transparent rubbish. But the fact that I’m standing here should tell you something.”

You look at her for a long time, saying nothing.

She shifts her weight, straightens her collar, and adds, almost as an afterthought, “Don’t make me repeat it.”

There’s no warmth in her tone — but there’s honesty. And that, from Diana Taverner, is as close to bare as she ever gets.

You exhale, the tension finally easing from your shoulders. “Fine,” you say, the word slow, cautious, but real. “We can talk tonight. And when you come back…” You pause, catching the faint flicker in her eyes. “…we’ll go on a proper date.”

Diana blinks, just once — a rare tell — and when she speaks again, her tone lands somewhere between disbelief and derision. “A date.” The word sounds foreign in her mouth, as if it doesn’t belong there.

You shrug lightly. “That’s what people do, isn’t it? You’ve spent enough time running operations — surely you’ve heard of dinner and a drink.”

Her lips part, then close again, her gaze flicking briefly away as though the word itself has somehow compromised her professionalism. “I’m not sure that applies to me,” she says dryly.

“Well,” you tease, “guess we’ll just have to pretend I’m back in London.”

A faint huff escapes her — not quite a laugh, but close. She looks around the quiet street, clearly at a loss for what comes next.

You tilt your head toward the corner. “There’s a bus stop just down there. My place isn’t far.”

Diana’s brows lift, ever so slightly. “You’re suggesting I take public transportation?”

“Terrifying concept, I know,” you say, imitating her British accent.

“Hardly terrifying,” she retorts, glaring at you, though the clipped precision of her voice betrays mild offense. “Just… wildly inefficient.”

You grin despite yourself. “You’re not gonna melt, Diana.”

“I should hope not,” she mutters, but follows you anyway.

The two of you walk side by side through the cold evening. It’s quiet — the kind of quiet that feels fragile. Every few steps, she glances in your direction as if she can’t quite believe she’s here, doing this, with you.

When the bus finally arrives, the older woman hesitates a fraction too long before stepping on. “We could call a taxi, you know,” she murmurs, almost defensive.

“Mm, sure,” you say lightly, tapping your card and leading her toward a seat. “But a taxi doesn’t come with this kind of authentic local experience.”

Her expression is almost imperceptibly pained as she lowers herself onto the seat beside you. “If by ‘authentic,’ you mean ‘uncomfortable,’ then yes, I’m aware.”

You laugh, settling back. “My shock absorbers are shot on my car,” you explain. “My mechanic’s got it for the week.”

“How… quaint,” she says, folding her hands neatly in her lap as though she’s about to brief a minister rather than sit through public transit.

You glance sideways at her. “You’re doing remarkably well, considering.”

Her eyes narrow. “Considering what?”

“The sheer horror of sitting shoulder to shoulder with normal people.”

A pause — and then her lips twitch, the barest trace of amusement breaking through her composure. “Don’t push it,” she warns, though her voice has softened just enough to tell you she’s not entirely serious. “I have taken the bus before; however, that was to blackmail my boss, and it was empty.”

You let out a quiet laugh as the bus jolts around a corner, the sudden movement tipping you sideways just enough that you reach out instinctively. Your hand brushes against hers before settling around it. You mean it only to steady her, but once the contact is there, you don’t pull away.

Neither does she.

Her hand is cool in yours, her fingers long and elegant but carrying a trace of tension, as though she is not entirely certain how to hold it, or how to allow the moment to exist without analyzing it to death. Her gaze flicks down to where your hands meet, then lifts slowly to your face. A faint crease appears between her brows, not quite disapproval, not quite surprise either, but something closer to thought — calculation layered over a quieter reaction she has not yet decided what to do with.

It feels almost as if she hadn’t expected you to be this open after everything that happened, and yet the lack of resistance suggests she is relieved that you are.

You cannot entirely explain why you’re smiling so easily, or why you’re being gentle with her when you had every reason not to be. But from the little you know of Diana Taverner, a woman who measures every step ten moves ahead, the simple fact that she got on a plane to come here means more than she likely realizes.

She must have spent days debating it. Weeks, even.

And the knowledge that she came anyway — that she stood in front of you, apologized, and admitted she regretted telling you that you were merely a passenger in her life — resolves somewhere deep in your chest, carrying a weight you had not expected to feel again.