“I didn’t think you could get any uglier,” Evan said as he gazed down into the box beside his couch.

He’d slept there since arriving home at five a.m. from the emergency veterinarian’s, where he’d gone after his contentious joint police/MI5 debriefing had wrapped up at three. The vet had trimmed the mats out of Trent’s gray hair and shaved patches of it so she could check for mange and ringworm. Now the sleeping cat resembled a Miniature Schnauzer groomed with hedge trimmers.

He watched the cat’s flank rise and fall with deep, even breaths, illuminated by the faint sunlight leaking in through the window. The sight made his eyelids heavy, and as they drifted shut, Evan realized he’d slept more peacefully this morning than he’d done in ages. Perhaps this was down to Trent; it was soothing to have someone besides himself who needed Evan to be strong.

Or perhaps it was the fact that at the post-op debriefing, Kay had defended Evan’s refusal to use Ben as terrorist bait. He wasn’t sure whether she agreed with him or was just being loyal. Either way, his job was secure.

Or perhaps he’d slept better because of Ben himself. The mere thought of that blithe, self-assured man filled Evan with a strange mix of peace and desire. He curled an arm around his pillow, letting sweet, fantastical thoughts slide his mind back into sleep.

A knock came at the door.

Evan sprang off the couch, heart pounding. He crept toward his flat’s entrance, raising his hands into a fighting posture.

“It’s me,” came a deep voice muffled by the wooden door, “and yes, I’m alone.”

Evan peered through the peephole to see his father standing in the corridor, his long gray coat already doffed and draped over his briefcase.

After taking a moment to collect himself, Evan opened the door. “How did you get in the building?”

“Hello to you, too.” His father swept inside, hanging his coat on an empty peg without pausing. “An elderly couple let me in just as I approached the front entrance. I gave them a brief but pointed lecture on security lapses.”

Evan rubbed his arms to shed the rest of his adrenaline rush. “You couldn’t phone first? What if I’d been entertaining a naked man or three?”

“Your bedroom blinds are open. They’d be closed if you had naked men in there.”

“Not if they were exhibitionists.” Evan followed his father into the living room, veering off into the adjoining kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Please. And we both know you’d never date one exhibitionist, much less multiples.”

This was true, though Evan had no need to hide his sexuality. As the son of a high-level spook, he’d never had the luxury of personal secrets, which were considered a security risk. He’d come out as gay when he was fifteen, so that no one could blackmail his father into betraying his country in order to keep Evan in the closet. With nothing to hide, Evan’s own MI5 vetting process three years ago had been swift and smooth.

If only his ex had been so clean, the job might not have destroyed them.

“What happened to him?”

Evan turned to see his dad standing beside the cardboard box. “That’s Trent. I don’t know what happened to her, apart from getting pregnant and nearly starving to death.”

“Pitiful thing.” Unbuttoning his blazer, his father crouched down to peer into the box. “It’s a marvel she’s kept herself alive, much less a litter of kittens.”

“That’s what the vet said.” From the cupboard Evan retrieved the two mugs his father had bought for him at the International Spy Museum in Washington, DC. He inserted the one reading Trust No One beneath the coffee-pod machine’s spout and hit brew. “She’ll be spayed when she’s strong enough for surgery. Obviously the kittens will be aborted.”

“That’s wise.”

Evan came over to the box to see Trent blinking up at them with a bleary blue gaze. “A bit sad, though.”

“It’d be sadder if she died carrying the kittens to term,” Dad said. “Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good.”

On the whole, Evan agreed. Such an outlook seemed cold on the surface, but the world needed people who could make tough decisions. Trent needed Evan to save her life, not let sentiment make him risk her life.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t feel bad,” Evan said as he took his father’s full mug from the coffee machine and replaced it with an empty one reading Deny Everything.

“Of course you feel bad. It’s a bloody tragedy. The key is acknowledging those feelings as legitimate but irrelevant.” His dad’s voice pitched up as he leaned over to pet Trent. “There’s a good kitty. Oh, you’re a friendly one, aren’t you? That’s how you survived.” He straightened up to take the coffee mug. “She’ll be good for you. You must miss having animals since you moved to Glasgow.”

True. After growing up on his stepfather’s sheep farm in Orkney, Evan found this city’s human-beast ratio higher than he preferred. But he’d never mentioned this to his father, whose bursts of empathy always surprised him.

