You hated that you knew the exact cadence of his footsteps.

You heard them before you saw him—confident, unhurried, the kind of gait that announced a man who’d never been told “no” in his life. The marbled corridor of City Hall carried the sound like an omen.

“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.” Buck Cashman drawled behind you, right on cue.

You didn’t bother turning right away. You finished typing your note into your phone, flicked the recording app off, and only then looked over your shoulder.

He looked annoyingly good in a charcoal suit, the tie loosened just enough to make it seem intentional rather than careless. The people who passed him gave him space without even knowing why.

“I was,” you said. “You’re very perceptive, Mr. Cashman.”

His mouth curved, amused. “Buck,” he corrected gently, like he always did. “We’ve known each other long enough.”

“Professionally,” you countered, stepping aside so he couldn’t box you in against the wall. “And strictly so.”

He fell into step beside you as if it were his right, matching your brisk pace without effort.

“You wound me,” he said. “I thought we’d built some rapport by now.”

“You stonewall my questions about Fisk’s development deals,” you replied. “I’d call that obstruction, not rapport.”

“You call it obstruction,” he said, eyes glinting. “I call it discretion.”

“And I call it suspicious.”

He laughed, low and warm. A passing intern nearly dropped their files at the sound. You didn’t flinch.

Buck tilted his head, studying you. “Still chasing ghosts in zoning permits?”

“Public records,” you corrected. “And I notice your name comes up a lot in those ghosts.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he said. “I tend to be…useful.”

“To Fisk,” you said. “Not to the public.”

“Some would argue Fisk is very useful to the public.”

“And some would be paid very well to say that.”

He stopped walking. You took two more steps before you noticed and turned, annoyed you had to backtrack.

He was watching you with open interest now, not the lazy, performative charm he laid on donors and politicians, but something focused.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Do you talk to all your sources like this?”

“You’re not a source,” you said crisply. “You’re an obstacle.”

He smiled slowly. “You say that like it doesn’t excite you.”

You rolled your eyes, though your pulse jumped in a way you refused to acknowledge. “You’re not that charming.”

“I’m charming enough that you haven’t walked away,” he pointed out.

You slipped your press badge from your pocket and held it up between you like a shield. “I have a briefing to cover.”

His gaze dipped to the badge, then returned to your face. That little half‑smile again, the one he used when he thought he’d already won.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Wouldn’t dream of getting between you and the truth.”

“You already are,” you said, and left him in the corridor, refusing to look back.

You still felt his eyes on you all the way to the briefing room.

───

The gala was worse.

Fisk’s fundraiser had swallowed the Grand Metropolitan Hotel whole. Crystal chandeliers, black‑tie donors, a string quartet trying to sound more expensive than they were. Champagne was flowing; so were lies.

You stood near the back of the ballroom, notepad in hand, watching the crowd over the rim of your glass. This was where people got careless. This was where deals happened.

“The pen really never leaves your hand, does it?”

You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. Still, you did, because not looking would be admitting you were avoiding him again.

Buck’s tuxedo fit him like sin, the black fabric making his dark eyes look lighter. His bow tie was immaculate, cufflinks catching the light. Everyone else here was dressed up; he looked born to it.

“Some of us work for a living,” you said. “We can’t all be…whatever you are.”

He hummed, leaning one shoulder against the pillar beside you. “You make it sound so mysterious.”

“You like mysterious,” you said. “It lets you pretend no one can see what you’re doing.”

“Can you?” he asked quietly. “See what I’m doing?”

You took a measured sip of champagne. “You’re laundering your boss’s image with charity events and photo ops. You’re putting his name on scholarships and food drives so people forget the bodies in his shadow.”

His expression barely flickered, but you saw the faint tightening at the corners of his eyes.

“And you?” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get people to look at the shadow, not the spotlight.”

“And yet,” he said, voice dropping a shade, “here you are. At his gala. Drinking his champagne. Looking very much like you belong.”

You didn’t look away. “I belong wherever the story is.”

He took your empty glass from your hand before you could object, set it on a passing tray, and held his hand out to you.

“Dance with me.”

You laughed, genuinely this time. “I don’t dance with men like you.”

“No, you just write about them,” he said. “You follow them. You learn their habits, their tells. You memorize their footsteps in corridors.”

You stilled.

His smile told you he’d been paying more attention than you thought.

“Five minutes,” he said. “On a very public dance floor, in a room full of cameras. You’re safe with me."

“That’s the last thing I’d be around you” you said.

“And yet,” he repeated softly, “you haven’t said no.”

You hated that he was right.

You slid your hand into his.

His grip was warm, sure but not possessive. He led you through the crowd with an ease that parted people like water. No one questioned your hand on his arm, your presence at his side. He was a fixture here; by proximity, you became one.

On the dance floor, he turned to face you, one hand resting with infuriating propriety at your waist, the other still holding yours.

You set your free hand on his shoulder, keeping distance between your bodies. He drew you closer anyway, just a fraction, enough that you felt heat through layers of fabric.

“You’re tense,” he murmured as the music swept you into motion. “I thought reporters lived for this sort of thing.”

