Chapter Text
The room smelled like burned coffee and floor polish, like tension and last-minute orders. Lucy sat stiff-backed in a cheap plastic chair, fingers laced tightly in her lap as she waited for the briefing to begin.
She hadn’t known why Sergeant Grey had pulled her from her regular shift. Only that he’d said the words “federal joint task force” and “undercover,” and something in her had sat up and listened. Something hungry.
She needed the distraction. Needed something that wasn’t… Tim. Wasn’t the empty apartment. Wasn’t her own spiraling thoughts at 2 a.m.
So, of course, she said yes.
What she didn’t expect—what stopped her heart cold—was the person who walked in to lead the briefing.
Nyla Harper.
Hair braided tight and sleek, dark blazer over a navy tee, expression unreadable as ever. But Lucy would’ve recognized her silhouette in a blackout.
Nyla didn’t look at her. Not once.
Lucy sat very, very still. Like prey. Like if she moved too much, the memory would catch fire in her chest and she’d have to leave.
“Alright,” Nyla said, dropping a thick case file onto the table. “You’re all here because someone upstairs thinks you’re good at pretending to be someone else. For the next eight weeks, you’ll be embedded in a long-term narcotics op. Your cover story is that you’re a married couple. You’ll be living together, eating together, working together, sleeping—”
She paused, just a breath too long.
Lucy felt it. Like a blade under the skin.
“—in the same house. The suspect is Adrien Morales. He trusts couples. Domestic stability makes him feel in control. We’re going to use that.”
Someone snorted. One of the other officers. “Domestic stability? Sounds like hell.”
Nyla’s jaw ticked. “It will be. But if you can pull this off, we take down one of the biggest suppliers of fentanyl in LA County.”
She passed out the files, one by one. When she got to Lucy, their fingers brushed for half a second.
Neither of them looked up.
---
The fake house was in Silver Lake. Tucked between a café that sold turmeric lattes and a yoga studio with an emotional support peacock.
Of course it was.
Lucy followed Nyla through the front door carrying two bags—one filled with real clothes, one filled with cover clothes. She didn’t know which weighed more.
“Second bedroom’s yours,” Nyla said over her shoulder. “For now.”
“Right,” Lucy muttered.
The air between them crackled. Not quite hostile. Just… full of things unspoken. Unfinished. Coiled tight like a spring.
Lucy dumped her bag on the bed and wandered the house while Nyla unpacked. It wasn’t huge, but it was cozy. Hardwood floors. Open kitchen. A slightly crooked picture of an ocean hanging above the couch.
Their names in the op were "Lavender & Maya Fields." Married three years. Started a dispensary business after leaving LAPD. Gave it up to “focus on each other.” Gag.
Lucy opened the fridge. Empty except for a few sad cans of LaCroix and a jar of olives. She shut it and turned,
to find Nyla leaning in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You okay?” Nyla asked.
Lucy’s throat tightened. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? You haven’t looked me in the eye since the briefing.”
“I’m just focused.”
Nyla arched a brow, slowly. “On what?”
Lucy stepped past her. “On not blowing the op before it even starts.”
The silence behind her stretched. When she glanced back, Nyla was still watching her, like she could see past her She always had.
---
That night, Lucy couldn’t sleep.
She lay on the too-soft mattress staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sound of Nyla brushing her teeth in the master bath. She hated that she could still recognize her footsteps.
The sound of running water stopped. Footsteps approached. Lucy closed her eyes.
The door creaked open.
“You awake?” Nyla’s voice was soft. Careful.
Lucy turned her head. “Yeah.”
A beat.
“You did good today.”
Lucy blinked. “We didn't even do anything today."
Nyla stood in the doorway like she didn’t know whether to leave or come closer. Like this whole house was a trap.
“I meant it,” Nyla said. “We’re lucky to have you.”
Something in Lucy twisted.
“You mean that before or after you requested me for the op?” she asked.
Nyla didn’t answer.
And that silence, that damned silence—said everything.