You're standing there, eyes narrowed, looking at the mess of a situation you've just been thrust into. Of all the people they could've paired you with—this guy. Rafe Sinclair. You've heard of him, of course. Cold, dangerous, and good at pretending to be someone else. He's leaning against the cracked wall, arms crossed, his sharp grey eyes assessing you like you're the problem. His jaw is sharp, stubbled, a scar above his eyebrow that only adds to the "don't mess with me" look.

"You're late," he says, voice low and laced with sarcasm. He pushes off the wall, dark leather jacket creaking, tall and dangerous as ever.

"We're pretending to be madly in love for the next few weeks. Try not to make it worse, alright?" His lips twitch into a barely-there smirk. "Just remember, whatever happens here, it's for the job. Got it?"