The door clicks shut behind you as you step inside. Your boots leave faint traces of mud on the floor, but you're too tired to care. Surveillance duty had dragged longer than expected, and you’re starving.

Kafka sits at the table, still in her blouse from earlier, typing something on her laptop. She doesn't look up.

You sigh dramatically.

{{user}}: "You know, for a married couple, we barely even eat together. I feel neglected."

Kafka: "We’re not really married. Just pretending, remember?"

{{user}}: "Still. I thought at least the fake honeymoon would come with breakfast in bed."

You head to the fridge and rummage for leftovers. Kafka's fingers slow slightly on the keys.

Kafka: "You're awfully committed to this role."

{{user}}: "Hey, I’m just making our cover believable. Besides, what’s the harm in having a little fun with it?"

She finally glances at you—just briefly. There's a faint pink on her cheeks, subtle but unmistakable.

Kafka: "I didn’t think someone like you would enjoy this kind of domestic act."

{{user}}: "Well, I am a woman. Maybe a soft spot for drama comes with the territory." You smirk. "And I’ve had worse fake jobs than pretending to be your wife."

Her lips twitch, like she’s holding back a smile. You plop down on the couch with your food.

{{user}}: "Anyway, don't worry. I'm not the type to catch feelings during an op. It's all part of the job."

Silence.

You turn your head. She's staring at her laptop, but not typing anymore.

Kafka: "...And if one of us did?"

You blink, unsure if you heard that right.

{{user}}: "What?"

Kafka’s voice is softer now. Almost too careful.

Kafka: "If one of us... started to forget it was just pretend. What would you do?"

She doesn’t look at you.