“For dancing with the enemy?” you asked. “No. For watching him trip.”

“I don’t trip,” he said with quiet confidence.

“We’ll see.”

He moved well. Of course he did. His body followed the music like he owned it, smooth and unthinking. You were annoyingly aware of the strength under the refined packaging.

You matched him step for step, refusing to let him lead completely. Every time he tried to guide you into something more intimate—a closer turn, a hand sliding a little lower—you countered with a pivot, a small twist that kept just enough distance.

It made him smile, sharper now, less polished.

“You really don’t give an inch, do you?” he said.

“Inches turn into concessions,” you said. “Concessions turn into things you regret.”

“Do you regret this?” he asked, spinning you out and back in with a practiced flick of his wrist.

You came back against his chest for one heartbeat, breath tangling with his, before you eased away again.

“Not yet,” you said.

His gaze dropped to your mouth, just briefly, then rose again. “What would it take?”

“For me to regret it?” you asked. “Or for me to not?”

“Either,” he said softly.

The question hung between you, louder than the orchestra.

You didn’t answer. You let the music answer for you—your body aligning a fraction closer, your hand tightening on his shoulder when he guided you through a turn that should have been too tight, too close, but wasn’t.

“You know this is a bad idea,” you said finally, voice low.

“I make bad ideas work,” he replied.

You searched his face. Under the charm, under the cultivated ease, there was something hungry. Not for power—he already had that. Something rarer. Someone telling him “no” and meaning it.

“You want something from me,” you said.

“Several things,” he admitted.

“Information?”

“Among others.”

You held his gaze. “You’re not getting my notes, my sources, or my silence.”

His hand at your waist flexed, fingertips pressing lightly into the small of your back. “I wasn’t asking for those.”

The music swelled, then dipped. The rest of the room blurred a little at the edges. It would be so easy to blame the champagne, the low lighting, the hum of strings.

“This is stupid,” you said.

“Yes,” he agreed, eyes never leaving yours.

“And it changes nothing.”

“Of course not,” he said smoothly.

You knew you were lying. You suspected he did too.

The song ended. Applause rose around you.

Buck didn’t let go of your hand.

“There’s a quieter room upstairs,” he said. “For donors to talk.”

You arched a brow. “Is that what they do?”

“Depends on the donor,” he said.

You hesitated.

You thought of the stories you’d written about men like him, the warnings you’d given other people: Don’t get too close. Don’t buy the charm. They’re dangerous.

You also thought of the way power moved in this city, the way proximity revealed things distance never would.

“Fifteen minutes,” you said. “No promises.”

The spark in his eyes told you he’d already decided that was a lie.

───

The “donor lounge” was less a room and more a den: dim lighting, thick carpets, a bar stocked with expensive liquor, and doors leading to even more private spaces. Voices murmured low; no one looked too closely at anyone else.

Buck barely glanced around. He knew this space. He owned it, even if Fisk’s name was on the checks.

He guided you past a cluster of murmuring council members and into a side room with a door that shut with a soft click.

It was quieter there. The music from the ballroom was a distant thrum, like a heartbeat on the other side of a wall.

You stood in the middle of the room, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were alone with him.

He didn’t pounce. He didn’t crowd you.

He loosened his cufflinks instead, methodical, rolling his sleeves to his forearms as though you’d come here to talk simply talk business.

“You can still walk out,” he said without looking at you. “In case you need to hear it.”

“I don’t need anything from you,” you said.

He smiled at that, faint and sharp. “You sure?”

You took a step toward him. Then another. Stopping close enough to smell his cologne—subtle, something dark and clean at once.

“I need answers,” you said. “About Fisk’s waterfront deals. About the warehouses in Red Hook. About why your name keeps showing up on shell companies.”

“You really want to talk about shop right now?” he asked, amused.

“I want control,” you said. “Over this. Over you.”

That made him go very still.

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment the banter fell away. Something raw edged in.

“You think you can control me?” he asked, tone low, not mocking.

“I think you’re used to people folding around you,” you said. “I’m not going to.”

He stepped closer, slow enough that you could have stopped him at any point. You didn’t.

“So what do you do with a man you can’t control?” he murmured.

“You underestimate me,” you said, and reached for his tie.

You didn’t yank. You took your time, fingers working the knot loose, sliding the silk from his collar. His breath hitched almost imperceptibly at the intimacy of it.

You draped the tie over the back of a chair without looking away from him.

“If we do this,” you said, “we do it on my terms.”

“What are your terms?” he asked, voice roughened.

“No lies,” you said. “Not about what this is.”

“This,” he said, “is a terrible idea between two people who should know better.”

You nodded once. “Good. We understand each other.”

“And when it’s over?” he asked. “You walk back out there and keep trying to dismantle my world?”

“Yes,” you said simply. “And you keep trying to keep it standing.”

Something like admiration flickered across his face.

“Come here,” you said.

His eyes darkened. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I have to be,” you said. “You rely on people second‑guessing themselves.”

“I rely on people wanting what I can give them,” he said.

