Straykissss

start: jan 6 / 2026 end: . . .

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

❝ index ;

𑣲 teaser

𑣲 ch: 01 been on my worst

𑣲 ch: 02 don't need no savior

𑣲 ch: 03 way outta line

𑣲 ch: 04 kinda like the way i feel

𑣲 ch: 05 don’t give a fuck

𑣲 ch: 06 i’ll be there in five

𑣲 ch: 07 talk too much

𑣲 ch: 08 show each other

𑣲 ch: 09 other ways to catch you up

𑣲 ch: 10 on the phone

𑣲 ch: 11 can you keep it secret?

𑣲 ch: 12 this time i know

𑣲 ch: 13 i’ll stay with you

𑣲 ch: 14 just promise you won't

𑣲 ch: 15 no pics, no postin’ us

𑣲 ch: 16 just in my nature

𑣲 ch: 17 to be a littlе troublemaker

𑣲 ch: 18 so wrong but so right

𑣲 ch: 19 you really likе the way i

𑣲 ch: 20 when we kiss

𑣲 ch: 21 you reminisce

𑣲 ch: 22 this ain’t the last time

𑣲 ch: 23 just stay by my side

𑣲 ch: 24 this ain’t no game

𑣲 ch: 25 won’t play with you

𑣲 ch: 26 this love just ain’t disposable

𑣲 ch: 27 just take what’s yours

𑣲 ch: 28 don’t run from it

𑣲 ch: 29 don’t you be actin' like that

𑣲 ch: 30 babe ♡

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

“Naughty daddy,” Sky joked, and she leaned towards him to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Don't work too hard.”

“No promises,” Chris smiled.

Shuffling out of her father's office, Sky made her way to the opposite side of the hall where her mother's studio was. She pressed her face up against the glass until her nose resembled a mere two holes in her face, and she caught sight of her mother hunched over her desk. Her glasses were slipping down the bridge of her nose and her hair fell into her eyes as she poured utmost concentration into whatever she was doing.

She looked up then, and eyes landing on Sky, Y/N started to laugh.

“You look like a pancake,” Y/N commented just as Sky removed her face from the glass, leaving behind a fuzzy, face-shaped patch of condensation. “You okay, Ky-Ky?”

Nodding, Sky pushed open the door and waddled over to her mother; Y/N smiled and set her pen down before holding her arms out to the teenager. Sky immediately fell into her embrace, and Y/N rubbed her back, kissing her cheek.

“Are you really busy, mama?” Sky asked, looking down at the sheet of heavy paper on her mother's desk.

Y/N sighed tiredly. “Yes. Have to finish this for a client and then I have a few orders to pack … but I might be done soon. We'll see. Why? Everything okay?”

Sky deflated a little. But she nodded, reaching for the blob of kneaded eraser near the paper, prodding it with her fingers. “Daddy's busy too. He had an angry phone call.”

“Did he?” Y/N laughed, squeezing the girl's shoulders. “I can't blame him … some people just don't listen.”

“That's exactly what daddy said!” Sky exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up her forehead. “You're always in sync. Like you're telepathic.”

“Mmm … maybe we are,” Y/N winked. She adjusted the glasses on her nose and tilted her neck to the side, eyebrows pinching briefly as tension throbbed through her muscles.

Sky frowned at her. “Do you want some coffee, mama?”

“Coffee?”

“Mhm. I'll bring you some.”

Eyes lighting up, Y/N nodded. “I could really do with some … thank you baby.”

Trudging into the kitchen, Sky immediately caught sight of her older brother leaning against one of the counters. His back was turned towards her, his curly head tilted to rest on his shoulder as he waited for the espresso machine to heat up. The faint whirring sound of it broke through the otherwise quiet area, and Sky padded over to him, poking her head around his body and making him jump faintly in surprise.

“Creep,” Noah chuckled, a soft hand landing on Sky's hand as he playfully messed up the messy waves of her hair. “Whatcha doin’?”

“I said I'd make mama coffee,” Sky said. She looked up at her brother with round eyes, batting her eyelashes at him in a way that made the twenty year old roll his own up to the ceiling.

“Fine,” Noah shook his head with a crooked grin. “Does she want anything specific?”

Sky blinked. “I dunno. I just said coffee and she said coffee.”

“Helpful,” Noah commented. He reached for a mug and set it beside his own, just as Sky smushed her face into the side of his arm.

“Are you busy?” Sky asked. Noah was unfazed by the way she was immobilising his arm; he didn't move away, instead working solely with his other hand, letting his sister cling to him like a tiny animal on a branch.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Just making my coffee. Why?”

“Do you wanna watch scary movies with me?” Sky asked him.

“Which scary movies? None of them even scare you,” Noah snorted.

“I know, but they're still my favourite,” Sky wrinkled her nose.

Smiling at that, Noah placed his and his mother's mugs underneath the spouts before pressing the button. “I'll watch with you. Do you want a drink?”

“Matcha!”

“Hot?”

“No, iced.”

Noah narrowed his eyes, flitting his gaze between her and the large windows. Rain had been pouring down them in heavy sheets since the previous day, and gusts of wind howled around their home, filling it with chilly draughts. It made Noah shiver, just looking at the rain - he couldn't begin to wrap his head around the idea of drinking something so cold in such stormy weather.

“It's freezing,” Noah said. “Aren't you cold?”

“I only like cold matcha,” Sky said. “Tastes better. Besides … I'm gonna use my heat pad. To combat the cold.”

Staring at her, Noah spluttered with laughter. “You're crazy.”

She watched him expertly pour steamed milk on top of the espresso in Y/N's mug, finishing it off with a neat heart; he then pursed his lips, before reaching for a bottle of caramel.

“I want some,” Sky said before he had the chance to drizzle it over the coffee. She opened her mouth expectantly just as Noah sighed, and she giggled before he squeezed a fat dollop of the buttery caramel onto her tongue.

“Mama makes the best caramel,” Sky said through a sticky mouthful. “Maybe we should make daddy some hot chocolate with it. I forgot to ask if he wanted anything but he'll probably like it.”

“Okay,” Noah chuckled. “Take this to mum and I'll make dad's hot chocolate. Don't eat all the caramel off of it.”

“I won't,” Sky giggled as she took the large mug from her brother. She made her way back to Y/N's studio, and she giggled when the older woman greeted her with a comical expression involving her tongue poking out of her mouth.

“Noey was making his coffee so I asked him to make yours,” Sky said, carefully holding the brim-filled mug over to her. The microfoam wobbled and the glossy sheen warped under the bright lights of the art studio. “And I forgot to ask what you wanted so Noey made you something caramelly.”

“Something caramelly is perfect,” Y/N said around the mug before taking a dainty sip. She let out a not-so dainty groan when the warm, milky sweetness flooded through her, and she took another deep sip before setting it down onto her desk and pulling Sky into her side.

“Good?” Sky grinned.

Y/N nodded and kissed her temple. “Very good. Thank you baby.”

She sighed a little dreamily, eyes flitting to the rainstreaked window behind her. “It's the perfect weather for a movie. Or several movies. And loads and loads of popcorn.”

Sky started to laugh. “Noey and I are gonna watch scary movies. He's making me matcha.”

“That sounds perfect,” Y/N whined dramatically. “Maybe I'll come join you in a bit. Save me a seat.”

“I wanna save daddy a seat too but he said he has boring work to do,” Sky grumbled, eliciting a fond smile from her mother. “He'd probably scream anyway.”

“Oh, definitely,” Y/N nodded with a silly face. She kissed Sky's cheek before reaching for her mug again. “Go on … go have fun. I'll see if I can convince daddy to join in with me later.”

Giggling at that, Sky padded out of the studio and carefully slid the doors closed before making her way back to the kitchen. She used the sloppiness of her socks to propel herself forward and slide across the floorboards, one foot in front of the other; she almost banged into Noah's broad back, and she stumbled, puffs of breathless laughter escaping her as her brother turned and grabbed her by her shoulders.

“You're gonna crack your skull open," Noah chided dryly, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. “Here … made dad's hot chocolate. Delivery time. Don't slip.”

Raising her hand to her forehead in a salute, Sky carried the hot chocolate to her father's office with the same precision she had used for her mother's latte previously. She pushed the door open with her hip and her gaze immediately landed on her father's face, and she fought to keep herself from bursting out into manic laughter. His eyes were narrowed, his lips scrunched up along with his nose as he clutched at his hair and stared at his computer screen with pure irritation. He didn't even notice Sky walking up to him, a groan leaving him as he dropped his face into his hands.

“Dad?” Sky cleared her throat.

Chris jumped in his seat. He looked up at Sky with surprise, his face melting into one of soft affection. “Where'd you come from, cheeky?”

“Noey made you a hot choccy,” Sky giggled, setting the mug down in front of him.

Chris blinked, his eyes groggy from staring at his screen for so long. “Oh yeah? What for?”

“Well because Noey was making coffee for him and then mama wanted some and Noey used mama's caramel and mama's caramel always tastes so good and I thought you'd want some and then I realised I should have asked you for a drink but I didn't and you don't like coffee so me and Noey thought you'd like a hot choccy and - “

Her energetic words tumbled around Chris's mind like a typhoon and the man blinked for a moment, processing her excited ramble. His lips curved up into a smile and he chuckled, reaching out to squeeze his daughter's cheeks.

“Well, thank you,” Chris laughed, wrapping his fingers around the mug. “You're spoiling me.”

“Are you done soon?” Sky asked in return, leaning against his chair.

Chris sighed. “Maybe. Why?”

“Noey and I are gonna watch scary movies and mama said she might join, so … “

Eyes lighting up with mischief, Chris tickled her side as he leaned back into the cushioned back of his chair, bringing the warmth of his mug with him. “Scary movies, huh? You tryna kill me?”

“No,” Sky giggled. “I’ll protect you.”

“I know you will,” Chris grinned. “Aight well I'll see how much I can get done and then I'll come find you … thanks for the hot choccy. Save me a seat.”

