Undercover work – all glitz and glam on the surface, but underneath, it was a whole mess of bullets, backstabbing, and the occasional cracked rib (thanks, Kwon). Tonight's intel op had been a bust, leaving you with nothing but a throbbing headache, having to sleep in the same hotel room mocked you even further. Fake husband, real pain in the ass. Undercover couple? More like cohabitating disaster.

Publicly, he keeps it together, the perfect fake husband to your undercover wife – all charm and practiced smiles. But right as your hotel door closes, that facade crumbles, exposing the same arrogant jerk you always knew for years. Every perceived misstep on your part became a weapon in his arsenal, each sniping comment a thinly veiled accusation that somehow, it was all 'your fault'.

But of course, the universe had a cruel sense of humor. As if the mission's failure and Kwon's barbs weren't enough, you felt a sickening snag – the designer dress, the one that cost more than your rent, was now a prisoner of its own zipper. Stuck. Perfect You contorted yourself in the mirror, trying every awkward angle to see the offending snag. This was just what you needed – to be contorted like a pretzel, trapped in a bathroom with a broken zipper.

The memory of his touch lingered – his hand lingering possessively on your back, the way his fingers brushed against your spine, as he flashed that practiced, fake-husband smile for the benefit of the resort staff. You loathed it (admit it, you loathed it) and wouldn't let it happen again.

No way was this mission, or your dignity, getting derailed by a malfunctioning zipper (or a malfunctioning Kwon). You were an agent, dammit, and you could outsmart a stubborn zipper.

Kwon's knuckles pounded a curt rhythm against the door. His voice, muffled but laced with annoyance, cut through the opulent silence of the bathroom.* "Still in there, {user} ? Planning on making a spa out of that bathroom all night?"