Welcome to the Aftermath

There was no escaping it now. By the time Monday rolled around, the HQ announcement board had a digital banner that read: CONGRATS TO THE NEWLYWEDS! 🎉 right above a reminder about proper biohazard disposal. No one questioned it anymore. It had become part of the landscape—right next to the “All-Clear” drill notifications and mission success tallies.

The breakroom TV kept glitching into a slideshow of wedding-themed stock photos with your and Carlos’s faces lazily Photoshopped onto them. You tried to shut it off. Twice. It rebooted itself both times. Someone—likely Jill—had also programmed it to play “Can’t Help Falling in Love” every time the coffee machine was used, meaning an emotional Elvis serenade every fifteen minutes.

You could handle the Elvis soundtrack. You could even tolerate Leon’s theatrical interpretation of slow dancing with an invisible bouquet every time you entered the room. But when Rebecca compiled a “training retreat” proposal that suspiciously resembled a honeymoon itinerary—complete with “couple trust-building exercises” and a scenic lake cabin? That’s when it got real.

You could ignore the monogrammed towel set. You could tolerate HR’s weekly “Marital Wellness” check-ins—even when they made you and Carlos fill out compatibility quizzes that sounded suspiciously like dating app surveys. But the part that was really getting out of hand?

You were starting to like it. All of it. Carlos was… good at being fake married. Too good.

He saved the last dumpling for you without asking. He carried your gear even when you didn’t need help. He casually touched the small of your back like it was second nature. He called you “wife” with that relaxed drawl that made it sound less like a joke and more like a fact. And worst of all? He smiled like he meant it when he called you mi esposa.

What had started as a laugh was turning into… something else. The line between fake and real was blurring faster than you could process. Somewhere between the shared meals, the inside jokes, and the casual touches, your heart stopped remembering where the act ended and the truth began.

The Turning Point

It happened after a particularly rough mission. Long hours. A close call. You were scraped up, exhausted, and coming down from the adrenaline high with a crash. Blood on your sleeve, dirt under your nails, and a dull ringing in your ears from the last explosion.

Carlos sat next to you on the infirmary cot. Wordlessly, he reached for your hand and held it. Not for the bit. Not for the team. Just for you. His hand was warm and solid. Familiar. Steady.

“You scared me today,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the floor.

Your throat tightened. “Wasn’t planning on dying, if that helps.”

“Still,” he said again, softer this time. “I don’t think I could handle losing you. Even as a fake wife.”

You turned toward him slowly. There was something in his eyes—something raw and real. The fake wedding ring on your finger felt heavier than it should’ve, like it suddenly meant more than plastic and poor decisions.

“Carlos… do you ever wish it wasn’t a joke?”

He went still. The kind of still that usually meant danger. Except this time, the only thing in danger was your heart. Instead of deflecting, instead of making it weird, he simply lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

“All the time.”

Your pulse skipped a beat. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to. You just looked at him—and he looked right back, like the rest of the world had gone quiet.

Operation: Team Chaos

The team was spiraling. Spectacularly. Jill had set up a Pinterest board labeled “Reception Vibes.” It had categories. Subfolders. Color palettes. She was serious.

Leon was aggressively researching “Best Man speeches for emotionally stunted sharpshooters,” and had started leaving half-written cue cards in random places. One ended with: “...and if anyone objects to this union, speak now or shut up forever, because Carlos will shoot you.”

Chris looked five minutes away from a full bureaucratic collapse. His desk was buried in a mountain of paperwork he’d printed out to “fix this mess.” Every time someone asked what he was doing, he just muttered about protocol breaches and chain-of-command violations while shaking an HR handbook like it was gospel.

Rebecca? Oh, she’d escalated. She drafted an HR-approved marital health form titled “Love on the Front Lines: A Wellness Journey” and began scheduling sessions like a wedding planner on a mission. Her latest suggestion was a “Communication & Conflict Resolution” workshop. Mandatory.

There was talk—actual, serious talk—of a surprise wedding reception at the base cafeteria. Jill had a playlist. Leon was practicing a toast. Someone even requested cake options from the mess hall staff. You didn’t know whether to scream, laugh, or cry.

And amid the chaos, you caught yourself smiling. Because this wasn’t just about the prank anymore. Somewhere in the whirlwind of well-meaning lunacy, the team had started rooting for you. For real.

Carlos caught you on your way to the shooting range, eyebrows raised.

“So, uh… do we fake-renew our vows or actually do it this time?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Let’s survive one more mission first.”

He nodded. “Deal. But next fruit basket? I’m picking the contents. No more weird kiwi jam.”

“Agreed. And I get veto power on towel embroidery fonts.”