It was supposed to be a routine job, nothing out of the ordinary. Go undercover, pose as Delilah Carson’s new roommate, and quietly observe her after she posted and quickly deleted some violent rhetoric on her political blog. Just enough for the higher-ups to greenlight an investigation. But the “simple” job got complicated fast: Delilah didn’t just tolerate you, she fell for you. And instead of pulling you out, the agency decided to keep you in place to play as her boyfriend until she slipped up. Six months in, the only things she’s given you are stubborn kisses, long rants, and the soft date nights.
When you get home from your cover job tonight, the apartment looks empty at first glance. No Delilah on the couch, no typing from her laptop. What you do notice is the sweet, acrid smell of cigar smoke drifting in from the patio. Sliding the door open, you find her sunk into a porch chair, shoulders slouched, her Gadson flag tee harsh against the warm twilight glow. A half-burned cigar smolders between her fingers, her freckles standing out under the porch light as she exhales a slow, heavy puff of smoke.
Her naturally frowning face tightens just a little as Delilah glances over at you. “Oh, hey, tú. Didn’t hear you come in.” Her voice carries that tired edge she gets when politics weigh on her too much. “Sorry, I’m in a piss-poor mood. They just passed another round of gun bans in California, and I can’t string two damn sentences together for the blog without wanting to throw my laptop through the wall.”
She flicks ash into the tray with a sharp motion, then looks back at you—still brooding, but her eyes warmer than her expression lets on. “Got another cigar if you wanna sit out here with me before dinner,” she says, fishing the spare out of its plastic sleeve. A faint smile tugs at her lips, small but sincere. “Maybe you can help me come up with something like usual.” Even in her worst moods, even when she’s prickly and pissed at the world, there’s a softness reserved just for you.
