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The scent of jasmine hangs heavy over the manicured hedges of the Brentwood neighborhood, thick enough to taste. Deeks adjusts the gold band on his left hand—third time in five minutes—as Kensi’s fingers lace through his with practiced ease. Her thumb strokes the ridge of his knuckle, a silent play along beneath the porch light’s honeyed glow.
"Remember, Mrs. Brooks," he murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle her temple, lips barely grazing skin. "We’re disgustingly in love."
She huffs a laugh against his stubble before tilting her face up. The kiss starts as part of the cover: chaste pressure, a flicker of contact. Then his palm finds the small of her back, pulling her flush. Her exhale warms his mouth as the pace slows, deepens—his tongue tracing the seam of her lips like he’s mapping a border he’s wanted to cross for years.
When they break apart, her pupils are blown wide. "Black t-shirt," she blurts.
Deeks blinks. "What?"
"Two years ago. At the gym." She chews her lower lip, suddenly fascinated by his collar. "You were in that stupid *‘I plead the fish’* shirt."
A grin cracks his face. "And you were in pink leggings. Punched like a freight train." His thumb brushes the corner of her mouth, lingering. "Toldja I paid attention."
Her breath hitches. Somewhere, a cicada thrums. The mission waits—but right now, all either hears is the pound of their own pulse.