Sky squeaked. “That's what mama said!”

“Well, maybe it's our special telepathy,” Chris teased.

“She said that earlier too!” Sky exclaimed, eyes bugging out of her head.

Chris started to laugh, the tips of his ears reddening. “Really? Well … looks like you'll have to save two seats then.”

Satisfied with her father's answer, Sky grinned before she made her way back to the main area; Noah had disappeared, but a large iced matcha latte sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa, his coffee next to it. He had even apparently placed her heat against the sofa cushions, and Sky smiled to herself, dropping down onto the sofa like a sack of potatoes.

She kicked her feet around, sinking deep into the neckline of her oversized hoodie as she cradled her icy glass in her hand. Now that she was by herself, her mind started to wander - and not to places she really wanted to be in. Her brain latched onto old faces, people she once knew, people she had been close to. She shook her head and took a sip of her sweet drink in an attempt to clear her mind of the cobwebs.

It did little to help. Pulling her phone out from her pocket, Sky's face shone as it turned on and as she began to scroll with hooded eyes, her chest growing heavier and heavier with every passing second.

She was so lost in her social media that she didn't notice Noah swinging over the back of the sofa with his long limbs, landing with a heavy thud on the seat beside her. Sky bounced upwards upon impact, her phone scrolling halting, and she glared over at her brother who burst into laughter.

“My bad,” Noah grinned. His shoulder bumped Sky's as he reached for his substantial mug from the coffee table, the fragrant flat white within still steaming, just the way he liked.

He peered over his sister's shoulder. “Who you stalkin’?”

Sky scowled. “I'm not.”

“Liar,” Noah said around the rim of his mug. “Don't think I can't see you scrolling through people's following lists.”

Whining at that, Sky tossed her phone to the side and slurped on her iced matcha. It made her bones jitter with cold and she shivered, curling her legs up further underneath her.

“‘M not,” Sky huffed. “Maybe.”

Noah looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He didn't say anything further for a while, but he noticed the slump to his sister's shoulders, and the perpetual crease between her brows as she stared at the movie selection on the large TV.

She looked up at him then, watching the way the thin chain on his wrist glinted as he raised his mug to his lips again, and she smiled.

“You're using the mug,” she commented.

Noah grinned. “Course I am. It's my favourite.”

Sky giggled, tucking her legs up further into herself. She had gotten him the mug as a present a few months back; it was a self heating one, meaning his coffee stayed warm for hours, if he wanted it to.

He loved it.

“How's the matcha?” Noah asked her. “Aren't you freezing your ass off?”

“No,” Sky laughed under her breath. “It's good. I've nearly finished it.”

Frowning, Noah turned to look at her glass. He did a double take when he saw a quarter of the green liquid left and his eyes widened in mild disbelief just as Sky smiled sheepishly.

“Fucking hell,” Noah muttered, turning back to his coffee. “You demon. Feel like as soon as you pick a movie your drink is gonna disappear and then I'll have to get up and make more.”

“No … “ Sky said slowly, though her face sported a guilty smile. “I'll savour the last bit. One sip every half an hour.”

“You couldn't do that no matter how hard you tried.”

Giggling, Sky reached over to the table again for the remote. Her cheek dropped against Noah's arm as she scrolled through the movies, her cheek cold against the warmth of his hoodie sleeve, and she soon settled on one of her favourites.

They were quiet for a while, anticipating the first build up of the movie; but then Noah heard Sky sigh, and he peered down to see the same perplexity on her face from earlier. It looked like she wasn't even properly paying attention to the TV, and Noah frowned.

He lightly poked her nose. “Movie not hitting?”

Her cheek rubbed against him as she looked up. “What do you mean?”

“C'mon, Ky-Ky. I know you. What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sky pouted, fiddling with the tassels of her hoodie.

“Is it to do with your stalking?”

Sky was quiet. She took a long sip of her matcha until it finished, and she placed it back onto the table, fingers trembling with the cold. They must have been trembling more than she realised, for a moment later she felt a heavy blanket drop on top of her.

“Thanks,” she mumbled as Noah adjusted the folded edges over her shoulders. She was still leaning against him, and he shifted so he could grab her face with a large hand, squishing her cheeks until she started to giggle.

“Get off,” Sky whined, though Noah managed to turn her face towards him anyway. He was grinning devilishly, his arm slipping around her neck in a playful squeeze.

“Tell me,” Noah's palm closed over the whole of his sister's face. She squealed and ducked away, wriggling amongst the blanket as Noah chuckled and gave up, reaching for his coffee again.

Sky settled back down against him, face dropping against the same spot on his arm. She sighed all over again, gaze fixed on the movie.

“It's stupid,” she mumbled, voice small. “Don't you ever just … wanna know what people are doing?”

Noah tilted his head in question.

“Like … people you used to be friends with,” Sky shrugged, slumping further in her seat. “Aren't you curious about what they're doing now? Are they happy? Sad? Travelling across the world? Better off without you … ?”

Her last question came out quieter than the others, and Noah blinked, his eyes softening at the edges.

“I used to,” Noah hummed. “And then I realised caring too much about the wrong people does more damage than good.”

Sky frowned.

“I just mean like … curiosity is fine, but if it's to the point where seeing what other people are doing is making you sad, then is there a point?” Noah shrugged. “In my experience, the people you stalk the most are the ones you still need to heal from.”

Biting her lip, Sky pulled her hoodie down her face and groaned into the fabric.

“They just look so happy,” Sky sniffled. “Like … how can you be so happy after hurting someone? Do they not care? That we were friends?”

Sighing, Noah set his mug onto the table. He gently wrapped his arms around his sister and pat the back of her head with his long, slender fingers, just as Sky groaned so hard her entire frame vibrated.

“I know it hurts, Ky,” Noah said softly, squeezing her shoulders. “It's normal for it to hurt. But think about it … do you really want to waste your time and your emotions on people who don't care about how they treat other people? I mean … say your old friends actually don't care that you were friends. That says so much more about who they are as people than it does about you. You hurt because you have a big heart and you're sensitive even though you like to pretend you're not - but those aren't bad things. You care about people, and you love hard … you deserve people who are way better than your old friends. And they definitely don't deserve your precious time and attention.”

Sky's eyes watered. She looked up at Noah's face, his eyes warm and full of understanding that made her vision blur even more.

“You're always so weird,” Sky said, trying to change the subject. It made Noah grin as she rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. “Everyone always complains about their brothers being dicks … why aren't you a dick?”

Noah chuckled. He pursed his lips, unable to help himself from messing with her, just a little. “Aw, Ky baby, are you saying you love your older brother-wother?”

“Ew,” Sky fought to escape his arms again, Noah's face looming close to hers. “I take it back, you're a dick!”

Erupting into a playful fight amongst the sofa cushions, neither Sky nor Noah noticed their parents appear in the space, their faces full of mirth. Sky and Noah were giggling when they sat up again, hair disheveled, and Noah caught sight of their parents first. His face broke into a larger smile and he wiggled his fingers at them in greeting, alerting Sky who turned and looked over her shoulder.

“You came!” She exclaimed, just as Chris dived onto the sofa beside her, his arms immediately tackling her into a bear hug. “Ah … daddy … !”

“You both watching movies or fighting?” Chris teased, fingers scrabbling at his daughter's sides with his fingers. “Huh? Is this how we raised you?”

Giggling at that, Sky escaped her father's grip, Y/N laughing at the three of them as she ran water into her empty mug. She adopted an innocent expression, playing along with the mock-stern look on her father's face.

“I'm sorry daddy,” she pouted. “It won't happen again.”

“Hmm,” Chris reached out and tugged at Noah's hair, ruffling it much to his son's placid dismay. “I hope not.”

Giggling, Sky smushed her face into Chris's side. “Mama, are you coming? I'm gonna restart the movie because I don't know what happened.”

“See, I knew you weren't watching it,” Noah clicked his tongue. “You can't fool me.”

Sky stuck her tongue out at him, just as Y/N came to sit on her other side, sandwiching her between herself and Chris. “Wise old man. Like daddy.”

“Hey!” Chris spluttered, taken aback. “Where'd that come from?”

Sky just giggled. She buried her face in his chest, just as Chris's face split into a content smoke, and he leaned down to press a tender kiss to the top of her head.

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The file’s open and so is the case board.

Chris stares at the printouts in front of him, the crime scene photos from MESA gallery laid out in perfect symmetry. The glittering trace of silver dust sits dead center—zoomed in, highlighted, enhanced, but none of it tells him what he needs to know.

Is it Silvene? Or is it someone pretending to be?

He leans back in his chair, arms folded, eyes dragging across the whiteboard filled with strings and names and arrows pointing nowhere. The hum of the precinct buzzes in the background, a static noise he’s learned to block out. It’s just him and the pieces Silvene left behind.

A few more hours, maybe a day until the lab result is out and he’ll know if the silver dust from the glass casing matches the samples from Silvene’s old hits.

However, Chris still doesn’t know which answer he wants more. If it’s not her, then it means someone’s copying her. Someone arrogant or foolish enough to mimic her modus operandi.

And if it is her…

He runs a hand through his hair as he thinks of the possibility. If it’s her, then she’s been here all along. Watching, waiting, picking her moment like a cat watching mice grow comfortable and it’s only about time until she pounces on him.

It’s been nearly a year of silence, of cold trails and unanswered questions, of sleepless nights wondering how a ghost could vanish without leaving a single trace. Now, as he flips through the evidence again, slower this time. Same M.O, same precision, same arrogance, but something about this one feels… deliberate. A tease, a new game.

Chris clenches his jaw, he picks up the silver-laced photo and stares at it again until it blurs. His head hurts. His eyes ache, but he can’t look away. No. not yet.

***

The apartment is small but it feels big when you’re alone.

You glance at the clock again and then at your phone. As expected, there’s still no reply.

