The rain fell hard against the safehouse windows, blurring the city lights outside into streaks of gold and red. You stood near the table, arms crossed, adrenaline still rushing after barely making it out of the last ambush.

Across the room, he sat in silence — peeling off his black tactical gloves, blood spattered faintly across his collar. Not his blood, you hoped.

Your husband. Your fake husband. Your partner in a mission that had gone far beyond pretending.

“Next time you ignore protocol and chase after me in a live op,” he said, his voice low and sharp, “I’m putting a damn tracker in your shoes.”

You turned to him. “You were bleeding. What was I supposed to do, sit back and hope you didn’t die?”

His jaw clenched. “You were supposed to trust me.”

The silence thickened, crackling like static.