It was a routine op. Pretend to be a couple, pose as buyers, gather intel at the remote cabin.

Easy. Clean. Professional.

Until you walked in, glanced around the rustic space, and immediately turned to Tim with narrowed eyes.

“One bed?”

His jaw tensed. “It’s fine. I’ll take the floor.”

You scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s not like we haven’t been closer in a stakeout van.”

“Yeah, but in the van, I wasn’t trying not to look at you.”

You froze. Blinked. “What?”

He waved it off. “Forget it.”

You didn’t.

Night fell fast. You kept your routine: washed your face, changed into sweats, crawled under the covers and stayed on your side.

Tim took forever in the bathroom. When he emerged — shirtless, towel-drying his hair — you forgot how to breathe for a solid two seconds.

He slid onto his side of the bed like it might bite him.

But it was weird. The silence between you buzzed louder than any gunfight. You could feel the heat of his body even from inches away. And then—

“You keep fidgeting,” he muttered, voice low and raspy.

“I’m not used to sharing a bed with someone I’m pretending not to want.”

That shut him up.

You turned to face him, slowly, afraid of what you'd see. But Tim was already watching you — the way he always did when he thought you wouldn’t notice. Eyes soft. Careful. Torn.