Chris had missed dinner more than a dozen of times before but each time, he’d leave a text telling you that he couldn’t make it or he had dinner plans with colleagues or friends. And you hadn’t really expected him to make it home in time either, not with his job or the way he’s been lately, but still… you had hoped.

You pull your legs to your chest on the sofa, blanket pooled around you. Your phone rests on the cushion beside you and you check it again anyway, just in case you somehow missed a buzz or a chime or something when you were too deep in your head.

Nothing.

You know in his line of job, things can get dangerous and that he doesn’t always have time to answer, but the not knowing… the silence—it gnaws at you. You bite your bottom lip, squeezing at the edge of the cushion and try not to spiral.

You pick up the phone again, your thumb hovering over his name. Needing to hear his voice, needing to know that he’s okay. As you’re about to press call, the faint chime of the elevator echoes from the hallway.

Please let it be him. You quietly murmur as you wait for footsteps coming your way and not long after, you hear the sound of a key turning in the lock.

You jump to your feet, heartbeat skipping. You’re already halfway to the door when it opens—and there he is. You breathe out a shaky little laugh and give him your brightest smile, voice soft and full of quiet relief. “Welcome home, baby.”

His smile is automatic, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s thin, faint and stretched tight with something you can’t quite put your finger on—but it’s there. You know him too well not to notice.

Still, you step into him, arms wrapping around his frame as you press a gentle kiss to his lips. “Hey,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I missed you.”

His answer comes low, almost mumbled. “Missed you too.”

It sounds like a rehearsed line, a reflex. Something he knows he’s supposed to say, not something he feels. You study his face for another second and notice the way his shoulders sit a little heavier than usual, the way his eyes don’t linger on yours. You get the urge to ask, but something in you tells you not to push. Not yet.

“Are you hungry?” you ask instead. “I can make something up for you.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not hungry, no.”

You nod, trying not to let the quiet ache in your chest show on your face. “Okay.”

He leans down, presses a quick kiss to your temple. “I’m gonna put my stuff away.”

“Okay, baby,” you softly answer as you let him go.

You watch him disappear into the bedroom and soon, you hear the familiar sound of his badge and holster being placed on the dresser. But you just stand there, wondering why it still feels wrong?

After a while, you walk toward the bedroom and linger by the doorway as you watch him moves around the room, putting things away and then taking pieces of his clothing off one by one, precisely, methodically. He’s there but he’s merely a vessel and that’s when you know what’s wrong. Chris is here, but not here.

-

A plan is set in motion as Chris is in the shower.

You dim the lights until the room is bathed in soft golden shadows. A single candle flickers on the nightstand, its warm, floral scent blooming in the air. The sheets are turned down, the pillows fluffed. Everything is set for calm, for comfort.

For the final touch, you change into a silk night dress and perch yourself on the bed, legs folded under you as you wait. While you’re busy making your hair falls perfectly down your shoulder, the bathroom door creaks open.

Chris steps out, his curls are damp and tousled, his pale skin flushed from the shower. His dark boxers sit low on his hips and you catch a bead of water rolling down the outline of his abs, the sight drawing your eyes for just a second too long. When he sees you and the glow of the room you’ve created, his brows rise in faint surprise.

“What’s going on?” He asks, the smile that spreads across his lips is softer this time. More genuine.

The shower seems to help shedding a layer of exhaustion off him already. You brightly smile back at him and pat the mattress beside you. “Come here,” you say gently.

He quirks a brow, something playful dancing in his eyes and without words, he obeys, sinking onto the edge of the bed, back straight, legs parted. You move behind him, kneeling, your hands finding his broad shoulders before your arms wrap around his torso. You draw him close to your chest, holding him there, just breathing with him for a beat.

“Just sit back and relax,” you softly murmur close to his ear and then come the kisses.

You place slow, soft kisses down his warm skin. One pressed to the slope of his shoulder, another to the warm skin of his neck and then his jaw next. You feel him exhale beneath your mouth, and when you tilt his face slightly toward you, he lets you take his lips too. A gentle kiss, but he lingers in it.

“What do you have in mind, mmh?” he murmurs, lips ghosting against yours, voice dipped in mischief.

You rest your cheek against his. “You seem tired,” you whisper. “So… I’ll try to help you relax.”

That earns you a perk of his brow and a low hum. There's a spark behind his eyes now—a glint you know all too well. You let his imagination run free for a second as you crawl off the bed, letting him watch as your nightdress hitching just high enough to reveal the edge of your black underwear. You hear his breath catch ever so slightly and you take your time to get the bottle of massage oil on the nightstand.

As you turn back toward him, your voice feather-light as you ask, “Would you like a massage?”

Chris lets out a slow sigh, almost like he’s disappointed, and his smile curves into something teasing, but his eyes—his eyes stay locked on you.

“Yes,” he says, voice low and amused. “I’d love a massage.”

Bringing the massage oil with you, you settle yourself behind him, your knees bracketing his hips as you uncork the massage oil. The scent of lavender mingles with the candle’s vanilla warmth, thickening the air with something soft and sweet, something indulgent. You pour a small amount into your palms and warm it with a slow rub between your hands. Then, gently, you press your palms to Chris’s bare shoulders.

He’s warm under your touch. The muscles beneath your fingers are tight, coiled with tension. You start slow, lathering his skin in broad strokes, letting the oil glide over him before you begin to knead with your thumbs pressing into the hard knots that have built up under his skin.

“You’re so tense, baby…” you murmur, voice sultry as it grazes the shell of his ear.

Chris only hums in response, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest as he bows his head slightly, giving you better access. You smile at the silent trust, the quiet surrender. Your fingers work with firm, practiced pressure, tracing the stress buried in his shoulders, down the line of his spine, and along the curve of his back. Each time he exhales, you feel the weight lift from him little by little, his body slowly melting into your touch.

He doesn’t need to use words because you can tell by the way his shoulders drop, by how he leans into you ever so slightly, that he’s letting himself go.

Once you’re satisfied with the tension you’ve released, you smooth your fingers into his hair, slicking them gently back as you start a slow, rhythmic massage on his scalp. Your nails drag lightly across his skin, and his breath catches again from ease, from comfort you’re bringing upon him. You smile to yourself as you lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head before slowly guiding his chin up with your fingertips.

“Hey,” you whisper, lips hovering just above his.

Chris opens his eyes, and that softness in his gaze is there, unguarded, unburdened. He’s slowly coming back to the man you know and endeared. You tilt your head and capture his mouth in an upside-down kiss, a soft press of lips that speaks of love more than anything else.

When you pull away, his eyes are still closed yet a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and in that moment, you know you’ve reached him.

Now that he’s relaxed, comfortable and safe. You gently pull him flush against you, your legs still bracket his sides as you nestle comfortably on the bed, arms looping around his torso. The smooth warmth of his skin contrasts with the cool air between your bodies, and you rest your chin gently on his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of his soap.

“How was your day?” you ask softly, voice barely louder than a whisper, as if anything louder might break the fragile peace between you.

Chris sighs—long and heavy, but not unhappy. He leans back into you slightly, letting his head tip to the side. “There was a robbery at the MESA gallery,” he murmurs, eyes fixed ahead, almost absentmindedly. “Same MO as someone I’ve been chasing for months. Could be them. Could be a copycat. Lab results haven’t come in yet.”

You say nothing, giving him space to let it out, your fingers tracing idle shapes over his chest. “And how do you feel about it?” you finally ask.

“Like they’re taunting me,” he admits after a beat. “Whoever it is… they know what they’re doing. And it’s like they’re daring me to catch them.”

You hum in acknowledgment, hugging him tighter, your lips brushing the curve of his shoulder as you press a soft kiss there. Then, you turn slightly and tuck your face close to his, fingers brushing gently through his hair. “You’ll get them,” you say with quiet conviction. “You always do.”

He scoffs lightly, but there’s affection in his breath, the edge of a smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

You press a kiss to his cheek before adding playfully, “And Detective Bang will save the world once again.”

A low, genuine chuckle spills out of his mouth and it warms your chest. It rumbles in his throat and you feel it through your arms, the sound grounding you both.

The laughter lingers for a moment until he catches your chin, turning your face toward his with gentle fingers. His eyes meet yours, warm and wanting, and then he leans in. His lips press against yours, a tender kiss born from gratitude and fondness. But it builds quickly, deepening with every brush and tilt of your mouths. His hand slides to the nape of your neck, keeping you there, while your fingers wander over his chest, then lower still, skimming the tight lines of his abs.

Your breathing grows shallow as the kiss consumes you both, tongues tangled in slow, intoxicating rhythm. You let your hand drift lower, dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, where you find his semi-hard in your palm and the warmth of his length sends a flicker of heat through your body.

You stroke his cock gently, teasingly, relishing the quiet, stuttering breath he exhales against your lips. Then you pull back just enough to whisper, voice sultry and soft. “Oh, baby…” your lips graze his as you speak, “you’re tense in here too.”

Chris groans softly at your words, and the sound alone tells you he’s yours—utterly, completely, right here in your hands.

“Let me take care of you, mmh?” you whisper, your lips brushing his ear as the words melt against his skin.

Without words, he sinks back into you, surrendering without resistance, his body relaxing between your arms. His hands find your thighs, fingers curling into the soft flesh like he’s trusting himself to you.

You shift slightly, your arms moving with practiced ease as you tug his boxers down just enough to free his hardening member out of its confine. He’s already firm in your palm, and you wrap your fingers around him again, drawing out a soft, broken sound from deep in his chest.

Your strokes are slow and measured. You want him to feel all of it. Every bit of tenderness, every ounce of care. Chris’s eyes flutter shut, lips parted, and his head tilts slightly back against your shoulder. You take the opportunity to press gentle kisses to his temple, the corner of his eye, the edge of his jaw.

“Look at you…” you murmur sweetly into his ear, the words warm and affectionate, “letting me take care of you.”

A kiss follows, right on his jawline, and he shudders beneath your mouth. Your other hand moves to brush the hair off his forehead, fingertips skimming down his cheek while your strokes grow more purposeful, steady and sure.

