The Orange Peel Protocol

Marcus should have known Elena was a spy the first night they met. She peeled her orange with surgical precision, each strip of zest falling like evidence into a neat pile on her napkin. He was too distracted by the way her collarbone caught the bar light to notice how her eyes never stopped scanning the exits.

Three years later, standing on their balcony at 2 AM with a glass of water in his hand, watching her pack, he finally understood. The water reflected her silhouette—a ghost of the woman he'd cooked breakfast for, argued with about paint colors, planned a life with.

"You're leaving," he said, not a question.

"My handler activated me," she said, zipping a bag he'd never seen before. "The orange shipment we intercepted at the docks—it was never about fruit. That was the signal."

Marcus stared at her. "All those Sundays at the market. You were gathering intel on the suppliers."

"Part of the cover." She finally looked at him. "Marcus, I never meant to—"

"Fall in love?" He set his water glass on the railing. "Or get caught?"

The water rippled. Somewhere below, the city hummed with other betrayals, other people lying in other beds. Elena reached for the door handle, then paused.

"The oranges," she said quietly. "I really did love them. That part wasn't a lie."

She was gone before he could ask if that was supposed to matter. Marcus finished his water. It tasted like nothing at all.