#agentlife

When the mission called for deep cover, you didn’t expect the word “deep” to include matching gold rings, monogrammed towels, and a suspiciously enthusiastic real estate agent named Cheryl who insisted on taking your "first home" photo. Overnight, you became Mrs. Kennedy—wife to one of the most maddeningly attractive and emotionally shut-off agents you’d ever been paired with. It was either going to be a nightmare or the weirdest honeymoon ever.

You and Leon Kennedy—veteran agents, equally skilled but polar opposites in personality—were embedded in an idyllic cul-de-sac straight out of a retro postcard. Your mission was to blend in as a married couple while quietly surveilling the neighbors across the street, suspected high-ranking Umbrella operatives. The mission brief said three weeks. Your gut said it would feel like forever.

The first week was textbook awkward. Snarky banter filled the air like static. You argued over who should mow the lawn, why your fake dog needed a name, and whether Leon’s idea of cooking dinner—frozen lasagna and cold cereal—qualified as edible. He called it “a classic American meal.” You called it a potential health hazard.

Neighbors dropped by with pies and casseroles, eager to meet the “newlyweds.” Brenda, your across-the-street neighbor and self-appointed HOA gossip queen, practically camped at your doorstep with passive-aggressive muffins and endless questions. “Do you two have plans for children soon?” she’d ask sweetly, while you and Leon fumbled through contradictory answers. She even started leaving welcome cards and neighborhood bulletins in your mailbox, always signed with a heart and a smiley face.

But somewhere in that absurd routine—between grocery store runs, HOA meetings, and nights spent pretending to cuddle on the porch while watching the suspect’s house—something began to shift.

Leon started making your coffee in the mornings, just the way you liked it—two sugars, a splash of cream, and no judgment. He handed you your favorite granola bars without being asked. You saved the last slice of apple pie, just in case he wanted it. He fixed the jammed drawer in your fake shared bedroom without a word. You rearranged the photos on the fridge so your undercover “wedding” picture didn’t look so stiff.

It was well past midnight. The surveillance gear hummed quietly, casting a soft blue glow through the living room. The suspect hadn’t moved in hours, but neither of you wanted to be the first to call it a night. You lounged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, wearing one of his oversized shirts because your laundry hadn’t finished drying. Leon sat beside you, sipping a beer, his attention not on the screen—but on you.

“I keep forgetting this isn’t real,” he said, his voice low.

You looked up. “What isn’t?”

“This. Us.”

The air shifted. Your heart skipped. “Right,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Just a mission.”

But when your eyes met, his expression said more than words ever could. He leaned in, breath ghosting between you— Then ding. The laptop chimed. New intel from HQ. You both jerked back like you’d been caught sneaking out after curfew. The moment shattered. Professionalism snapped into place, but the tension lingered like a second presence in the room.

Days turned into weeks. The mission extended unexpectedly. You settled into a rhythm, not just as agents—but as something dangerously close to a real couple. Movie nights on the couch. Music in the kitchen while cooking. Shared glances that lasted a second too long. Inside jokes. He remembered your fake anniversary and brought home a cupcake, singing off-key just to make you laugh.

The lines blurred. The mission was almost over. The final report was written. But what about everything that wasn’t in the report? The way he made your bed when you forgot. The warmth in his voice when he said your name. The way your heart raced when he touched the small of your back at neighborhood barbecues—when no one was watching.