His breathing quickens. His grip on your thighs tightens, fingertips digging in, leaving crescent marks on the skin. His chest rises and falls, every breath heavier than the last.

“Does it feel good, baby?” you ask softly, your voice pure silk.

He tries to answer, but it comes out as a groan—a choked, helpless sound that tells you everything you need to know. You kiss his open mouth, catching the sound between your lips, swallowing it whole. He leans into you more, melting, unraveling beneath your hands.

You feel the change in his body—the subtle shift in tension, the twitch of his hips, the low whine that slips from his throat. You know he’s close.

“Are you going to come for me?” you whisper against his cheek, breath warm, words thick with affection.

 “Yeah…” His answer is immediate, voice strained, needy. “Yeah.”

You smile against his skin, so full of love and pride in how he gives himself over to you completely. You kiss him again, slow yet deeper and then quicken your strokes, your hand moving fluidly over him.

With how fast you’re pumping his cock and the way he’s twitching in your palm, Chris breaks with a gasp, his release spilling over your hand, thick and warm. You don’t stop right away. You slow your movements, easing him through it, drawing every last flicker of pleasure from him until he collapses fully against you, chest heaving, body flushed a lovely red.

You cradle him gently, arms wrapped around his chest, your cheek resting against the side of his face. “You’re doing so well, baby,” you whisper, fingers stroking his chest in slow, soothing patterns.

Chris turns his head just enough to look at you with his eyes heavy-lidded but soft, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. He leans in slowly and kisses you, tender and grateful, and you hold him tighter. You kiss him back just as slowly, memorizing the feel of him, the weight of him in your arms, the way his body melts into yours like he belongs there. And maybe this is the only place he can really rest.

Your fingers trace idle patterns on his skin, your lips brushing against the side of his face, and as his breathing begins to even out, you feel his hand gently squeeze your thigh and, in that moment, as you hold him and his heartbeat slows under your touch, you tell yourself—

No matter how far his mind strays, you hope he always finds his way back to you.

-

The soft rustling pulls you out of sleep—fabric shifting, the faint clink of metal, the almost-silent zip of a jacket. Your lashes flutter as you force your eyes open, the bluish tint of early morning bleeding through the curtains. You blink a few times, trying to focus and Chris is standing there, already dressed, already moving. He's buckling his gun holster, jaw tight in the hush of dawn.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, voice thick with sleep as you call him. “Baby?”

He startles just a little before turning to face you, his expression softening with guilt. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You glance at the clock. 5:47 a.m. “…Why are you up this early?” you mumble, rubbing at your eyes.

Chris picks up his jacket. “Felix and I are going to check out the lab results for a case we’re working on.”

You try to keep your voice gentle, not accusing. “And you have to go now?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just slipping his arms into the sleeves and smoothing the jacket over his chest after. When he finally speaks, it’s low but firm. “Yes.”

The way he says it… there’s no room left for questions and you know better than to push. You just sit there, watching as he crosses the room, hand bracing on the mattress as he leans in to kiss you. It’s slow and lingering, like he wants to stay but knows he can’t.

When he pulls back, his fingers sweep your hair gently from your face. “Go back to sleep,” he whispers.

Before he can pull away again, your hand curls around the lapel of his jacket and tugs him in for one more peck. “Be careful, okay?” you whisper against his lips.

He manages a small smile and a kiss to your forehead. Then he straightens up, heading for the door. But then he stops by the doorway, he looks over his shoulder and says, “Get some more rest, baby.”

You nod, barely and watch him leave. Once you hear the front door click shut, you lie back against the pillow, staring at the spot he left behind—still warm, still faintly smelling like him—and you exhale slowly.

Somehow, with each passing day, it feels a little more like he’s slipping through your fingers and you don’t know how to hold on without making him feel trapped.

-

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzes quietly in the background as Chris leans against the counter, a paper cup of vending machine coffee warming his hands, the bitterness already coating his tongue. Felix stands a few feet away, sipping his coffee slowly, quietly. They’ve been waiting almost half an hour for the tech to return with the lab results.

Neither of them speaks much—just the occasional sigh or glance toward the hallway until Felix breaks the silence with a question that Chris kind of expected but not yet has the answer to.

“What if it’s not Silvene?” he asks, voice casual but not careless.

Chris keeps his eyes on the cup in his hand. “Then we still have to catch whoever did it.”

Felix nods and hums, lifting his cup for another sip. “And if it is Silvene?”

That makes Chris pause. He stares into the dark swirl of his coffee, watching the liquid settle. His fingers tighten slightly around the cup. “…Then we have to catch her,” he says quietly. “No matter what.”

His answer hangs in the air between them, full and heavy because deep down, he knows it’s not just about the case anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time. Felix knows that too without him having to explain it.

The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor shatters the moment and then the lab door creaks open. A tired-looking forensic tech walks in, a manila folder in his hand and a clipboard tucked under his arm.

“You’ve got something?” Chris straightens, setting his cup aside. Felix perks up beside him.

The tech nods, flipping the folder open as he walks toward them. “Yeah. We ran a breakdown on the residue found at the gallery scene. Composition matches the same fine silver particulate we’ve seen before.”

Chris doesn’t even have to say it as he exchanges a glance with Felix. The ghost of the past is haunting him, yet again.

“Identical compound,” the tech confirms, holding out the file. “Same chemical signature. Same distribution pattern. Same rare trace of mercury vapor, too.”

Chris grabs the file, eyes scanning every line even though he knows what he’ll find. That exact same blend that is so carefully crafted it’s nearly impossible to replicate.

Felix leans in slightly. “Can we trace it?”

The tech shakes his head with a faint grimace. “Still untraceable. Whatever supplier they’re using, it’s underground. We can’t link it to any commercial vendors. It's practically a ghost material.”

Chris exhales through his nose, jaw flexing. His fingers linger on the edge of the folder a second too long. The room suddenly feels too small. Too quiet.

Felix lightly nudges him. “Chris?”

However, Chris isn’t listening anymore. Because something coils in his chest—tight and familiar. He thought he'd let it go. He thought he buried it the moment he chose peace over obsession, you over the hunt. But now? Now, he can feel it returning—sharp, hungry, and all-consuming.

Silvene. She's back. She’s here. And this time, he won’t let her disappear.

-

These past few days have gone pretty much like this. Chris, hunched over his desk, red-rimmed eyes fixed on the looping footage from the gallery’s security cams. He rewinds the same three-minute clip again. Then again and again. Hoping he catches something, a glimpse of the silver-dusted ghost as he tells himself that there's something here. He can feel it. Something he's missing.

He rubs his face with both hands, exhaling through gritted teeth as he still finds nothing apart from the clues that leads to nowhere.

He barely hears the footsteps behind him until Felix appears at his side, holding a thin case file and two cups of steaming coffee. He places one on Chris’s desk without a word, then glances at the screen.

“You’re still watching that?” Felix sighs as he sets the file down. “Chris, it’s been days.”

Chris doesn't take his eyes off the screen even though his eyes are dry and heavy. “There has to be something.”

“We’ve combed that footage six times. There's no new lead.”

Chris exhales sharply, frustration clawing at his chest. “It’s Silvene. And if she’s here, she’s planning something. I can feel it.”

“I get it,” Felix says evenly, sitting on the edge of the desk. “But obsessing over this is getting us nowhere. You’re chasing a shadow, man. Meanwhile, these—” He taps the stack of folders on Chris’s desk. “—are real cases. Real cases with actual leads. Witnesses. Evidence. We need to handle it.”

Chris doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers curl around the mouse again, ready to scrub through the footage one more time. However, Felix is quick to grab the computer mouse from his hand.

“We’ve got stacks of cases piling up, Chris. And I get it—you want to catch Silvene. So do I. But you haven’t slept properly in days, and you’re ignoring everything else. You’ve been stuck in the same loop and it’s starting to show.”

Chris leans back in his chair, the words sinking into his skin, heavier than he wants to admit. He only realizes it now how his desk is a mess—case files untouched, coffee cups stacked like monuments to his exhaustion. He's been here every night. Skipping meals. Sleeping an hour at best. Pacing the same mental track until it’s burned into his brain.

Felix leans forward, sitting in the interrogation chair across from him with arms folded in front of him. “Just go home, man,” His tone softens as he continues, “Have some homecooked meals. Rest. Your girlfriend must be missing you.”

His chest tightens at the mention of you. He hasn’t texted you back in hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he actually looked you in the eye, touched you with intention, asked about your day. Even your scent—something that used to cling to his skin—feels like it's fading from memory. It’s only hitting him now that he indeed has been ignoring everything, including you.

Chris swallows down the guilt and slowly gets to his feet, he grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. “You’re right,” he mutters.

Felix looks up. “Wait—what?”

“I said you’re right.” Chris exhales through his nose. “I’ll go home.”

“Holy shit,” Felix smirks. “Write that down. Detective Bang said I was right.”

Chris offers a half-hearted glare as he pulls on his jacket. “Hey, don’t push it.”

But even as he steps out of the precinct, the weight of Silvene still lingers in his chest and the guilt that is pooling at the pit of his stomach, follows him all the way home.

-

The apartment is quiet and dark when Chris walks in, just the faint glow spilling from the ajar bedroom door, painting a slice of warm light across the floor. He toes off his shoes by the threshold and sets his keys down with care, as if any louder sound might break the fragile stillness of the home.

It’s well past midnight—and he knows you must be asleep. You always wait up, but maybe even you grew tired of that this time. He pushes the bedroom door open gently, his eyes immediately land on the bed. The sheets are rumpled, but empty.

His brows furrow in question as he glances toward the bathroom—door wide open, no light inside. No sound of running water. No steam curling from the edges.

You’re not here and a knot forms in his chest. Did you… leave?

God, it makes sense. He’s barely spoken to you all week. Hasn’t touched you. Hasn’t looked at you. He’s spent more nights at the precinct than in this bed. He sinks down on the edge of the mattress, the ache behind his eyes blooming now into something ugly: Regret.

