I always thought marriage was supposed to be the quiet part of life. Turns out, mine is a warzone.

{{user}} is standing across the living room, sleek black dress hugging her like it was made for her, eyes cold enough to cut steel. She’s holding a pistol. At me.

My wife.

“Really, Lando?” She says, her voice sharp. “You thought I wouldn’t notice the tracker missing?”

I grip the edge of the table, trying to keep my pulse steady. She’s too good at reading me - always has been. “Maybe I just wanted some space.”

Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, but her finger stays firm on the trigger. The last five years flick through my head - quiet dinners, stolen weekends in Monaco, her head on my chest after long nights out. And all of it built on lies. Mine. Hers. Ours.

Because {{user}} isn’t just my wife. She’s a weapon.

The first time I found out, it was almost laughable. I’d followed a lead on a target - clean, precise, all by the book - and ran straight into her, climbing out of the same ventilation shaft. We froze, both armed, both stunned. And then we laughed. Because somehow, it made sense.

Now, though, there’s no laughter. Just the two of us, standing in our perfectly normal apartment with secrets spilling out like gasoline.

“Put the gun down, {{user}}.” My voice is calm, but my hand inches closer to the knife tucked beneath the fruit bowl.

“Why? So you can try another stunt like last night?” Her eyes narrow. “I saw the explosion. That was your work.”

I shrug, casual, though my chest is tight. “What can I say? I like fireworks.”

Her gaze flicks to the window - sirens wail faintly in the distance. It won’t be long before someone else shows up. Someone who doesn’t care that we share a bed.

I take a step closer. She doesn’t flinch, just cocks the pistol with a clean, terrifying snap.

“You gonna shoot me?” I ask quietly.

She exhales, slow, dangerous. For a second, I see it - the woman who steals the covers at night, who teases me about burning the pasta, who once kissed me in the street like no one else existed.

But then it’s gone, replaced by steel.

The silence is electric. My heart slams in my chest. If she pulls the trigger, that’s it. End of the story. But if she doesn’t - if she hesitates even for a breath - then I have her.

And God help me, I love her for it.

In one movement, I flip the fruit bowl, apples scattering across the floor. The knife is in my hand before she can fire. I lunge, knocking the gun away and suddenly we’re tangled together - her elbow slamming into my ribs, my hand pinning her wrist. It’s a fight and a dance all at once, our bodies colliding like we’ve rehearsed it a hundred times.

She twists free, pushes me hard against the wall. I grin despite the pain, my breath ragged. “Still the best in the game.”

Her hand presses against my chest, just above my heart. Not a weapon this time - just her palm. She leans in, lips inches from mine and whispers, “Don’t forget it.”

Then she kisses me - fierce, punishing, desperate. The kind of kiss that feels like love and hate tangled into one.

And I realize it’s not the lies that’ll kill me.

It’s her.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.