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The invitation had been sitting in your inbox for three days before you opened it, flagged and re-flagged like it might explode if you acknowledged it too directly. CIA Holiday Gala, formal attire encouraged, attendance requested. Not required, technically, but requested in that way that made declining feel like a quiet mark against your name. You worked targeting. Analysts weren’t supposed to be visible, but every once in a while someone decided morale mattered, that mingling mattered, that the people who moved pieces on screens should remember the people who moved through rooms with guns.
You stared at yourself in the mirror now, tugging at the sleeve of a dress you’d nearly returned twice. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t meant to be. Dark, simple, something that said competent rather than noticed, though you had the uncomfortable sense it might fail at both once you stepped into a room full of field agents who treated formalwear like another weapon in their arsenal.
The gala was held in a converted historical building downtown, all high ceilings and warm lighting that tried very hard to feel festive without crossing into anything that could be photographed and leaked. Evergreen garlands lined the banisters. White lights were woven through them with military precision, no blinking, no color. Somewhere near the entrance, a jazz trio played restrained holiday arrangements, the kind that sounded elegant enough to justify the budget.
You checked your coat at the door and immediately regretted it. The room felt too open without something to hide behind, too bright. People clustered in easy groups, laughter coming naturally to them, glasses already in hand. You recognized faces you’d only ever seen in passing or on screens attached to names and redacted summaries. They looked different like this, softer somehow, or sharper, depending on the person.
You made a beeline for the bar, because at least that was a task you understood. The bartender smiled like he’d been warned about this crowd, already pouring with efficiency. You asked for something mild and immediately wondered if that made you look juvenile. It was too late to change it, so you took the glass and turned, scanning the room for a place to stand that wouldn’t make you look like you were waiting for someone.
That was when you saw him.
Nick Fowler was impossible to miss in a room like this, which was unfair, considering how little effort he seemed to put into it. He was dressed well, because of course he was, but it wasn’t the suit that drew the eye. It was the way he occupied space, relaxed and attentive at the same time, like he’d mapped the room without needing to look directly at it. He was laughing at something someone said, head tilted slightly, one hand loose around his glass, the other gesturing as if he had all the time in the world.
You’d worked with him before, though “with” was generous. He passed through your department like weather, leaving requests and follow-ups in his wake, sometimes stopping by your desk to clarify a detail or ask a question that always sounded simpler than it was. He was polite. He remembered your name. He had a way of leaning just close enough that you felt it for hours afterward.
You told yourself you were overthinking it. You took a sip of your drink and nearly choked when you heard your name.
“There you are,” Nick said, appearing at your side as if summoned by the thought. “I was starting to think targeting had collectively decided to boycott Christmas.”
You swallowed, then forced yourself to breathe normally. “We debated it. Decided the optics would be bad.”
He smiled at that, eyes flicking briefly to your glass. “Good call. I’ve been to one of those boycotts. They get messy.”
You shifted your weight, suddenly hyperaware of the space between you, of how easily he filled it without crowding. “I didn’t think you’d notice if I skipped.”
“That would’ve been a shame,” he said easily. “You clean up well.”
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. “This is just… a dress.”
“Sure,” he replied, tone mild but eyes sharp. “And I’m just wearing a suit.”
You huffed a quiet laugh before you could help yourself, then immediately wished you hadn’t, worried it sounded strange or too loud. Nick seemed pleased anyway, angling his body toward you as if the rest of the room had dimmed.
“First agency party?” he asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re standing like you’re waiting for a briefing.”
You glanced down at your posture and sighed. “I don’t really do… this.”
“This,” he echoed, gesturing vaguely at the lights, the music, the carefully curated cheer. “Yeah. It’s not exactly your usual environment.”
“No screens,” you said. “No filters. Everyone looks… three-dimensional.”
“Terrifying,” Nick agreed. “I much prefer people when they’re reduced to bullet points.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself, clapping a hand over your mouth too late. His grin widened, like he’d won something.
“There it is,” he said. “I was wondering when you’d relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Mmh,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced. “You’re gripping that glass like it might run away.”