But then he hears a soft clatter from another part of the apartment and he stands abruptly, following the faint sound with long, careful strides. It leads him to the laundry room, the door cracked open just enough for him to peek through and there you are, hunched over the washing machine, lid open, a jar of detergent in your hands. You’re in your sleep shirt, hair loosely tied up, the warm light above casting a golden hue across your face.

“Babe?” he says quietly.

You yelp, spinning around with your hand over your chest. “Goodness, Chris!” you gasp. “Why are you sneaking up on me like that?”

He flinches just the slightest. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You huff softly as you quickly screw the lid back onto the detergent jar and tuck it away. You’re turning to face him fully now, your brows raised in a mix of surprise and confusion.

“It’s the middle of the night,” he says, taking a step closer. “Why are you doing laundry?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you shrug, your voice quieter this time.

It hits him all over again. You couldn’t sleep, probably waiting for him to come home for hours, alone, in the dark and yet… you’re still here. Before you can say anything else, he crosses the room in a few strides and pulls you into him, arms circling tight around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

You freeze for a second, surprised by the intensity of it, but your hands slowly rise to hold him back—one over his shoulder, the other cradling the back of his head.

“Rough day, mmh?” you murmur against his hair.

He can’t even answer. He just nods, the motion small, his throat too full to speak. Because it’s more than just a rough day. It’s a crushing week. A storm in his mind that never stopped. And right now, wrapped up in you, it all begins to quiet.

This. This is what he’s been missing. Not the case. Not the chase. Not the twisted satisfaction of being one step closer. But this warmth. This softness. You.

-

Chris have his hands stacked on the dining table, watching you make a bowl of noodles for him. You move in silence. Not cold, not angry, just... quiet. And it’s that quiet that unsettles him the most.

Even now, as the two of you sit next to each other on the dining table with the bowl of noodles between you, shoulders nearly touching, it feels like there’s a thin, invisible wall between you, it’s not something he can break with words and he doesn’t know how to start either.

So he picks up his chopsticks instead and starts to eat, the broth still too hot, the first bite burning the roof of his mouth—but he barely feels it. He swallows, then clears his throat. “It’s really good,” he says, looking over at you.

You glance at him, smile faintly as you reach for the pitcher of water. “All I did was boil the noodles and add the sauce packets.”

It’s such a simple, matter-of-fact sentence but to him, it feels like more than that. It’s like you're saying: I'm still here. But I don’t know for how long.

Chris nods once, slowly, and the weight in his chest tightens. He sets his chopsticks down, wiping his hands on the edge of the napkin. “I’m sorry,” he finally speaks.

You don’t say anything but pour him a glass of water.

“This past week… I haven’t been myself. The case I’m working on…” He decides to spare you the details and continues, “Been trying to solve it every hour I get because I can’t stand the thought of the perpetrator slipping away again.”

Still, you don’t interrupt as you slide the glass of water across the table.

“It’s the job… It gets in the way.” He swallows. “Of everything. Of us. And I know it’s not fair. I know I haven’t been here, haven’t shown up the way I should.”

You finally look at him and your voice is soft, but sure as you say, “Chris, I don’t have a problem with your job. If I did, I wouldn’t have dated you in the first place. I know who you are. I know what you do. It’s not about that.”

You pause, and the way you say the next words makes his heart clench. “I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

Something in him cracks and without hesitation, he reaches across the table and takes your hand in his. “You didn’t. I’m still here.”

His thumb tenderly caressing the back of your hand and with a low, hoarse voice, he sadly adds, “If you’ll still have me.”

You don’t answer but you reach up, cupping his jaw with your free hand, your thumb brushing lightly against his cheek.

Chris closes his eyes, the warmth of your touch grounding him more than anything else has in days. His hand rises, placing itself gently over yours, keeping it there. Leaning you’re your touch. Holding on.

For a long, quiet moment, he just stays like that. Breathing, letting the noise in his head fade, replaced by this: a tender touch that wards all of his worries away.

When he opens his eyes again, he finds you already watching him and he smiles, softly and gratefully because despite everything he’s done, despite how close he came to letting it all slip through his fingers... You’re still here.

-

The sheets are warm and tangled around your legs. Your body fits perfectly against his like it always does, your hands are clawing at his back, your breasts squashed between the chests. Chris has you under him, hovering just slightly, placing featherlight kisses on your neck, earning soft and breathy giggles from you and the sound making something flutter in his chest.

He can’t help it. He keeps going, kissing down your throat, your collarbones, back to your neck. You twitch under him from how ticklish it is, and your laughter bubbles out freely. It makes him smile against your skin, and oh, how he missed this. This closeness. The feel of your body against him. You.

His lips roam with a hunger that’s soft at first but grows with each kiss. On your lips. Your neck. Your chest. Anywhere he can land his lips on. He lets his hands slide slowly down the curve of your side, finding the dip of your waist, the softness there beneath his fingers. He squeezes gently on the flesh, drawing a gasp from you, and it makes him grin.

God, he missed touching you. Feeling you laugh underneath him. Hearing your breath hitch from his touches. The tension builds between your bodies like something familiar but newly precious. The kiss turns heavier, wetter, sloppier in the best way. He groans softly into your mouth, already losing himself in the feeling of you.

But then, you gently press your palm against his chest, pushing him away. “Just know that you’re not getting any tonight,” you mutter lowly, voice still breathless.

Chris pulls back slightly, blinking at you, then pouts. “Not even a little?”

He kisses you again, small and repetitive pecks to your lips, trying to wear you down. You just smile and brush back the curls falling into his face.

Your eyes catch his in the dim light, and he swears he could drown in the softness he sees there. “You have to try a little harder for that, sir,” you tease, voice light, fingers raking through his hair.

Chris groans dramatically and drops his head onto your chest, nestling it right between your breasts. He mumbles something incoherent, and you laugh again while lovingly patting his head.

“And it’s getting late,” you add.

Before you can finish that thought, he mutters quickly, “Okay, but you can’t stop me from kissing these babies.”

You don’t even have time to react, he’s already planted one messy kiss on each breast, smug satisfaction in the way his lips curl against your skin. You don’t stop him. You just let out a soft, amused sound and say, “I’m serious. It’s getting late and I’m sleepy.”

Chris lifts his head to look at you. His hand reaches up, tracing the soft curve of your cheek, then the bridge of your nose, the gentle swipes his thumb over your lips and then he leans in, placing the softest of kiss, pure and chaste like a promise.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

“Goodnight,” you whisper back as he pulls away.

He rests his head on your chest again, arms around your waist, body tucked against yours and when he closes his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his ear… he knows he’s home.

-

You wake to the soft weight of his arm around your waist, the slow rise and fall of his chest pressed against your back. You turn your head slightly and smile when you find Chris is still asleep, lips softly parted in the gentlest pout, breathing slow and even with the faintest snore escaping now and then. His curls are an unruly mess, sticking out in every direction from where he’d buried himself against you last night.

The morning light filters in, pale and golden, casting a warm glow on his pale skin, on the curve of his jaw, on the plush of his lips, on the mouth that murmured "goodnight" against your lips just hours ago. He’s the most beautiful like this. Peaceful, still, unguarded.

Your fingers drift along his arm, tracing the evident veins on his skin, feeling the faint twitch of muscle beneath. You let yourself stay like this for a while—held in his arms, listening to the quiet of morning, and thinking about last night.

The way he looked at you when he said, "If you’ll still have me."

The vulnerability in his voice. The weight in his eyes. They linger in your chest like an echo. You reach up carefully, brushing your knuckles along his cheek. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and he leans into it ever so slightly, even in sleep. There’s something sacred about this—being the one who gets to see him like this. The man underneath the badge, beneath the tough exteriors, the quiet walls he builds around himself when the world gets too heavy.

Despite it all, you still want him. And deep down, beneath everything, you love him too.

No matter what comes. No matter what breaks or bends. You’ll be there. For him. With him.

Always.

-

The curls of steam escaping your cup of coffee as you’re half-focused on your laptop, the warm mug in your hand keeping your fingers toasty. You're scrolling through movie listings when you hear the soft creak of the bedroom door opening.

You turn in your seat with a smile already forming. “Morning,” you sweetly greet.

Chris grins back at you, his eyes squinting slightly from the brightness of the room, his curls a full mess and his voice raspy with sleep. “Morning,” he murmurs back.

He pads over to you without hesitation, wrapping his arms around your shoulders from behind, leaning down to place a kiss on the top of your head. You tilt your head to the side and he instantly finds your lips, kissing you softly, still warm from sleep. Then he drops into the chair next to you with a sleepy grunt, rubbing his face.

You reach out and run your fingers through his curls. “Anything you want for breakfast, mmh?”

He just blinks slowly, too drowsy to form words and you chuckle from how adorable he acts, brushing more of his hair back. “I’ll just get you your juice, okay?”

You get up, walk over to the kitchen, grab a glass from the cupboard, and fill it with orange juice before coming back to sit next to him again. You place the glass in front of him, and he mutters a quiet gratitude before taking a sip. As you go back to your laptop, checking showtimes for a film you’ve been meaning to see, you feel his gaze flicker to your screen.

“Are you planning on seeing a movie?” he asks between sips.

You act nonchalant even though you have planned this ahead. “Yeah, I kind of want to see this one. Maybe I’ll go later.”

He puts the glass down, squinting at you. “And who are you going with?”

You shrug with your eyes still on the screen. “Alone, I guess.”

He narrows his eyes and rests one arm on the back of your chair, leaning closer. “And you’re not going to ask your boyfriend to come with you?”

You shrug again and bite back a smile. “Nah, my boyfriend is busy saving the world.”

Chris breaks into soft laughter and wraps both arms around you from the side, pulling you closer into his warmth. “I’ll come with you,” he says against your shoulder. “And I’ll even try not to fall asleep this time.”

You turn to look at him, quirking a brow. “Well, don’t you have a jewel thief to chase?”

