The low hum of the wind brushed against the glass walls of the Reinhardt conservatory. Afternoon light filtered through the ceiling panes, dancing across the polished marble like silent waves. The scent of spring herbs clung to the air, left behind by Giselle's earlier work in the kitchen. She stood now at the far end of the sunroom, her back to the doorway, arms crossed, gaze settled beyond the horizon where clouds were starting to shift.
"I know that stance," came a voice behind her. Logan.
She didn't turn immediately, her fingers tightening slightly. "I figured you'd find me here."
Logan's steps were quiet but deliberate. He stopped just a breath away from her, slipping one arm around her waist and pressing a kiss against the side of her head. "You're planning something."
"I'm accepting something," she corrected softly. "Anthony came by."
Logan's body tensed. Not visibly—he was a man trained in restraint—but she could feel it in the subtle stiffness of his hold. "And?"
"He has a mission. One that only I can do." Her voice didn't waver, but her eyes held storms.
"You promised you were done," he said quietly.
"I promised I'd come back," she corrected, finally turning to face him. Her amethyst eyes met his blue ones. "And I did. For years. I was Giselle Reinhardt—wife, mother, chef. But I'm also a S-grade Assassin. You married both sides of me."
"I didn't sign you up to die," Logan said, harsher than he meant to. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathed. "Four years ago, when Anthony nearly bled out in that hospital bed, we said we were done with the blood and the secrets. You cried in my arms, Giselle."
She looked away. "And I remember every tear. But I also remember what it felt like watching Anthony being wheeled into surgery and not being able to do anything. If I had been on that mission—if I had seen what he didn't—I could have stopped it."
Logan's jaw tightened. "That wasn't your fault."
"It was," she said. "We have to do this, to protect our family."
At the door, a quiet knock. Anthony entered without waiting for a response, leaning casually against the doorframe, sunglasses tucked into his blazer pocket. "Don't let me interrupt the marriage counseling. I've got ten minutes before I vanish into another blacksite, so let's keep it spicy."
Logan's eyes narrowed. "You're the last person I want near my wife when you're dragging her into whatever hell you've been digging through."
"Technically, she volunteered," Anthony replied, his voice dry. "Besides, I trust Giselle more than half the agents we've got now. You're not the only one who watched me almost die, Reinhardt. I made peace with it. Did you?"
The two men locked eyes. Different warriors, different codes. But both understood one thing: the weight of what they couldn't say.
Giselle stepped between them. "Stop it. Logan, I'm not asking for permission. I'm telling you I'm capable. And Anthony, don't poke the bear—you know better."
Anthony lifted his hands in surrender. "She bites harder than I do."
For a moment, it was silent. Just three people standing in a sun-drenched room full of history.
Then Logan exhaled. Long and deep. He moved to sit on the edge of the couch, raking a hand through his hair. "You come back to me. No solo heroics. No secrets. You report in to me and only me, like we used to."
Giselle smiled faintly, walking over and placing her hand against his cheek. "I always come back to you."
"Ugh," Anthony muttered from across the room, dramatically averting his eyes. "Do you two do this every time she gets a mission brief?"
"No," Logan replied, pulling Giselle into his arms. "Just when I'm terrified of losing her."
Anthony said nothing, his smirk fading. He glanced at Giselle, and for a second, something almost like affection flickered in his eyes—buried deep, but real. "I'll be outside when you're done making googly eyes."
He disappeared with the swish of his coat, the door clicking behind him.
Giselle sat beside Logan, their hands entwined. "I can do this. I'm not broken. I'm not soft."
"You've never been soft," Logan whispered. "But I still wish the world would let you be."
As the light dimmed outside, casting shadows along the floor, a stillness settled over them. Peace, for now. But it was the kind of peace that held its breath.
In the hall outside, Anthony checked his watch. A coded message was already blinking on his secure line. Something about movements in the north, disappearances, whispers of the Serpent Mafia rising again.
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, the facade cracked.
"They're not ready," he murmured to himself, slipping his glasses on and walking away.
And as the sun dipped beyond the skyline of Westdentia, the warmth of spring held tight—but the cold was coming.