You loosened your fingers reflexively. “Old habit.”
“I get it,” he said. “These things can feel like a performance.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
He lifted a brow. “You think I enjoy this?”
“You make it look easy.”
“That’s because it’s part of the job,” Nick said, voice dropping just a touch. “Reading rooms. Reading people.”
The way he looked at you when he said it made your stomach flip, an uncomfortable mix of flattery and awareness. You took another sip of your drink, buying yourself a second.
“Well,” you said, “I’m not very readable.”
His gaze flicked over your face, unhurried, thoughtful. “You’d be surprised.”
Before you could respond, someone bumped into the table beside you, sending a napkin fluttering to the floor. Nick stepped closer without thinking, hand hovering near your back, not quite touching but there, a quiet shield. You felt it anyway, the heat of it, the implication.
“Careful,” he murmured, more to you than to the culprit, and then he was straightening, all charm again, attention shifting as someone called his name from across the room.
“I should circulate,” he said, though he didn’t move right away. “But don’t disappear on me, alright? These things are more tolerable with company.”
You nodded, because your voice had temporarily abandoned you, and watched him step away, seamlessly absorbed back into the crowd. You stayed by the bar longer than you meant to, mostly because moving felt like it would require admitting you were aware of where Nick was in the room at all times. Every laugh that carried over the music made your attention flick in his direction. Every shift in the crowd recalibrated your sense of space, like you were tracking something on a map without meaning to.
You told yourself it was ridiculous. You worked with people like him all the time. Field officers came and went, confident and charming and always in motion, while you stayed put, turning chaos into patterns. This was no different. This was just a party.
Still, when the bartender asked if you wanted another drink, you shook your head a little too quickly and turned away, only to find Nick standing a few feet from you again, watching you with an expression that suggested he’d noticed the way your shoulders had relaxed and then immediately tensed.
“You look like you’re considering an escape route,” he said.
“I was thinking about the bathrooms,” you replied. “They’re near the exit.”
“Strategic,” he said approvingly. “Always good to know your options.”
You shifted, angling yourself slightly toward him despite yourself. “You said circulating was part of the job.”
“It is,” he agreed. “But I never said I was good at leaving conversations I like.”
That earned him a look, sharp and disbelieving, though you couldn’t quite summon the nerve to call him on it. He stepped closer as someone brushed past behind you, the bar suddenly more crowded than it had been moments ago. You felt the proximity immediately, the awareness settling low and steady in your chest.
“Relax,” Nick said quietly. “You’re doing fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“That’s because it’s true.”
He glanced up, then back at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Although.”
You followed his gaze before you could stop yourself, eyes catching on the green and white sprig hanging above the bar. Mistletoe. Of course it was. You groaned softly, more to yourself than to him. “You have got to be kidding me,” you muttered.
Nick laughed under his breath. “They really committed this year.”
You took a step sideways, instinctive, only to find that the crowd had closed in just enough to make it awkward to retreat without pushing through someone. Nick didn’t move. He just watched you, eyes bright with something that felt dangerously close to amusement.
“Well,” he said, lowering his voice, “this is unfortunate.”
“For who?” you asked, even though you already knew.
“For me,” he replied. “Because now I’m standing under mistletoe with someone who looks like she’s deciding whether to flee or throw her drink at me.”
“I am not that dramatic.”
He tilted his head. “You thought about it, though.” You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again, heat creeping into your cheeks. Nick noticed. He always noticed. “Easy,” he murmured. “I’m not going to ambush you.”
“I didn’t say you would.”
“No,” he said, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before lifting again. “But your shoulders did.”
That made you painfully aware of your posture, of the way you’d gone rigid without meaning to. You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to loosen, even as your heart refused to follow suit. “It’s just a decoration,” you said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“True,” Nick agreed. “But people love assigning meaning to things.”
He leaned in slightly, not enough to invade your space, just enough to make the air between you feel warmer, more charged. His voice dropped, pitched for you alone.
“Besides,” he continued, “I think it’d be cruel to spring a kiss on someone who’s clearly not prepared for it.”