Then again, it was a spy’s job to understand people.

“You need company, full stop,” his dad said. “You’ve been cloistered like a Cistercian monk far too long.” He swept a disapproving look over Evan’s minimalist living room.

“The Cistercians were fabulous architects. Made good beer, too.” He gestured to Trent. “What’ll happen to her if I get relocated?”

“You’d stay within the UK, so you could take her with you. A cat won’t mind the occasional all-night op.”

“But what if I—” Evan cleared the sudden tightness from his throat. “What if something happened to me? Who’d look after Trent?”

His father sighed as he settled onto the couch. “Evan, what happened in Belfast was an aberration. Your job won’t usually be so hazardous.”

“How do you know? We’re not even in the same division.” Evan’s father, a self-proclaimed Cold Warrior, had spent his career as a spycatcher in MI5’s counterespionage D Branch. If a foreign intelligence officer set foot on British soil, Hugh Hollister almost certainly knew about it.

“I know because despite what you experienced last year, a quiet life is the norm for MI5 officers. Seven-thirty to four, five days a week. A loving spouse, some squealing children—”

“How long was that your life?”

His dad gave a conciliatory nod. “Not long enough, but that was my failing, not the job’s.”

“So I should do as you say, not as you’ve done.”

“Precisely.”

Turning back to the coffee machine, Evan recalled how his father had discouraged him and his older sister from following in his footsteps. “I want you to be happy,” he’d told them a thousand times.

Justine had heeded that advice and was currently smashing it as an up-and-coming astrophysicist at St. Andrews University. Evan, however, had made a weak attempt at architecture before accepting his true calling as a spook—a calling which did in fact make him happy, despite the wrecking ball it had taken to his personal life.

“You know I’m proud of you,” his dad said, prompting an unwelcome glow deep in Evan’s gut. “I got you that award, after all.”

Evan glanced at the refrigerator, the front of which held his Certificate of Awesomeness. His father had commissioned a friend’s five-year-old to sign the certificate in crayon and color the stars, making it look like an art project for the adored uncle Evan was not. It functioned as a stand-in for Evan’s real-life MI5 Commendation for Bravery, which of course he could never tell anyone about, much less display in his home.

On this certificate, the line reading In Recognition For had been left blank. “So you can mentally fill it in each time you see it,” Dad had told him.

“Thank you again for that,” Evan said. “It meant a lot.”

“I know what it’s like.” His father crossed his legs, smoothing the creases in his smart gray trousers. “How was the wedding?”

“What wedding?” Nobody outside Operation Caps Lock had a need to know about last night.

“Fergus’s, of course.”

“Oh.” It seemed odd that Evan and his dad hadn’t spoken since then, but the senior Hollister had been overseas for most of January. Since MI5 operated only on UK soil, Evan assumed his father had been working at a British embassy. “The wedding was fine.” Inasmuch as it was not attacked by terrorists. “I met someone.” He felt a quiver inside at the mention of Ben, even without naming him.

“I know. That’s why I’m here.” Without setting down the coffee, his father pulled his briefcase into his lap, thumbed the codes on the latches, then opened the case. “Behnam Nouri Reid. Twenty-two years old, fourth-year geography student at University of Glasgow.”

Evan tightened his grip on his coffee mug. After encountering Ben last night as Gunnar, he was dying to be with him again as his real self. This vetting report would determine whether that could ever happen.

His father pulled out a thin blue file and flipped it open. “No foreign travel apart from family holidays to North America, the Continent, et cetera. Spent his gap year working for his mum’s wedding business.” His dad turned to the second page. “Giti Kirmani Reid is rather interesting. Her family fled Iran when she was ten years old, just after the Revolution. They’re of the Bahá’í Faith, see. The Ayatollahs are keen on persecuting Bahá’ís.”

“Good on her parents for getting out, then.”

“Yes.” His father continued. “They came to the UK, where she eventually attended University of Strathclyde and met a Scotsman, Archibald Reid, whom she later married. He’s a colonel in the army’s Intelligence Corps, currently stationed in Afghanistan. Colonel Reid’s location is classified, by the way, and it isn’t mentioned in this file, in case you decide to share this with Behnam one day.” He held the file toward Evan. “The lad’s clean. You can date him.”

Evan took a step back, mostly relieved but also a bit revolted. “I don’t want to read that. I feel like a stalker as it is, asking Five to vet him.”

