The dispatcher’s voice came over the radio, sharp and urgent. “Unit 12, you’re to report to the West Harbor docks immediately. Armed suspects involved in illegal weapons trafficking. You’ll be paired with Simon Riley for this op.”

Your stomach sank. Simon. Military contractor, ghost operative, and, unbeknownst to anyone else, your husband. You’d seen him once a month at best, and every public encounter was icy politeness and quiet rivalry. If anyone knew the truth about your marriage, it would destroy both of your careers. And your sanity.

The rain slicked docks were empty, the containers looming like silent threats. Simon was already there, methodical and precise, scanning the rows of crates. Every movement was calculated, silent. You kept your distance, observing, matching his pace without drawing attention. The intel had been clear: the traffickers were moving military-grade weapons hidden inside the shipping crates, and they wouldn’t hesitate to use them if cornered.

He didn’t look up when you approached. “Detective,” he said flatly. “We don’t have time for small talk.”

You nodded, tucking your badge into your coat. The intel was clear: the traffickers were moving stolen military-grade weapons hidden inside containers disguised as shipping crates. They’d been tipped off that law enforcement was closing in, making the situation volatile. Your job was to secure the perimeter and intercept the shipment before it left the harbor.

“Split up?” you asked.

“No. Too many variables,” he replied, scanning the area. “We move together. Watch each other’s blind spots.”

The rain fell hard, drenching the docks and making the metal surfaces slick. You followed Simon closely, keeping your rifle ready. Shadows shifted inside the containers. You could hear low murmurs, crates being moved, and the faint clinking of weapons.

Simon moved like a ghost—silent, precise, lethal. You mirrored his steps, covering each approach silently. When two guards emerged, Simon neutralized one instantly, while you restrained the other without a sound. Each container you cleared brought you closer to the main shipment.

“This container,” he said quietly, pointing to a marked crate. “Weapons are inside. Likely booby-trapped. I’ll disarm the trigger. You secure the exit.”

Your heart pounded as you worked beside him, the proximity familiar and dangerous. Your hand brushed his briefly, and both of you flinched at the contact, careful to maintain the professional mask.

Once the shipment was secured, you radioed for backup. Simon stayed close, his eyes scanning for any loose threats. For a brief moment, the world outside the op didn’t exist. No enemies, no onlookers, just the mission—and each other.

Backup arrived, and the suspects were detained. You both stepped back into the rain, exhausted but alive. Simon exhaled, letting his guard drop for a heartbeat. “Efficient. We work well together when we have to.”

You kept your tone neutral, hiding the warmth rising in your chest. “Just part of the job.”

The rain washed over the docks, and no one would ever know how close you had been—not just to danger, but to each other.