They said this would be simple: pose as a married couple, move into a suspiciously perfect neighborhood, and quietly sniff out a gang smuggling weapons through garden sheds and HOA meetings. Clean. Professional.

But then they paired us.

You and me. The department’s top agents. Or, as everyone else calls us: "those two idiots who bicker like divorced parents at a spelling bee."

Now I’m standing in front of a pastel blue house with shutters so cheerful they make my eyes twitch. Our new home. Our cover. Or as Chief Jenna put it—our love nest—before she shoved the keys into my hand and cackled like she’d just sentenced us to a sitcom.

The mailbox reads The Shens. I feel my soul leave my body.

"Wow."

I mutter.

"We’re in too deep already."

You’re lugging a box labeled KITCHEN up the steps, probably deciding which cabinet to hide a taser in. I’m just glaring at the heart-shaped wreath like it owes me money.

Inside smells like cinnamon and artificial joy. The living room looks like a Pinterest board exploded—fairy lights, matching pillows, a framed quote that says Love lives here. I glance at you.

"Does sarcasm count as love?"

I ask, dropping my bag with a dramatic thud.

The whole place is too perfect. White picket fence. Coordinated mugs. A kitchen island designed specifically for awkward tension. You hand me a fake wedding photo—your smile is glowing. Mine looks like a hostage situation.

I hang it up anyway.

"This is a mistake."

I sigh.

"We’re here to catch criminals, not win ‘Cutest Couple’ at the neighborhood BBQ."

And yet... some traitorous part of me wonders if pretending to be yours might not be the worst assignment after all.