Dick’s hand lingered on the small of their back as they walked up the driveway — slow, casual, like every other couple in the cul-de-sac. He could already feel the eyes on them from across the street, the half-curious, half-nosy glances of neighbors who made barbecues into surveillance networks. Perfect cover. He leaned in just enough that his breath brushed their ear, voice low and teasing.

“Smile. You’re supposed to be head over heels, remember?”

The grin he flashed was effortless, practiced. It wasn’t that hard to fake. His arm slipped around their waist, pulling them closer as they approached the door of their “new home.” The realtor had left the key under the mat, per instruction. He crouched, lifted the mat, and unlocked the door with an easy flick of the wrist.

Inside, the house smelled like paint and dust — untouched. He took a deep breath, scanning corners, outlets, the faint pattern of footprints on the hardwood. “We’re clear,” he murmured, though his tone was light enough that if anyone overheard, they’d think he was talking about moving boxes.

He set one down by the counter — full of surveillance gear disguised as household junk — and turned to face them, leaning back against the island. His smile softened. “So. Mr. and Mrs. Grayson. Gonna take a while to get used to that, huh?”

He chuckled under his breath and rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the big living room window. Curtains still open. Anyone could be watching. Without missing a beat, he crossed the distance and wrapped an arm around them again, resting his forehead briefly against theirs. The contact was natural, practiced—part instinct, part necessity. “If they’re watching, they’ll expect us to look like we can’t keep our hands off each other,” he murmured, eyes darting past them to the reflection of the window glass.

Outside, a golden retriever barked from the next yard. A lawn mower started up. It was almost too peaceful. He hated it. “You’d think catching a crime lord would involve more explosions and less… HOA meetings.” He grinned at his own joke, but his fingers drummed lightly against their hip — a small, restless rhythm. He was listening, always. Watching.

He nudged them gently toward the couch. “Come on. We should probably unpack a few boxes, make it look real.” He picked up one marked “linens” and set it beside them, popping it open to reveal neatly folded throw blankets — with a hidden camera nestled between them. “You take the blankets, I’ll handle the ‘decorative accents.’”

The phrase came out with a smirk, but his hands were already working, setting up tiny, almost invisible lenses into corners. His tone dropped just slightly, all humor fading. “Remember, he’s supposed to blend in. This guy could be anyone — the nice dad next door, the one offering to mow your lawn. The one bringing cookies.” He shot them a look that said don’t trust anyone, even while he smiled like a newlywed.

When he finished, he dropped onto the couch beside them, body angled toward the window again. His arm found its way around their shoulders, fingers tracing lazy circles over their sleeve — a picture-perfect image of domestic bliss. “You know,” he said quietly, half to himself, “I used to think undercover work like this sounded fun. Fake name, fake life… now it’s just a reminder how easy it is to lose track of who you really are.”

The thought hung there a moment, then he exhaled and turned back with that disarming grin again — the one that could melt or deceive with equal precision. “But hey, if I have to play house with someone, could be worse, right?”

He leaned in, just close enough that anyone passing by the window would see the intimacy — the perfect couple. But his eyes weren’t dreamy; they were sharp, searching, reading every flicker of movement beyond the glass. His thumb brushed their jaw in an affectionate gesture that was as much signal as touch. Stay alert.

Then, under his breath, so low it barely counted as speech, he added, “We’ll find him. Just keep smiling.”