Your breath caught despite your best efforts. “I didn’t say I wasn’t prepared.”
His brows lifted, surprised, and then his smile softened into something slower, more deliberate. “You didn’t say you were, either.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The music swelled around you, glasses clinked, laughter rose and fell, and yet it felt like the room had narrowed to the space beneath the mistletoe and the steady, unreadable calm of Nick’s gaze.
“I should probably go,” you said, even though you didn’t move.
Nick nodded, still not stepping back. “You probably should.”
“And you should circulate.”
“I really should.”
Neither of you did anything about it.
He leaned just a fraction closer, enough that you could smell his cologne, clean and understated. “For what it’s worth,” he added quietly, “you look beautiful tonight. Not because of the dress. Because you’re here, even though you didn’t want to be.”
Then someone called his name again, louder this time, and the spell broke. He stepped back, hands raised slightly in surrender. “Another time,” he said. “Try not to hide in the bathrooms.”
You tried to reset after that, really you did. You told yourself that one charged moment under mistletoe didn’t mean anything, that Nick Fowler flirting was not the same thing as Nick Fowler intending something, that you were reading too much into a tone, a look, a pause that lingered a second too long. This was what he did. This was how field agents moved through the world. You were just unused to being on the receiving end.
So you left the bar, weaving carefully through the crowd toward one of the tall cocktail tables near the windows. The city outside was washed in winter light, streets glowing with reflected white and gold, distant traffic muted by the glass. You stood there for a while, fingers wrapped around the stem of your glass, grounding yourself in the cool surface, watching reflections instead of faces.
It worked. Mostly.
You were halfway through convincing yourself that you could leave soon, that you’d done your duty simply by showing up, when someone brushed your elbow. You turned automatically, apology already forming, only to find Nick there again, coat still off, tie loosened just enough to look intentional. “Sorry,” he said lightly, though his smile suggested he wasn’t. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” you replied, which was a lie, but a small one.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked, already setting his glass down on the table as if the question were a courtesy rather than a request.
You nodded, because refusing would have required more confidence than you had access to at the moment. “I thought you were circulating.”
“I was,” he said. “Then I realized I’d been having the same conversation three times in a row.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “This seemed like a better option.”
You glanced up at him, then away again, unsure what to do with that. The space between you felt easier here, less charged than at the bar, though that might have been wishful thinking. He leaned one hip against the table, posture relaxed, eyes flicking between you and the room beyond the windows.
“Do you always disappear to the quietest corner?” he asked.
“Only when there’s a lot of noise.”
He huffed a laugh. “Fair.”
Someone bumped into you from behind then, harder than before, sending you a step forward. Your heel caught awkwardly on the edge of the rug, balance tipping just enough to make your stomach lurch. You would have recovered on your own, probably, but Nick moved faster than you could process.
His hand came out automatically, settling at your waist for the briefest second, steadying you without pulling you closer. The touch was light, almost incidental, more practical than intimate. Almost. His fingers pressed just enough to anchor you, then lifted away as soon as your footing was sure.
“Careful,” he said, tone easy, already withdrawing his hand like it had never been there at all.
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, even though your pulse had spiked so hard it felt like it had knocked the breath out of you.
“I know,” he replied. “Just didn’t want you taking a dive.”
You nodded, staring at the table a moment longer than necessary, painfully aware of the exact place his hand had been, of how quickly it had left. He hadn’t lingered. He hadn’t commented. He hadn’t even looked at you to see how you were reacting, which somehow made it worse.
“You get bumped a lot in these things,” he added casually, taking a sip of his drink. “Crowds forget their manners.”
“Right,” you said. “Crowds.”
You risked a glance at him then, trying to read his expression, but he looked infuriatingly normal, gaze turned back toward the room, jaw relaxed. If you hadn’t felt it, you might have convinced yourself it hadn’t happened at all.
“You okay?” he asked after a beat, finally looking at you.
“Yes,” you said, a little too quickly again. “Just… surprised.”
