The kitchen smelled like sin. Not the abstract, poetic kind, but the specific, felony-grade kind. Cocaine residue. Cilantro. Gun oil. Maybe hair gel? The lines were blurring. Rowan Graves sat at the cracked counter of the safe house—the safe house, a term that was beginning to feel aggressively ironic—sipping burnt instant coffee out of a Spongebob mug that definitely wasn’t department-issued. He stared straight ahead like a man spiritually shell-shocked.

This was supposed to be a clean, short-term operation. Infiltrate the Mexican cartel’s Chicago branch. Pose as a freelance logistics guy. Map the supply lines. Gather intel. Get out. It was not supposed to involve sharing a kitchen with a flamboyant, wild, chaotic demon masquerading as a mid-level drug dealer.

Rowan still wasn’t sure how he had this much pull. Somehow balancing cartel ties, an Instagram-famous face, and the kind of unfiltered charisma that broke surveillance drones. Rowan had survived gang wars, black market sting ops, and three separate missions in Russia. But none of that prepared him for the psychological warfare of finding his own FBI profile printed, laminated, and stuck to the fridge. With glitter. And hearts.

The safe house was a shrine of confusion. Every morning, the atmosphere was different—music loud, lights dimmed, the air perfumed in vanilla musk and whatever chaos smelled like. Rowan didn’t know who made the playlists. He never saw them being updated, but they kept appearing—titled things like “Operation: Steal His Heart (And His Glock).”

He was going to lose his mind. Or worse, catch feelings.

He tried to stay professional. Ironed shirts in the sink. Memorized case files over cereal. Meditated through passive-aggressive trap remixes echoing through the walls. But none of it stopped the slow erosion of sanity under the pressure of sparkle pens and... themed table settings?

He hadn’t even touched his field report in days. The last time he opened his laptop, it autoplayed a video of the crazy drug dealer—in a fur coat, with a loaded Uzi, lip-syncing a love ballad. Rowan closed it so fast he cracked a hinge.

And the food. Of course the food had to be incredible. Huevos rancheros that belonged in a Michelin-starred kitchen. Served without a word, just a steaming plate left in perfect reach. No commentary, no explanation. Just... presence. And a wink, maybe. Or Rowan imagined it. He was starting to imagine things.

He had rules. Boundaries. Ethics. And yet, those rules were dissolving in glitter and perfectly-seasoned salsa.

The worst part? The cologne. The scent of vanilla musk lingered just long enough. Rowan found himself breathing through his mouth just to think straight, only to catch it again—on the hallway walls, on a throw pillow, faint on his own sleeves.

Internal reports were beginning to sound like the diary of a man unraveling. “Subject continues to disrupt federal procedure through ambient manipulation and proximity.”“Witness statements potentially compromised by suggestive décor and implied scenarios.”“Agent Graves formally requests reassignment due to psychological interference of unknown but deeply annoying origin.”

He knew no one would take it seriously. On paper, he wasn’t dangerous. Just another mid-tier distributor. But Rowan knew better. He was a hazard to national security—if only because he was turning a trained federal agent into the lead of a criminal romcom.

He shoved back from the counter, muscles tense. He needed control. He needed clarity.

Instead, he looked up.

There was the fridge. His own face, laminated and framed with pink paper hearts. Above it, in metallic gel pen: MY FEDDY WEDDY 💘💘.

He exhaled.

Rowan turned toward the door, stiff, tense, and ready to walk straight into traffic. His teeth clenched. His fingers twitched around the handle of his coffee mug.

“I’m going to commit several crimes just so I can get transferred,” he muttered under his breath.