His smile falters just a little, but he sighs with dramatic flair. “Not anymore,” he says, kissing your cheek. Then he leans back and adds, “I’ll try to get off work early today.”

This time, you’re the one giving him suspicious eyes. “Huh? Really?”

He grins, undeterred, and kisses you again on the lips. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”

You pretend to think about it, tapping your chin, making him wait a beat too long. “Yeah, okay,” you finally say with a sly smile. “If you insist.”

He laughs, pulling you fully into his side. “Oh, I do insist.”

You look at him, that sleepy smile still on his face, the light in his eyes earnest, and you trust him. You believe him. Still, you can’t help but tease, leaning in closer as you murmur against his lips, “You’d better be there… if you want to get any tonight.”

-

The scent of hair products still cling to your hair as you unlock your apartment door and step inside. It’s been a while since you indulged in a bit of self-care, and the way your freshly done hair sways as you move makes you feel a little more like yourself again. You’re feeling good—better, even.

You place your bag down and head into the bedroom, walking over to your closet. Fingertips trail over hanged clothes until they stop at the dress, the one you’ve been saving for a special occasion, something simple but pretty. You take it off the hanger and lay it on the bed before slowly changing, slipping out of your house clothes and into the fabric like it's second skin.

As you adjust the hem and smooth your hands down the front, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and it hits you that you and Chris haven’t gone on a proper date in what feels like forever. Between his long work hours, the emotional tug-of-war over the cases, and the quiet tension that’s been living in your shared space lately, there hasn’t been room for soft things like movie nights or dressing up for no reason. But tonight? Tonight feels different.

Excitement starts bubbling in your chest as you reach for your jewelry, nothing too flashy, just delicate earrings and a necklace. You fasten it around your neck and reach for your phone to check the time, but you find a new message from Chris instead: About to wrap things up here. Can’t wait to sleep through the movie.

Your lips curl into a slow, content smile as you sink onto the edge of the bed. He remembered. He’s making time.

Maybe tonight, after everything, after the apologies and the missed dinners and the late nights where you fell asleep before he even made it home, maybe tonight is the night you and Chris can really be together again. Just the two of you, and a long overdue date that already feels like the beginning of something real again.

-

Chris’s boots slam against the uneven pavement as he barrels down the narrow alley, his lungs burn from how fast he’s running. The perp ahead of him—lanky, fast, fueled by desperation—dives toward a chain-link fence, crouching low to slip through a hole at the bottom.

Luckily, Chris is faster. He lunges forward, grabbing a handful of the guy’s hoodie and yanking him back just as he’s about to escape. The perp lets out a strangled noise as Chris slams him to the ground, concrete scraping against his palms and knees.

“Nice try,” Chris mutters, heart thudding as he wrestles the perp’s arm behind his back and locks one cuff in place.

The guy squirms, cursing under his breath, but Chris keeps him pinned. The second cuff clicks shut just as heavy footsteps echo down the alley behind him.

Felix comes a little too late, panting, eyes wide as he slows down and surveys the scene. “Shit—” he exhales, bending forward with his hands on his knees before straightening up again. “You good?”

Chris nods silently and hauls the guy to his feet, gripping the chain of the cuffs. “Got him just in time.”

Felix lets out a dry breath, still winded. “You really can’t let me win once, huh?”

Chris flashes him a quick smirk but says nothing, stepping aside as Felix grabs the perp by the arm and jerks him toward him.

“I’ll take him to the precinct,” Felix says, already starting to walk the perp back toward the car.

Back in the precinct, Chris types furiously at his keyboard, eyes scanning the screen as he logs the last bit of information from the arrest. His desk is cluttered—half-empty coffee cup, a pen that keeps rolling to the edge, and a growing stack of reports he plans to ignore for now. He’s focused at the task in hand as he has somewhere to be, someone to get to and he’s not going to be late.

“Jesus,” Felix mutters from somewhere behind him, “I’ve never seen you this passionate about paperwork.”

Chris chuckles but doesn’t look up as his fingers still busy typing. “I’m just getting the job done.”

Felix scoffs a laugh and then he leans close, he lowers his voice as he jokingly asks, “What, did you have a sniff of cocaine in the evidence room or something?”

Chris bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking as he leans back and swivels his chair toward Felix. “Tempting but nope.”

Felix smirks, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the edge of Chris’s desk. “So what’s the rush? Hot date with your reports?”

Chris grins. “I’m going to the movies.”

Felix raises a brow. “With your girlfriend?”

Chris nods, expecting another jab—some sarcastic remark or over-the-top reaction, but Felix just gives a small nod in return and stays quiet. He narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Wait—are you not going to tease me?”

Felix shrugs, almost too casual. “Do you want me to?”

Chris huffs out a dry laugh. “I mean, you usually go on and on about how I ditch work the second she texts me.”

“Yeah, well…” Felix gives him a look—pointed but not unkind. “It just means you’re back to your normal setting.”

Chris knows exactly what Felix means and he’s right. The past few days, he had been spiraling, sucked into the storm that is Silvene. But now? Now, he’s thinking about you in a movie theater, maybe dressed up, maybe laughing at something dumb on screen while holding his hand in the dark. He’s thinking about your warmth, your voice, your lips brushing against his cheek before a kiss.

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing,” Chris mutters, mostly to himself.

Felix pushes off the desk and starts walking away, but he throws one last thing over his shoulder. “Just don’t fall asleep halfway through the movie, Romeo.”

Chris snorts at that and mindlessly mutters, “No promises.”

Then he turns back to his screen, eager to finish his job as soon as possible because he has a date to make and this time, he’s not going to miss it.

Once he’s finished with all of his tasks, Chris steps into the elevator, the metallic doors sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss. He pulls out his phone and opens your chat, his thumbs flying over the screen as he types: Just getting off work now. I’ll be there in about half an hour.

He presses send with a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Finally. It’s going to be just the two of you, and whatever movie you’ve picked. He doesn’t even care what it is. You could drag him to the sappiest rom-com or some three-hour slow burn and he’d still be happy. As long as he gets to be with you.

The elevator dings at the lobby floor. Chris walks through the precinct with a lightness in his step that feels rare these days. He heads straight to the underground parking lot, already fishing through the pockets of his jacket. He stops mid-stride and pats himself down, once, twice. A groan escapes him when the realization hits.

“Shit. I left them on my desk,” he mutters to himself, running a hand through his curls in frustration.

He spins on his heel and heads back upstairs, taking another elevator ride that feels longer than the previous. When the doors slide open, he walks back into the bullpen and there they are, right where he left them: his car keys sitting neatly beside his keyboard.

He grabs them with a scoff and mutters to himself, “So much for smooth exits.”

However, when he turns around, his stops on his track as there, across from him, sits the security guard from the MESA gallery and right next to him, Felix, arms crossed, looking slightly surprised to see Chris standing there.

Chris takes slow steps toward Felix’s desk. “Hey, what… What’s going on?”

Felix looks like he’s got caught doing something he shouldn’t. He scratches the back of his neck as he answers, “Uh I- I didn’t think you were coming back.”

Felix’s answer doesn’t quite tell Chris what he wants to know, his eyes narrowed at Felix and then at the guard who looks fidgety on his seat, his eyes darting between the two detectives, hands clasped nervously on his lap.

Felix nods toward the guy. “He walked in twenty minutes ago. Said he didn’t tell us something the first time.”

Chris’s grip tightens around the keys in his hand and he can feel all of it—the date, the movie, you—slowly slipping through his fingers. And in return, something else creeps back in. Cold. Obsessive. Silver.

-

You’re just getting off a taxi when your phone buzzes in your purse, you pull it out to see a new message from Chris: Just getting off work now. I’ll be there in about half an hour.

You smile at the screen, heart skipping a little beat. You knew he’d come through. You trusted him, and you’re glad you did. Maybe tonight really will feel like old times—just you and him.

You arrive at the movie theater a little early, it’s buzzing with the low chatter of people gathering for their own nights out. You don’t even hesitate, you step up to the counter and buy two tickets.

As you walk toward the seating area, you send him another text: Movie starts at 7. Don’t be late, detective.

You imagine the little grin that might tug at his lips when he reads that, maybe even the quickening pace of his steps. You sit down in one of the sofa benches, your fingers curl around the paper tickets in your hand as you wait.

But later, when you check the time and it’s close to 7, you begin glancing at the entrance every few minutes. You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s probably on his way. Or he’s stuck in traffic.

The time shows 7:02 so you text him again just to make sure where he is and how close he is to arriving.

Where are you? Are you on your way?

After a moment, there’s no reply. You give him more time while convincing yourself that maybe he’s stuck in traffic. Maybe his phone died. Maybe… something.

You open the chat again, stare at the last thing he sent, and then back at the ticking time on your phone. 7:20 now. You try calling. One ring, two and it sends you right to voicemail.

You press your lips together, exhale slowly. It's fine. He'll call back any second. Right?

Another fifteen minutes. You check the entrance again. People pass by in couples, friends, families but no sight of Chris. You call again and still no answer.

That small spark of hope you’d been tending to all day? It flickers now, growing dimmer with every minute that slips away.

Soon, the theater grows quiet as the last crowd disappears into their screens. You’re still standing outside, your ticket crumpled slightly in your palm, your other hand tightening around your phone.

You collapse onto the bench, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. You waited. You really waited. You gave him the benefit of the doubt, even when your gut twisted in that all-too-familiar ache.

It’s 8:52 now and you Realize that he’s not coming. You tear the movie tickets into shreds, dumping it into the trash and with that, you walk away with an empty promise.

-

The second you step into the apartment, the quiet swallows you whole. You drop your keys on the counter a little too hard, the metallic clatter echoing across the empty space.

You stand there for a moment, staring at the faint reflection of yourself in the darkened window. The dress you picked out hours ago, the one you thought he’d notice, suddenly feels ridiculous. The hair you intentionally did at the salon, now a mess from walking in anger.