“Makes sense,” he replied. “You don’t exactly spend your days getting jostled.”
“No,” you said. “My biggest physical threat is a rolling chair.”
He smiled at that, softer this time, like he liked the image. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
There was mistletoe here too, you noticed belatedly, hung just above the edge of the window frame, easy to miss unless you were looking for it. Your eyes caught on it, and then flicked away, heart stuttering. Nick followed your gaze, just for a second. “Seems like they really spread it around,” he said mildly.
“Apparently,” you replied. “Very… thorough.”
He turned toward you then, expression unreadable, voice low but still light. “You know, you don’t have to look so worried. I’m not going to take advantage of a misplaced decoration.”
“I wasn’t worried,” you protested, though you felt caught.
“Sure,” he said, amused. “You just went very still.”
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again, unsure how to explain something you barely understood yourself. He didn’t press, just watched you with that same careful attention he used when listening to briefings, when deciding what mattered.
After a moment, he straightened, stepping back just enough to give you space. “I should probably let you breathe,” he said. “Before you decide I’m hovering.”
“You’re not,” you said, surprising yourself.
His brow lifted slightly. “No?”
“No,” you repeated, quieter. “You’re just… present.”
Something in his expression shifted at that, subtle but real. He smiled again, slower this time.
“Well,” he said, picking up his glass, “I can work with that.”
He didn’t mention the touch again. He didn’t look at your waist. He didn’t acknowledge the mistletoe above you. But as he moved away, rejoining the flow of the room, you had the distinct, unsettling sense that he knew exactly what he’d done, and exactly how much it had unsettled you. And that he’d filed it away for later.
By the time you saw him again, the room had shifted into that late-evening hum where conversations blurred and the music felt louder without actually changing. Jackets were draped over chairs. Ties had loosened. Laughter came easier now, a little less measured, a little less professional. You told yourself that was why your nerves felt frayed, why everything seemed sharper around the edges.
You were standing near the edge of the dance floor, not dancing, just occupying the space where people paused to talk or waited for a song to end. The lights were lower here, warmer, reflecting off polished floors and the slow movement of bodies. You’d been pulled into a conversation with someone from logistics, nodding at the right places, when you felt it again, that quiet awareness sliding into place before you even saw him.
Nick stepped into your peripheral vision like he belonged there, close enough that you didn’t have to turn fully to know it was him. He waited until the person you were talking to drifted away, then angled his body toward yours, unhurried, patient.
“You survived,” he said.
“So far,” you replied. “I’m considering it a win.”
“I would,” he said. “Not everyone makes it to this stage.”
You glanced at him, noticing the faint flush at his throat, the loosened tie now sitting open at the collar. He looked less polished than earlier, not sloppy, just… real, in a way that made your chest feel tight. “You don’t look like you’re suffering,” you said.
“I have a high tolerance,” he replied easily. “And good company helps.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no heat behind it. The music shifted, something slower now, and the dance floor adjusted accordingly. Couples moved closer. Conversations softened.
Nick’s gaze flicked upward, brief and assessing, before settling back on you. You followed it without thinking. Another sprig of mistletoe hung above the edge of the dance floor, positioned just off-center, unavoidable if you stood where you were. You let out a quiet breath, half laugh, half disbelief. “This is getting ridiculous,” you said.
“Feels intentional,” Nick replied.
You looked at him then, really looked, trying to find something in his expression that would tell you what came next. He wasn’t smiling this time. His face was calm, attentive, eyes steady on yours in a way that made the space between you feel suddenly very small.
The crowd shifted again, someone brushing past behind you, nudging you a step closer without meaning to. You stopped just short of colliding with him, close enough now that you could feel his warmth, the faint movement of air when he breathed.
Neither of you moved away.
Nick didn’t say anything. He didn’t joke, didn’t comment on the mistletoe, didn’t fill the silence the way he easily could have. He just stood there, presence firm and grounding, like he was giving you time to decide what to do with the moment.
Your heart was loud in your ears. You were acutely aware of how close his face was, of the fact that if you leaned forward even slightly, you’d cross a line you weren’t sure you could uncross.
