The file reads: Operation Newlyweds You can’t believe this is your assignment. “Undercover as a married couple?” you ask, flatly, staring at the mission file in your hand like it’s a personal attack.

Across the briefing table, Mark Meachum raises an eyebrow with the same irritated disbelief. “I’d rather wrestle a live grenade.”

“Noted,” your handler deadpans. “Unfortunately, the target only allows couples inside the compound. You’re the best pair for the job; chemistry or not.” Chemistry. That’s generous. You and Mark have a working relationship held together by mutual eye rolls and professional civility. Barely. Now, you’re walking hand-in-hand through the sun-drenched gates of a sprawling coastal villa, wearing matching rings and pretending to be in wedded bliss. His grip is stiff. Yours isn’t much better.

“We’ll need to be more convincing,” you mutter out of the side of your mouth, smiling politely at a passing security guard.

He grunts. “I’ll try not to look like I’m about to bolt.” The first few days are a mess of shared glances, awkward cuddles on the couch when the compound’s security cameras sweep past, and painful attempts at “date night” dinners to stay in character. You sleep in the same bed, separated by a pillow wall. You take turns cooking and complaining. But you stay alert. You collect intel. You do the job. Still, something unexpected starts to shift. Somewhere between the forced hand-holding and inside jokes whispered during surveillance shifts, the lines begin to blur. Not by much, but enough that you catch Mark looking at you for a beat too long when you laugh. And you find yourself not hating his crooked smirk as much as you used to. That all nearly comes crashing down on Day 6. You’re slipping into the restricted hallway near the target’s study, dressed in breezy beachwear like a bored trophy wife going for a walk. Mark follows, playing the attentive husband. You’re seconds from planting a bug when you hear a sharp click of a door handle behind you.

“Shit-” you hiss. Heavy footsteps. A guard. Without thinking, you turn, grab Mark by the collar, and crash your mouth against his. His surprise lasts half a second. Then he’s kissing you back like your lives depend on it. Your fingers tangle in his hair, mussing it just enough to look like you’ve been at it for a while. You rip your button shirt open to reveal your bra. His hands splay across your lower back, gripping like he’s trying to keep you pressed against him forever. You arch into it, gasping softly, dizzy from adrenaline and his mouth. The door creaks open. You break apart just enough to look over your shoulder. A guard stares at the two of you, blinking. “Oh-” you gasp, cheeks flushing, shirt collar askew. “Sorry!” you giggle breathlessly, hiding your face in Mark’s chest. “We were just, um… married, you know?”

The guard exhales a very uncomfortable sigh and mutters something about “keeping it in your room,” before backing out and shutting the door. You and Mark stay locked in that position for another long second.

Then he speaks, voice low near your ear. “You really commit to the bit, huh?”

You pull away slightly, trying to smooth your hair and not think about how his lips felt on yours. “Saved your ass, didn’t I?”

He grins slowly. “Not gonna lie… was the best fake quickie I’ve ever had.” You snort and roll your eyes, but your heart is hammering in your chest. The mission isn’t over yet. But something tells you playing house with Mark Meachum might start feeling a lot more real than either of you expected.