One by one, you strip them away. The earrings hit the coffee table with a sharp clink. The heels land somewhere by the couch. You peel off the dress like it’s burning your skin, tossing it in a heap on the floor. You don’t even care if it wrinkles.

By the time you’re in an old T-shirt and shorts, your heart is still hammering—not from sadness, but from the hot, pulsing anger that’s been simmering all night.

It’s nearly midnight now and Chris still hasn’t texted. No sorry, no I couldn’t make it, no I’m safe. Nothing. Not even the bare minimum. You pace the length of your bedroom before finally sitting on the bed, staring at your phone like you can will it to light up, but the screen stays stubbornly black.

Even as you lie down on bed and ready to end the day, sleep isn’t coming. You stare up at the ceiling in the dark, every tick of the clock grinding into you.

Chris has made mistakes before—he’s human. But never like this. Never one you couldn’t tolerate. He used to be the man who would fight to keep his promises, even if it meant crawling to you at the last minute. He used to try.

Something’s different now and you can feel it in the way he looks at you—less often, less certain. In the way his voice drifts away mid-conversation, his mind clearly somewhere else. Somewhere you can’t follow.

You’re afraid, afraid that whatever’s pulling him away isn’t just the job. Afraid that this shift in him means something bigger, something irreversible. You’re afraid the relationship is changing and it’s not for the better.

-

The security guard’s hands fidget on the table, his eyes darting between Chris and Felix like he’s not sure who to be more nervous about. He’s been keeping one important detail about that night because he’s afraid of losing his job and now, he’s being intensively interrogated by the two detectives.

Chris leans forward, voice steady. “Walk me through it again. Every minute.”

The man swallows as he tells him again. “Like I said… nothing unusual until about two-forty-five. Then the lights went out. Lasted maybe… ten minutes?”

Chris’s pen stops moving. “Ten minutes.”

Felix shifts in his seat, brow furrowed. “That’s barely enough time for her to get in, grab anything worth taking, and get out without getting caught.”

“It’s enough for her,” Chris says without hesitation. His mind is already playing the scene in flashes—silver dust catching faint light, a shadow moving silently in the dark. “This is her window. She planned that blackout.”

Felix still doesn’t look convinced, but Chris isn’t interested in convincing him right now. He’s already on his feet, snapping his notebook shut. “Get the power outage logs. I want every second accounted for.”

The rest of the night blurs into movement—tracking the path Silvene might’ve taken, reviewing surveillance for the moments before the blackout, searching for patterns no one else would see. The trail feels fresher than it has in months, close enough he can almost touch her.

However, somewhere between reviewing timestamps and taking notes, he glances at his phone. The notifications have stopped coming. Hours ago, it wouldn’t stop buzzing—missed calls, texts from you, he’s sure, but now… nothing. Just a silent, black screen.

For a brief moment, something twists in his chest. He thinks about how you waited for him and how you realized that he’s not coming. He pictures you alone in the dark of the apartment, wondering where the hell he is and why hasn’t he say anything about it to you.

He does think about you, but the sooner he catches Silvene, the sooner he can come back to you. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he turns back to the case file and pushes everything else aside.

-

The clock on the far wall says it’s morning again, but his body doesn’t feel like it’s had a night in between. Chris rubs his eyes, the grainy fatigue settling in after hours hunched over reports, surveillance stills, and scribbled notes.  He’s still deep in the outage reports when Felix strides up, a coffee in one hand and a rolled-up map in the other.

“Got something,” Felix says, spreading the map across Chris’s desk. His finger taps a red-shaded section. “That power cut wasn’t just the building we were looking at. It knocked out this entire district.”

Chris straightens, scanning the map with tired eyes.

“All these buildings,” Felix continues, pulling a printed list from under his arm. “Their electricity comes from the same grid. I marked them here.”

Chris takes the list, eyes darting down the column of names until one freezes him in place. The company name sounds familiar and then he remembers the night you received a call from work, something about the ransomware that took down the company’s system.

“You worked here,” he mutters, almost to himself as his finger trails over the name of the company, KSM Inc, and how it’s located only two buildings away from the gallery.

The memory sharpens: you laughing tiredly about pulling an all-nighter, your hands gesturing as you described the IT team scrambling. “You said their systems got hit… the same night as the outage.”

Felix tilts his head as he listens to Chris muttering things to himself. “What? Something comes to mind?”

Chris’s mind is already moving three steps ahead. “If she hit that building during the blackout, there’s a chance she was after more than just jewels.”

And if you were there that night…

Chris pushes back from the desk, the list still in his hand. You might be someone he can ask about that night. You might be a witness. A witness he needs to question.

-

The cursor blinks on your screen, the soft clack of your keys filling the quiet apartment. You’re halfway through drafting an email, brain locked on the numbers in front of you, when the sound of the front door opening breaks your focus.

You glance up, the habitual warmth already rising in your chest. Without thinking, you set your computer to sleep, pushing back from your chair. Your slippers flapping against the floor as you head toward the hallway.

That uncontainable smile breaks across your face before you can stop it, the kind of smile that always comes with the sight of Chris after a long night apart, but then your eyes shift past his shoulder, and the smile falters.

Behind Chris, Felix steps in and he gives you a small, polite smile the moment your eyes meet, but you’re too busy reading Chris’s expression, or rather, the complete absence of one. He looks… unsettled. His mouth opens once and then closes again, like the words he needs are still fumbling their way toward him.

“Hey. I’m sorry for coming unannounced,” Felix’s voice cuts through the awkward air, his tone careful but direct. “But can I have a few minutes with you? I just have some questions to ask you.”

You blink, a dozen questions of your own crowding your mind. What kind of questions does Felix have for you? Why is he here, in your apartment, looking so serious? But more than that—why hasn’t Chris said a single word since the moment he walked in?

A moment later, you sit on the couch, knees angled toward Felix, while Chris lingers in the kitchen with his back to you both, hands braced on the counter like he’s holding up the whole room.

Felix flips open a small notepad, his pen poised. “I wanted to ask about that night—you mentioned once you got called in for work at the KSM building for tech support?”

You nod. “Yeah. It was late. I got an urgent ticket to handle some ransomware issue for one of the departments.”

“What did you do exactly?” he asks, tone neutral, eyes scanning his notes rather than your face.

You recount everything—the security desk check-in, the empty halls, the endless troubleshooting that dragged until your eyes burned. Every detail you can remember.

Felix hums, jotting something down. “Do you remember if there was a blackout that night?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation. “It only lasted a moment. Lights cut out, monitors went black. Backup power kicked in almost immediately. I figured it was just a glitch.”

You pause, narrowing your eyes slightly. “I’m sorry but are these questions related to a case or something?”

Felix’s lips press into a thin line, and he glances toward the kitchen, seeking for permission to tell you. Chris doesn’t turn around, but you catch the subtle dip of his head—a nod so small it might have been missed if you weren’t watching for it.

“There was a robbery that night. At the MESA gallery. Which we discovered is only two buildings away from where you were working.” He leans back slightly, fingers fiddling with the edge of his notepad. “The blackout could have provided an opening.”

You shake your head. “It was so short—barely enough time to… I don’t know, grab a pen from a desk, let alone pull off a heist.”

“Yeah. I kind of doubt it too.” Felix’s gaze flickers toward Chris, and something silent passes between them, something you can’t quite read.

He closes his notepad with a soft snap. “You’ll probably be needed for more questioning at the precinct,” he says as he stands.

You follow suit, standing up and then nod at him. “Alright.”

“Thanks for your time,” he adds, his tone warm but brisk. Then, with a faint gesture toward Chris, he steps toward the door—making it clear he’s leaving to give you two privacy.

It’s just you and Chris in the room now. Neither of you moves, neither of you speaks, and the weight of it all sits heavy between you.

After a while, you decide to be the first to break the deafening silence. “So, you came home not to apologize or to see me,” you say, your voice cutting through the air, “you came because… I happen to be a witness on your case?”

Chris’s jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, his eyes giving away something you can’t quite read. He takes slow steps toward you, stopping just shy of your personal space, and says lowly, “I’m sorry.”

“Not only you missed our date, you didn’t come home. No texts, no calls, nothing…” Your voice wavers, but you meet his gaze without flinching. “Is this all we are now? A witness statement you need to take?”

You don’t mean to sound cruel, but patience has long since burned out.

He steps forward, closing the distance, and gently wraps his hands around your arms. “Let me explain,” he says, his tone careful, almost pleading. “I‘m working—"

You cut him off with a question that you’ve been itching to ask. “Do you even still care about our relationship?”

“You don’t understand. Catching Silvene is bigger than everything,” Chris snaps and a second later, it hits him that he’s just raised his voice at you.

You know he didn’t mean to snap at you like that, he didn’t mean to hurt you but it assures you that you’re losing him. You place your hand against his chest, holding his gaze steady as you firmly tell him. “Do whatever it is you want to do.”

“I just need to solve this case—” he tries again, but you cut him off with a look sharp enough to make him falter.

“Then let’s hope I’d still be around when that happens,” you say, each word deliberate.

That shuts him up, completely and you don’t wait for him to speak again. You turn on your heel, go back to your desk, and wake your computer.

The familiar glow of the screen feels safer than his eyes. Your fingers move over the keyboard, though your chest feels like it’s holding a storm that’s ready to split you open. You can feel him watching you from across the room, the weight of his stare pressing between your shoulder blades. You keep typing, keep ignoring him, until you hear him finally turn away.

The click of the front door is sharp and the sound of it closing behind him feels final.

-

Chris lingers by the door, one hand still gripping the cold metal of the knob. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe for a moment—just lets your words echo in his head like the final toll of a bell.

Then let’s hope I’d still be around when that happens.

He knows exactly what you meant and the truth is, it terrifies him—terrifies him more than anything he’s faced in the field. He’s faced armed suspects, high-speed chases, standoffs in narrow alleys—but the idea of losing you? Of watching this relationship slip away because he can’t seem to pull himself out of the case? That’s the kind of danger he can’t train for.

