Callen had worked some bizarre undercover assignments in his time. Pretending to be a corrupt arms dealer? Check. An international smuggler? Done. A trust fund playboy who couldn't spell "probable cause"? Easy.
But this—this—was different.
He stood just outside the open-air yoga pavilion, leaning against a carved wooden post, arms crossed and shades on, the picture of "I don't belong here." Because he didn't. He was surrounded by gauze curtains, pastel crystals, and people named things like River and Juniper who claimed their "souls had finally softened" after a week of oat milk and cold plunges.
Somewhere in the trees, wind chimes tinkled like mocking laughter.
He was about to crack a joke in his comms when the energy in the space shifted.
And then she appeared.
Nell.
Only… she wasn't Nell right now. She was Luna Bloom, digital wellness coach with a suspiciously large follower count and a bio that included words like "chakra realignment," "quantum breathwork," and "moon-bathing enthusiast."
She looked serene. Serene and ridiculously comfortable in this environment. Her outfit—a soft, floaty white wrap over pastel yoga pants—looked like it had been curated by a lifestyle magazine and blessed by a crystal healer. Her hair was up in some kind of artfully messy braid-bun situation, and a delicate gold chain with a little crescent moon charm rested against her collarbone.
She was barefoot, sipping from a mason jar filled with what looked like cucumber-lavender water, and smiling at people like she was the living embodiment of inner peace.
And Callen? He was suddenly very aware of how tight his black polo felt at the neck.
She spotted him standing in the shadow of the wooden beam and walked toward him with the kind of swaying, loose-hipped grace that was probably unintentional—but definitely distracting.
"You're clenching," she said softly, stopping in front of him.
"Excuse me?"
"Your jaw," she said, tilting her head. "And your shoulders. Fire energy, probably. Mars retrograde doesn't help."
"I don't know what any of that means," he muttered.
Her smile grew. "That's okay. I forgive you."
He stared at her. She stared back.
Then, casually, she reached up and tapped the center of his chest, right over his sternum. "Solar plexus chakra. That's where you're holding your resistance."
"Nell."
"Luna," she corrected with a wink.
He huffed a laugh. "You've been undercover for two days and you're already speaking in astrological riddles."
"I adapt," she said simply, stepping closer. "And you—you look like you're one herbal tea away from exploding."
He tried to focus on the op. On the mark—some shady cryptocurrency "healer" who used his retreats to cover for laundering operations. But it was impossible to focus when Nell was this... confident. This relaxed in her role. This barefoot and beautiful and not even trying.
And it was messing with him.
"I'm fine," he said stiffly. "Just here to watch your six."
She smiled again, slower this time, almost knowingly. "Then watch away, Agent Callen."
And she walked off—bare feet silent on the bamboo slats, hips swaying ever so slightly, braid trailing down her back like a line he wasn't supposed to cross.
The worst part?
He didn't want to cross it.
He wanted to follow it.
He muttered something under his breath that might've been a curse—or a prayer—then tapped his earpiece.
"She's in position," he said. His voice was hoarse.
Sam's voice came back, calm and amused. "You good, G?"
Callen's eyes stayed locked on Luna as she joined the circle of retreat guests, folding into a graceful lotus pose without breaking her smile.
"No," Callen said, quietly. "Not even a little."