“You did the right thing, following protocol. Now you can see him with a clear conscience and a complete lack of paranoia.” He set the file on the couch beside him. “If things get serious and he seems trustworthy, you can tell him where you work.”

At the thought of being so honest with anyone on the outside, Evan felt a giddiness bubble up within him. He quickly tamped it down. “No one told me you’d be doing the vetting.”

“I didn’t. I’m merely the messenger delivering the good news. Just keep in mind, the Service vetted Reid only for his threat potential, not his suitability for…” He waved his hand at the walls. “This life.”

Life with a professional liar, you mean. Evan looked down into the cardboard box. Trent stretched, her back end wobbling, then meowed up at him. He squatted to pet her, his right hip a bit stiff after yesterday’s football match and last night’s op. “I did miss being near animals.”

“You’re changing the subject,” his father said.

“From what, your prophecies of romantic doom? You going to tell me again to find a nice man in the Service?”

“Why not? There are loads of LGBT folk at MI5. It’s just won a Stonewall Award.”

“Aye, it’s a gay-friendly place to work,” Evan said. “That doesn’t mean I want to date a fellow spook. I want someone honest and uncomplicated.”

“So you can break his heart instead of him breaking yours? Like you did with Fergus?”

Evan’s fingers froze on Trent’s chin mid-scratch. His cheeks burned as if he’d been literally slapped instead of just figuratively.

“Apologies,” his dad said. “That was out of order. I only meant you should find someone who understands the sacrifices this job requires.”

“Or what? I’ll end up like you, married to the realm instead of a person who loves me?”

His father gave a soft gasp, and then the room fell silent, apart from Trent’s raspy purr.

“Yes. That’s exactly it.” His dad got to his feet. “Thank you for the coffee. I’ll show myself out.”

“Wait.” Evan stood and followed him to the foyer. “I’m sorry. You’re the only person I can be my real self with, and my real self is a bit of a shit.”

“You’re not a shit, you’re just astute.” His father was already smirking as he pulled on his coat. “And you very nicely proved my point.”

“Which is?”

“Don’t be like me.” His dad opened the front door and flicked a hand toward the living room. “Be careful with your new companion.”

“She’ll be all right, the vet said, once she—”

“Fuck’s sake, lad, I’m not talking about the cat.”

As always, Evan’s father walked away with the last word.

Dear Ben (may we call you Ben? Well, too late),

My fiancé—I still can’t get used to calling him that!—and I are members of the Rainbow Regiment, the fan club for the Woodstoun Warriors. We attended the AMAZING wedding you did for Fergus and John on Hogmanay and heard how you saved the day when they needed last-minute help.

So…guess what? Our wedding is Saturday 18 April and we need rescued. Michael thought I was sorting certain details and I thought Michael was sorting certain details and it turned out both of us were sorting the same details whilst other details got not sorted at all.

Could you help us turn this colossal mess into the best day of our lives, or at least not one of the worst? Please?

A hopeful future client,

Philip

Ben rolled his chair back from his desk, shoving one foot after another against the floor of his one-room student flat. He considered going for a run, but that plan had two flaws: 1) it was pishing down raining and 2) he hated exercise.

He would happily overcome both obstacles to avoid answering this email. He hated to disappoint potential clients, especially friends of John and Fergus.

But after last night’s conversation with Hannah, Ben had made some inquiries, and it turned out that people in the wedding industry were talking about his mother. Most of what Ben had learned today was hearsay, like so-and-so said they heard that a lass who worked at one of the florists—can’t remember which—had heard from someone at the dressmaker’s…

But the rumors were unanimous: Ben’s mum was refusing to handle same-sex weddings, as evidenced by the fact Ben was doing so on his own. His activities were shining a spotlight on her prejudice. If he stopped, maybe that spotlight would dim.

He continued to roll his chair, careful to stay atop his thick Turkish rug so the sound of the wheels wouldn’t disturb his neighbor in the flat below.

It was hard for other people to understand Mum’s position. Most days it was hard for him to understand it, even though she’d raised him in the same faith, a faith he’d committed to of his own volition as an adult. He was breaking the rules by endorsing same-sex marriage, but that was a risk he was willing to take. It wasn’t fair to drag his mum into it, not when the community meant so much to her.