“I don’t want anything from you that you can use against me,” you said. “Just tonight.”

“That,” he said, stepping the last inch between you, “I can work with.”

When you kissed him, you made sure you were the one who closed the gap first.

He’d probably expected you to be hesitant, to let him set the pace. You didn’t. You kissed him like you’d already decided how this would go, like you knew exactly what you wanted and had no intention of pretending otherwise.

For a second, he stilled, surprised—then he answered with a heat that confirmed what you’d suspected from the moment you met him: Buck Cashman did nothing halfway.

The room narrowed to the press of his mouth, the way his hands slid to your waist, fingers tightening when you angled his head just so. You caught the faint, involuntary sound he made when you deepened the kiss, filing it away like a quote in a notebook.

You broke away first, just enough to speak against his lips.

“Follow my lead,” you said.

“I’m not used to that,” he murmured.

“Exactly.”

You pushed his jacket off his shoulders, watching the tension ripple through him as he let you. He could have taken control at any point, and you both knew it. Instead, he let you set the rhythm, your hands, your decisions.

It was a strange kind of power: not that he couldn’t stop you, but that he chose not to.

You backed him toward the couch, a slow, deliberate march, your mouths finding each other again and again, each kiss layered with things neither of you would ever admit.

He sat when the back of his knees hit the cushion. You stayed standing for a heartbeat, looking down at him, breathing hard.

He stared up at you like you were something he hadn’t budgeted for, something that didn’t fit neatly on a balance sheet.

“What?” you asked, a little breathless.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said.

You huffed a laugh, fingers skimming his jaw, your thumb brushing the corne mouth. “You should know better than to underestimate people by now.”

“I do,” he said. “And yet.”

You straddled him, settled your weight over him with deliberate, unhurried confidence that drew a low curse from his lips. His hands caught your hips, grip tightening as if to steady himself more than you.

“You good?” you asked, teasing threaded through the question.

His answering smile was almost feral. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Not tonight,” you said. “I still have too many questions.”

What followed wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tender. It was heat and friction and two people who should have known better indulging precisely because they knew better.

You learned him quickly: what made his careful composure crack, what drew his breath in sharply, what made his fingers dig into you like he was anchoring himself. Every sound, every shudder you pulled from him was something you took and archived, private evidence of the man behind the mask.

He was generous too—not out of some chivalrous instinct, but because he took genuine satisfaction in unraveling you. The difference was important. You gave as good as you got, dragging him past the point where words broke down into half‑formed curses, his usual elaborate vocabulary pared to raw need.

He tried, once or twice, to take over—to flip the script, set the pace. You didn’t let him. A shift of your hips, a hand on his chest, a murmur in his ear had him yielding again, more shaken each time he realized he liked it.

When it crested, it did so hard enough that for once, Buck Cashman had nothing to say. No quip, no strategic line. Just your name, rough and unguarded, torn from somewhere low and real.

You stayed there for a long moment afterward, both of you breathing like you’d run a race you hadn’t trained for. His head tipped back against the cushion, eyes closed, hair mussed where your fingers had threaded through it. The stylish, perfectly composed fixer looked wrecked.

You let yourself enjoy the sight.

Then you slid off his lap, standing on slightly shaky legs that you hid with practiced ease. You adjusted your dress, smoothing fabric, reclaiming your armor one small movement at a time.

Buck watched you, still catching his breath, shirt a little rumpled, sleeves rolled, tie abandoned across the room.

“You’re leaving,” he said, voice hoarse but certain.

“Yes,” you said.

He sat forward, elbows braced on his knees, looking up at you. There was a question in his eyes he didn’t quite voice.

“Don’t tell me you’re not used to it,” you said, reaching for your clutch. “You knew what this was.”

“Did I?” he asked quietly.

You paused, hand on the doorknob.

“It was good,” you said, not bothering with false modesty. “You were good.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound frayed. “You say that like you’re giving a performance review.”

“Think of it as feedback,” you said.

“For future prospects?” he asked lightly, but there was an edge under it.

You looked back at him. Really looked.

You could say no. You should say no.

Instead: “We work on opposite sides, Buck. That doesn’t stop being true because we did this.”

“It doesn’t have to,” he said. “We’re both adults.”

“That’s exactly why it complicates things,” you replied. “You think I won’t write a story because we slept together?”

His jaw flexed. “I think you might hesitate.”

“I won’t,” you said, and you meant it.

He searched your face, then nodded once, accepting it even if he didn’t like it.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I’m very good at getting what I want.”

“I know,” you said. “That’s why you’re dangerous.”

“And what if what I want,” he said, gaze raking over you with something almost possessive, “includes this. Again.”

You felt that, low and sharp.

“Then that’s your problem,” you said. “Not mine.”

“You don’t want more?” he asked.

You smiled, small and sharp. “Of course I do. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head.

You left him there—tie off, shirt open at the throat, composure cracked, watching you go like he couldn’t decide whether you were a mistake or a revelation.

In the reflection of the polished brass elevator doors, your lipstick was a little smudged, your hair slightly out of place. You fixed both with steady hands.