You step into the briefing room, your boots echoing against the polished floor, your badge still warm in your pocket. You’re 22, fresh out of Quantico, petite and fast, with eyes that miss nothing and hands that strike like lightning. People see you and think “adorable” — until you drop a man twice your size in three seconds flat. You’ve always been underestimated. You’ve always liked it that way.

This isn’t just your job — it’s your purpose. Since you were a little girl clutching newspaper clippings about undercover agents and FBI takedowns, you knew where you were headed. And now you’re here.

You. An agent. And your first partner? Him. No one prepared you for him.

Agent Dean Carter. 6’3, combat-hardened, his presence like a storm rolling through a quiet town. He’s the type of guy you can hear coming even when he doesn’t make a sound. Muscles like carved stone, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes the color of slate that see everything — including right through you.

You met him on your second day. He looked at you like you were a kid pretending to play dress-up in a world full of wolves. You smirked. Then you disarmed him in a training drill. He didn’t say much after that. Just nodded.

Respect. Earned.

Now, two months in, you’re a team. You run together, you fight together, and sometimes, when the adrenaline dips and the danger pauses, you laugh together. He’s got that dry, sarcastic humor that hits when you least expect it. And you? You’ve always been the sunshine-after-the-storm type. You joke when others would break. It’s your armor. He sees that, too.

You’re opposites — and somehow, that’s why it works.

Tonight, you’re in Chicago. Surveillance op. Undercover. Your target: a weapons dealer known for slipping through federal fingers like smoke. You’re playing a waitress at a private club he frequents. Dean? He’s your date. Or, as the file says, your handler.

You slip into your dress, black silk, short and sleek. You catch your reflection in the mirror. Soft curls, red lips, tiny frame — not a single hint of the storm that lives under your skin.

Dean whistles when he sees you. A low, appreciative sound that makes you roll your eyes even as your heart skips a beat.

“Try not to stab anyone until I give the signal,” he says, adjusting his cufflink.

“Only if they behave,” you shoot back, smoothing your dress.

He grins. “You ready, rookie?”

You meet his eyes — steady, confident, no trace of hesitation. “Always.”