You were chosen because you were safe.

That was what Joe said, half-smile in place, voice easy, as if he were asking you to join him for a drink, not to become part of his cover. Someone ordinary. Someone no one would watch twice. Dinners, public walks, laughter at the right volume. Proof of normalcy.

It was supposed to be a role.

At first, you treat it like one. You sit a little closer than necessary. You let his arm rest around your shoulders. You memorize the details of his life so you won’t trip over them in conversation. He plays his part flawlessly, attentive, charming, careful.

Then it becomes habit.

You start knowing when he’ll show up without checking the clock. He learns how you take your tea without asking. There are moments, quiet ones, where neither of you is performing, and neither of you calls attention to it.

Attachment creeps in softly. Uninvited.

The looks last longer. The touches feel less practiced. You begin to wonder when the line blurred, and if either of you noticed when it happened.

When suspicion tightens around him, the room feels smaller. Conversations cut short. Doors close more often. Joe still reaches for you in public, but now there’s tension in his grip, something protective.

That’s when you understand. You were meant to make him look innocent. Instead, you’ve become the one thing that could ruin him.

And the most dangerous part is, he knows it too and he still doesn’t let go.