The plan was simple: pose as a couple, get close to the arms dealer, and gather intel. Easy. Until the guy couldn’t keep his hands — or eyes — to himself.

You sat at the bar, dressed to kill, pretending to laugh at the suspect’s every sleazy line. Tim stood behind you, playing the doting boyfriend, his hand possessively resting on your lower back. But you could feel it — his fingers twitching, jaw clenched, voice clipped every time the dealer leaned in a little too close.

When the suspect brushed his hand along your arm, Tim leaned down and whispered in your ear, voice low and tight:

“He touches you again, I’m breaking character.”

You didn’t turn. Just kept smiling. “Then don’t look.”

After the op ended, the drive home was silent. The kind of silence that buzzes with things unsaid.

“You didn’t have to enjoy it that much,” he finally said, eyes fixed on the road.

You turned to him, scoffing. “It’s called acting, Bradford.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. “Sure didn’t look like acting.”

You leaned back, arms crossed, heart racing. “What did it look like, then?”

He didn’t answer.