The streets of Barcelona buzzed with life as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden hues over the winding alleys. Villanelle sat on the edge of a fountain in Plaça Reial, her posture relaxed, but her sharp eyes scanned every passerby. A soft breeze tugged at her hair, and the scent of fresh paella lingered in the air. On the surface, she looked calm, even carefree, but beneath that polished exterior, a storm brewed.

The lyrics of Taylor Swift's "Don't You" played faintly in her mind, a melody that echoed the bitterness she was trying to ignore:
"Don't you smile at me and ask me how I've been. Don't you say you've missed me if you don't want me again."

She tightened her grip on the knife concealed beneath her jacket, her mind racing with thoughts of Eve Polastri.

The mission was simple—or at least that's what her handler, Hélène, had promised. Villanelle had been sent to eliminate a prominent arms dealer, someone who had gotten a little too comfortable with his position of power. But Villanelle rarely cared about the "why." She did what she was paid to do, and most of the time, she did it with flair.

Except tonight, the assignment didn't feel simple. Eve was here—of course she was—and her presence complicated everything.

Villanelle spotted her across the square, standing in the shadow of a streetlamp. Eve's silhouette was unmistakable: the sharp coat, the slightly uneven posture, the way she tilted her head as if she were always one step ahead. Villanelle's heart skipped, but she forced herself to stay seated, feigning indifference.

Eve approached slowly, her heels clicking against the cobblestones. "Villanelle."

Villanelle smirked, her fingers still wrapped around the blade. "Eve. You look... terrible."

Eve's lips twitched, almost smiling. "Thanks. I missed your charming honesty."

For a moment, they stood in silence, the square bustling around them. Villanelle finally stood, brushing invisible dust off her trousers. "What do you want, Eve? Here to stop me? Or just here to ruin my mood?"

Eve's expression hardened. "I need to know if you're still working with The Twelve."

Villanelle rolled her eyes, circling Eve like a predator. "Oh, is that what this is about? Work? You can't just admit you missed me?"

"I didn't come here to play games," Eve snapped, her voice sharper now.

Villanelle stopped, leaning in close enough that their faces were inches apart. "Then why are you here?"

Eve hesitated, her eyes flickering with something unspoken—guilt, maybe. "I needed to see you."

The words lingered in the air, cutting through Villanelle's defenses. For a split second, she let herself believe it—that Eve might still care, that she might want her for more than just her usefulness. But then she remembered the countless times Eve had pulled away, the coldness in her voice when she tried to pretend they were nothing.

Villanelle laughed bitterly, stepping back. "Don't lie to me, Eve. You're not here for me. You're here for answers."

"Maybe I'm here for both," Eve admitted, her voice softer now. "But you've made it impossible to trust you."

"Me?" Villanelle's voice rose, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tourists. "You're the one who's always running away. One minute you're chasing me, the next you're pushing me away."

Eve's jaw tightened. "And what do you expect, Villanelle? For me to forget what you've done?"

Villanelle's expression darkened. "You think I'm a monster. Fine. But don't pretend you're any better. You've killed too. You've lied. You've used me when it suited you."

Eve flinched, but she didn't deny it. "I never said I was innocent."

"Good," Villanelle said, her voice dripping with venom. "Because I don't need your pity. And I definitely don't need you standing here pretending you care."

Eve reached out as if to touch her arm, but Villanelle stepped back, her eyes blazing. "Don't."

"Villanelle—"

"I said, don't," Villanelle snapped, her voice trembling with anger. "You don't get to come back whenever it's convenient for you. Not anymore."

Later that night, Villanelle sat alone in a dimly lit apartment, the mission forgotten. The arms dealer could wait. All she could think about was Eve—her words, her expressions, the way she had looked at her as if she wanted to say more but couldn't.

Villanelle poured herself a glass of wine, her hand shaking slightly. She hated this—the way Eve could still get under her skin, still make her feel like the girl she used to be before all of this.

"I didn't have it in myself to go with grace."

The lyrics echoed in her mind, and Villanelle scoffed, downing the wine in one gulp. She wasn't built for grace. She was built for survival.

The next day, Villanelle found herself trailing Eve through the crowded streets of Barcelona. She told herself it wasn't out of longing—it was strategy. She needed to know why Eve was really here, what she wanted. But as she watched Eve browse a street market, laughing softly at something a vendor said, Villanelle's anger began to dissolve, replaced by something far more dangerous: hope.

She stepped closer, her presence unnoticed until she spoke. "Stalking isn't a good look for you, Eve."

Eve spun around, startled. "I wasn't—"

Villanelle smirked. "Relax. I'm the stalker this time."

Eve crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. "What do you want?"

Villanelle's smile faltered. "I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to see you."

For the first time in what felt like years, they talked—not about missions or The Twelve, but about their fears, their regrets, the things they had lost along the way. It was raw and messy, but it was real.

As the sun set, Villanelle looked at Eve, her voice barely above a whisper. "Do you think we'll ever stop hurting each other?"

Eve hesitated, then shook her head. "I don't know. But maybe we can try."

The lyrics of "Don't You" lingered in Villanelle's mind as they sat together, the city buzzing around them:
"You don't know how much I feel I love you still."

Because for all the anger, the pain, and the betrayal, there was still a part of her that couldn't let go. And maybe, just maybe, she didn't want to.