His hand lifted slowly, deliberately, stopping short as if giving you every chance to object. When you didn’t, his fingers brushed under your chin, light and careful, tilting your face up just enough to meet his gaze fully. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it sent a shiver straight through you. “You’re very quiet,” he said softly.
“I’m thinking,” you replied, voice steadier than you felt.
He nodded once, like that was the right answer. For a moment, it felt like the room had narrowed again, the music fading into something distant and unimportant. His thumb rested at your jaw, not pressing, just there, an anchor. His eyes flicked down, then back up, measuring the distance, the moment.
Someone laughed nearby, loud and sharp, and it broke something fragile between you. You inhaled sharply, the spell cracking, and Nick’s hand fell away immediately, retreating as smoothly as it had arrived.
A voice called his name from across the room, insistent this time, and he glanced over his shoulder, jaw tightening just a fraction. “I should—” he began, then stopped himself.
You nodded, grateful and disappointed all at once. “Yeah. You should.”
He looked back at you, something unreadable passing through his eyes, then smiled, softer than before, like he was letting something go rather than taking it. “Don’t disappear,” he said quietly.
“I wasn’t planning to,” you replied.
“Good,” he said. “I’d hate to lose track of you now.”
He stepped away then, swallowed by the movement of the crowd, leaving you standing beneath the mistletoe with your pulse still racing and the echo of his touch lingering at your jaw.
You told yourself it was nothing, but even you didn’t believe it for a second.
The gala thinned slowly, not all at once. People lingered the way they always did, stretching out the end of something pleasant because going home meant admitting it was over. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. The band packed up without ceremony. The lights brightened just enough to signal that the night was winding down, even if no one said it out loud.
You checked your phone for the time and told yourself you’d leave after one more minute. That minute stretched, elastic and uncooperative, until you realized the room felt different. Quieter. Emptier. The noise had softened into a low murmur, the kind that echoed instead of blending.
You slipped your coat back on near the check-in desk, movements careful, a little stiff. The warmth of the room faded almost immediately, replaced by the cool press of fabric against your arms. It helped, you thought. Grounded you.
“Heading out?”
Nick’s voice came from behind you, close enough that you felt it before you fully registered it. You turned to find him just a step away, coat already on, scarf looped casually around his neck. He looked different like this, less polished, less on display, like the version of him that existed when no one was watching.
“Yeah,” you said. “I think I’ve hit my limit.”
He smiled, not teasing this time. “You lasted longer than you expected.”
“That’s not saying much.”
He glanced around the room, then back at you. “Looks like we’re among the last.”
You noticed then how empty it really was. A few staff members moved efficiently near the edges, clearing glasses, straightening tables. The exit loomed ahead, wide and shadowed, the night beyond it waiting.
You started toward the door together, steps unhurried, matching without comment. It felt strangely intimate, this quiet exit after all the noise, like something private carved out of a very public night.
You were almost through the doorway when you saw it.
Mistletoe, hung directly above the exit, framed neatly by garland and white lights. It looked deliberate in a way the others hadn’t, like a final joke left behind for whoever remained.
You stopped short. Nick did too, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. He followed your gaze upward, then let out a soft breath that might have been a laugh if it had more air behind it. “Well,” he said quietly. “Of course.”
You shook your head, a little incredulous. “They really committed.”
“Can’t accuse them of half measures.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The door stood open beside you, letting in a ribbon of cold air that curled around your ankles, sharp and real. You could leave. You knew that. You should.
Nick turned toward you instead. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t say anything. He just leaned in, slow and sure, close enough that your breath caught before you could stop it. His lips brushed yours, quick and gentle, more suggestion than anything else, and it sent a jolt through you that felt entirely out of proportion for how brief it was.
You pulled back almost immediately, hand lifting between you, not quite touching him but close enough to make your point clear. “Wait,” you said, breathless. “I don’t want you kissing me because you’re drunk.”
He blinked, surprised, then smiled faintly. “I’m not drunk.”
“You’ve been drinking all night.”
