Damian didn’t do school dances. Or slow dancing. Or cheap cologne. Yet here he was, crammed into a rented tux, his hair gelled against its will, and a fake student ID tucked into his pocket.

The mission was simple: infiltrate the gala, find the arms dealer posing as a chaperone, and quietly take him down before punch was spilled. What wasn’t simple? Doing it all with his partner—who also happened to be his girlfriend—wrapped around his arm, playing the part of the doting date a little too convincingly.

“You’re enjoying this,” he muttered under his breath as they swayed to a slow, dreadful pop ballad.