Ben was already committed to a wedding at the end of the month, but he could stop taking on new clients, at least until…

Until when? Until the rules changed? Or until he couldn’t take it anymore?

Whichever came first.

He rolled back to the desk and began his reply:

Dear Philip,

Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials! I’m so, so happy for you, and flattered you thought of me.

Alas, the timing is less than ideal. I’m in my final year of uni, so in April I’ll be sprinting to finish my honors dissertation and prepare for exams. I promised myself not to commit to new weddings until I miraculously obtain my degree.

If in a month you find yourself in dire need, please don’t hesitate to approach me again. By then I’ll know the fate of my dissertation’s progress and whether I can take on a new event—perhaps as a wedding-day coordinator—or whether I must flee the country in mortal shame. :-)

He finished with a list of referrals to other wedding planners and reliable suppliers. Before he could reconsider, he whispered, “So sorry,” and hit send.

Needing a distraction from his guilt, he clicked the email folder which automatically collected news alerts pertaining to his honors dissertation on the tracking powers of geographical information systems. Most of the alerts looked irrelevant, but far down the list, a certain Guardian headline caught his eye:

Fancy a nice sit down? MI5 needs you.

Ben couldn’t resist clicking. As he skimmed the article about recruiting surveillance officers, his heart raced with excitement. Perhaps “Gunnar” wasn’t a cop at all but a spy for the UK’s domestic security/intelligence service, which meant last night’s undercover work wasn’t about busting a drugs ring but rather hunting terrorists.

The shadowy agency seemed to fit Evan’s aura of mystery, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Like most of the world, Ben knew little about MI5 apart from its fictional representation on the long-running Spooks TV program. Though the show made the job seem glamorous and exciting, it often portrayed MI5 agents as ruthless and amoral, paying little heed to citizens’ privacy or even human rights.

Ben clicked the link to the MI5 recruitment advert.

One by one, the ad’s details chipped away at his certainty. The agency wanted people who could blend in—average height, no distinguishing features—and who lived near London or could relocate there. Evan was tall and unforgettably handsome, and Glasgow was definitely not a commutable distance from London.

Ben closed the browser tab with an extra-hard keyboard tap, a bit frustrated but also rather relieved. As much as he supported MI5 officers’ mission in theory, it would be pure weird to date one, never knowing where he went or what he did—or how much he secretly knew about Ben.

He stared at his phone, wondering how Trent the cat was faring in his new home. Then he glanced above his desk at the Woodstoun Warriors wall calendar, a gift from his friend Robert, a member of the semi-famous all-LGBT football team and “Glasgay” icons. Evan was one of their best players, which made his absence from the calendar all the more conspicuous.

He checked Evan’s public-facing Facebook profile, which hadn’t changed in the month since Ben had sent him an unanswered friend request.

The last post was from home in Orkney on Christmas Day, a photo of Evan and seven schoolmates after winning the mass street melee known as the Kirkwall Ba. Evan’s cheek was bruised, his forehead was cut, and his hair was matted with mud, but he and his old friends beamed with breathless joy.

On impulse, Ben clicked Like. On a followup impulse, he quickly shut the browser tab, as though that would erase Evan from his thoughts and memory.

Just as he’d finished scanning the rest of the news alerts, his phone rang with a call from an unfamiliar number.

“Ben Reid,” he answered in the professional voice he had yet to master.

“Ben. Hi.” There was a slight pause. “Maybe you don’t remember me, but we met at Fergus and John’s wedding.”

Oh my God, it’s him. He’d know that divine lilt anywhere. “And you are?”

“Sorry. It’s Evan.” The caller cleared his throat. “Evan Hollister?”

Ben twirled his chair in a full circle as he tried to rein in his excitement. “I vaguely remember meeting an Evan Hollister,” he said in a playful tone. “I remember giving him my number, which went unused for nearly six weeks.”

“Aye, there were, erm…I had to sort some things. Anyway, I’d like to see you again. Maybe for dinner? Maybe Saturday?”

Ben grimaced at the calendar. “Friday might be better.”

“I’ve got a match Saturday, so I can’t go out on a Friday night. Not without avoiding all the things that make going out worthwhile.”

Ben’s mind glowed, imagining all those things. “Saturday is Valentine’s Day.” He spun his chair again. “That’s a lot of pressure for a first date.”

Evan gave a soft laugh that turned Ben inside out. “I think we can handle it.”