“One drink,” he said calmly. “Maybe two, spread out over several hours.”
“That can still make you tipsy,” you replied, though the certainty in your voice wavered toward the end.
Nick leaned in again, not enough to kiss you, just enough that his forehead brushed yours, nose grazing your cheek in a way that felt intentional and unhurried. His breath was warm against your skin. “If you think one drink is enough to make me do something I don’t want to do,” he said quietly, “you’re wrong.”
Your heart was hammering now, every beat loud and insistent. You didn’t move away. You couldn’t seem to remember how. “Nick,” you murmured, not quite a protest, not quite anything else.
He shifted slightly, his nose brushing along your cheekbone, lingering there, close enough that you could feel the smile you couldn’t quite see. “I’m very aware of what I’m doing,” he said. “And of where I am.”
His head tilted just enough that his lips hovered near your jaw, not touching, just there, a promise he wasn’t claiming yet. One of his hands lifted, hovering near your side before dropping again, like he’d thought better of it.
You swallowed hard. “You’re standing under mistletoe. That doesn’t help your case.”
“That’s fair,” he admitted. “But I was going to kiss you anyway.” The honesty of it stole your breath more than the kiss had. He drew back just a fraction, enough to look at you properly, eyes searching your face with a seriousness that hadn’t been there earlier in the night. “Can I kiss you again?”
The question didn’t feel casual. It landed carefully, like he’d set it down between you and stepped back just enough to let you decide what happened to it. The noise from outside crept in through the open door, distant traffic and cold air mixing with the warmth still clinging to the room. Everything else felt suspended.
You nodded before you realized you were doing it. Nick’s mouth curved, soft and unmistakably fond, but he didn’t move closer. Instead, he clicked his tongue quietly, a gentle sound that made your stomach flip. “Hey,” he murmured. “I need to hear it, sweetheart.”
Your pulse stuttered at the word. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t careless. It sounded… grounding, like he was anchoring the moment instead of pushing it forward. “Yes,” you said, the word coming out breathier than you meant.
He leaned in just slightly, forehead brushing yours again, close enough that you could feel the faint scrape of his stubble against your skin. “Yes what?”
You hesitated, not because you didn’t want it, but because saying it out loud made it real in a way that felt dangerous and thrilling all at once. Your hands curled into the front of his coat without fully committing, fingers bunching the fabric like you needed something solid to hold onto.
“Yes, you can kiss me,” you said, steady this time. Clear.
Nick exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath longer than you realized. “Good,” he said softly.
Then he kissed you.
Not rushed. Not stolen. He leaned in carefully, giving you time even now, lips brushing yours once, twice, like he was checking in without words. When you didn’t pull away, when you tilted toward him instead, his hand came up, warm and sure at your jaw, thumb resting lightly along your cheek.
The kiss deepened gradually, unhurried and deliberate. He tasted faintly of whatever he’d been drinking earlier, but more than that, he tasted like heat and intention. His mouth moved against yours with a confidence that didn’t overwhelm, like he was paying attention to every small reaction, every shift of your breath.
You made a quiet sound before you could stop yourself, something embarrassingly soft, and Nick smiled into the kiss like he’d been waiting for it. He pulled back just a fraction, lips still brushing yours as he spoke.
“There you are,” he murmured. “I was wondering when you’d stop overthinking it.”
You huffed a breathless laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“For you?” he said, brushing his nose against yours, slow and affectionate. “I think it is. You just need a minute.”
He kissed you again, lingering this time, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb resting where your pulse raced beneath his touch. You felt it then, the way the night had been building toward this without either of you naming it, every mistletoe a quiet test you’d somehow passed.
When he finally pulled back, he stayed close, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and steady. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded, smiling despite yourself. “Yeah. I’m more than okay.”
“Good,” he said, brushing a quick kiss to your cheek, softer than the others, almost tender. “Because I’d hate to rush this.” He stepped back just enough to open the door wider, cold air rushing in, then offered you his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come on, baby,” he said gently. “Let me walk you out before someone else finds another sprig of mistletoe.”