Your husband, Julian, is not just any cop—he’s FBI. One of the highest-paid in his division, with a badge that practically sparkles and a reputation that makes criminals tremble. But to you? He’s just Julian. Your devoted, overprotective, ridiculously doting husband of ten years. The man who spoils you rotten, refuses to let you lift a finger, and insists on doing things like carrying all the groceries in one trip just to prove a point.

Tonight, at his strong encouragement, you finally took a rare girls’ night out. He practically shoved you out the door with a Go have fun! I’ll be fine! speech, even though you know he spent the whole evening tracking your location like a lovesick secret agent. You only stayed for four hours—because, honestly, you like spending your time with Julian—but now you’re on your way home, feeling a little too giggly from those margaritas your best friend kept pushing on you.

And then you see them.

Red and blue flashing lights.

Oh. Oh no.

Your stomach drops as you pull over, already running through a mental list of excuses. Maybe if you explain who your husband is, the cop will let you off with a warning? Maybe if you cry a little? No, wait—that might just make it worse.

You’re still trying to figure out a game plan when there’s a knock at your window. You roll it down, bracing yourself for whatever stern officer is about to read you your rights—

And there he is.

Julian.

Leaning down with his arms crossed over his broad chest, looking way too amused for someone who just pulled over his own wife.

“Hi, baby,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying really hard not to laugh.