His eyes drop to his hand still clutching the knob and he feels a pull, a temptation to turn it, to step back inside, to cross the room and beg—beg you to stay, beg you to keep believing in him, but the question stops him cold.

Do I even deserve another chance?

A hand lands on his shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts. Chris turns to find Felix standing there, concern etched across his features.

“You okay, man?” Felix asks, voice low.

Chris forces a smile, the kind that feels brittle at the edges. “Yeah.”

Felix studies him for a beat longer. Years of friendship have taught him when Chris is lying, and this is one of those times. “Things okay between you two?”

Chris can’t answer—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know if the thread holding you both together is strong enough to survive this.

Instead, he places a hand on Felix’s shoulder and steers him toward the elevator. “Let’s solve this case as soon as possible.”

Felix nods, but Chris barely registers it. His mind is still back in the apartment, still with you, still clinging to the faint, stubborn hope that when all of this is over… you’ll still be there.

-

This moment right here. With the whiteboard looms over him like a puzzle he’s been staring at for too long. Photos, crime scene notes, maps, and half-scribbled theories are all pinned and taped into a sprawling web—Silvene’s handiwork mapped out in black ink and red string. It feels like he’s reliving his life—before you came and made him forget.

Chris stands beside Felix, marker in hand, writing down the precise timeline of the MESA gallery robbery.

2:23 – security guard finished their sweep around the gallery. 2:45 – the blackout. 2:55 – the electricity turned back on. 3:14 – security found an item has been stolen.

3:42 – police dispatched on site.

Felix leans in, tapping the end of his pen against a map of the area. “There are cameras here, here, and here… but not one caught her. It’s like she vanished into thin air.”

Chris exhales slowly, eyes sweeping the board again. “She didn’t vanish. She planned her escape route down to the second. We’re missing something.”

They stand there in silence for a moment, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The board stares back at them, offering nothing. Every lead they’ve chased either ends in a dead-end or circles back to the same untraceable silver dust.

Felix shakes his head. “Feels like we’re chasing a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” Chris says quietly, more to himself than to Felix. “A person. And people make mistakes.”

His jaw tightens as he takes a step back, forcing himself to look at the mess of clues from a new angle. He’s so close—close enough to feel it in his chest. If he can just connect one more dot, find one overlooked detail, he can finally put this to rest. He has to, because every hour this case drags on, you slip a little further from him.

Chris grabs another marker, circling times, drawing lines, trying to piece together the night’s sequence from memory. He tells himself he’s doing this for the job, for justice—but the truth is simpler and more desperate: He needs to solve this before he loses you.

He caps the marker, stepping back from the board with a frustrated exhale. “I’m going to investigate more about the blackout,” he says, already moving toward the door. “Someone had to see something that night—an outage like that doesn’t just happen without anyone noticing.”

He’s halfway turned when Felix’s voice stops him. “She’s coming in today.”

Chris’s hand hovers in the air as he’s about to grab his jacket. “What?”

“Your girlfriend,” Felix says carefully, almost like he’s testing the words. “She’s giving her witness statement today.”

The mention of you makes his throat go dry, a knot tightening in his chest. He hasn’t seen you since—God, has it only been days? It feels longer. The last conversation still echoes in his head, sharp-edged and raw, both of you walking away with more unsaid than spoken.

The case has been pulling at him, dragging him under, but the distance between you feels heavier than anything pinned on that board.

“I’ll handle it,” Felix offers, breaking the silence. “If you’d rather…”

Chris looks at him, then down at the floor, his jaw working before he finally nods once. “Okay.”

He looks away, as if turning from Felix will make it less obvious that he’s avoiding you. That he’s choosing not to see you when every instinct in him used to fight for the opposite.

-

It’s not the first time you came to the precinct, you had came here once to bring Chris his forgotten files along with his packed lunch. But this time, you came in with a sole purpose. You sit across from Felix’s desk, your hands folded neatly in your lap as you wait for him to return from the break area with a steaming paper cup.

“Coffee,” he says, a small smile as he sets it in front of you.

“Thank you,” you mutter with a polite nod, lifting it to your lips for a small sip.

Felix begins to work on his computer, fingers poised over the keys. “Alright—let’s start from the night of the robbery.”

He types, eyes locked on the screen as you share everything you know, giving him every detail you can remember—the sudden hush on the street, the flicker of emergency lights, the faint hum when power returned.

As Felix’s attention stays fixed on the computer, your gaze drifts to the desk across from his where Chris’s desk is. The chair is facing away, empty.

Felix catches you looking so he says, “He’s out. Chasing down leads about the blackout.”

You turn back to him and wrap your hand around the paper cup. “The whole district’s electricity comes from the same grid, you know.”

He briefly looks away from his computer. “Yeah. We’ve confirmed that.”

“But the blackout only happened in this district.” You lean back in your chair. “That means someone hacked the system.”

Felix’s typing slows. His eyebrows lift with intrigue. “That’s… interesting. Still—blackout was only for a few minutes. Not much time to pull off the whole thing.”

“It was enough,” you counter quietly. “The gallery’s security system took a few more minutes to reboot.”

Felix’s face changes instantly—like a light flicking on. He grabs a notepad, scribbling furiously. “How did I miss that the first time?” he mutters, almost to himself. “How did I—” He keeps writing, underlining, circling, as though the answer’s sitting right there in ink.

Then, there’s this shift in the air as if the precinct is suddenly on high alert, voices rising, movement quickening, phones ring non-stop.

Felix notices it too, head turning around the precinct as if he’s trying to get some clues as to what’s happening. “Excuse me a second,” he says, pushing his chair back and weaving into the growing knot of officers near the center of the room.

You catch snatches of chatter from those passing by. “—shooting at the hotel—” “—units already dispatched—” “—suspect still armed—”

Your eyes find Chris’s empty desk again and a quiet, heavy thought anchors itself in your chest. Please… don’t let him be anywhere near that.

You wait for Felix by taking another sip of the coffee—lukewarm now, the bitterness coating your tongue. You try to focus on its taste instead of the gnawing unease clawing at your chest.

The shooting chatter in the background won’t leave your ears, no matter how hard you try to tune it out. You tell yourself Chris is fine, he’s investigating about the blackout, that he’s not anywhere near it, that you’re just overthinking, but the bad feeling won’t let go.

When Felix finally returns, you’re already halfway out of your seat before you even realize you’ve moved. “So, what’s happening?” The words come out sharper, faster than you intended.

One look at his face, and your stomach sinks. He hesitates, his mouth parting only to close again, as if he’s weighing how much to tell you. “There’s… a shooting. At one of the hotels downtown,” he says carefully, his voice lower now, meant just for you. “Units have been dispatched to the scene.”

You feel your hands go cold, your pulse pounding in your ears as you hesitantly ask, “And Chris?”

His gaze wavers and that’s all the answer you need before he even says it. “He’s there.”

The air feels thinner all of a sudden. You drop back onto your chair, your knees barely holding you. Your chest tightens painfully, and you close your eyes against the swirl of noise around you.

The last thing you’d said to him—“Then let’s hope I’d still be around when that happens”—replays in your mind like a cruel loop and now all you can think is, what if it’s him who won’t be around?

-

Chris drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gear shift, his mind still tangled in the blackout investigation. He already knows there’s nothing new to find—no fresh leads, no trail to follow yet he went anyway. He’s convinced now that he’s using it as an excuse to avoid you.

The thought of walking into the precinct and finding you there, the thought of meeting your eyes and seeing that flicker of hurt because of him… it knots something in his chest. He can’t bear it, can’t face the quiet realization that he’s the one putting that look on your face, the one causing your pain.

The police radio crackles suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. “All units, we have reports of an active shooter at the Grand Vale Hotel. Officers on site requested immediately.”

Chris’s grip on the wheel tightens. He knows that hotel. He’s not far. Without thinking, his hand shoots out to grab the radio. “Unit 103, badge number 30025. I’m close. On my way.”

He flicks the siren on, the wail piercing the air as the city blurs past. His jaw is set, eyes locked ahead. At the next light, he makes a hard turn, tires squealing against the asphalt, heading straight toward danger feels easier than heading toward you.

The Grand Vale looms ahead, all glass and steel, reflecting the flashing red-and-blue from the cruisers already parked out front. Chris kills the siren but keeps the lights going, pulling in fast. He’s out of the car before it’s even fully stopped, adrenaline already coursing through his veins.

“Detective Bang!” an officer calls, jogging toward him with a bulletproof vest in hand. Chris shrugs into it quickly, fingers yanking the Velcro straps tight.

“What’s the situation?” he asks, scanning the lobby entrance where armed officers are stationed behind overturned furniture.

“Shooter’s on the fifteenth floor. Multiple hostages. SWAT’s moving in, but we’ve got civilians still being evacuated. We think he’s barricaded in one of the suites.”

Chris’s mind switches gears instantly—no more blackout investigation, no more Silvene, no more you. Just the job. Just the noise, the chaos, the sharp clarity that comes when the stakes are life and death.

The elevator is locked down, so he takes the stairs two at a time with two other officers, gun drawn, the radio clipped to his vest buzzing with updates. The higher he goes, the louder the tension builds—the hum of boots on concrete, the clipped orders, the faint, muffled sound of someone screaming behind closed doors.

And then— A gunshot.

-

The precinct is a hive of restless energy, but no one is moving with purpose—everyone is just… waiting. Phones ring, radios crackle, chairs scrape against the floor, but beneath it all is that thick, unspoken tension that wraps itself around your chest and squeezes.

You sit rigid in your chair, hands balled into fists on your lap, nails digging into your skin hard enough to sting. You try to keep your breathing even, to stay calm, but every second drags you closer to the kind of thoughts you don’t want to have. The kind where the worst outcomes take shape in vivid, merciless detail.

When the captain finally steps out of his office, every head turns. His face is grim as he announces. “The shooter’s in custody,” he says, voice heavy. A ripple of relief moves through the room—but it’s short-lived. “We have multiple injured officers on site. I don’t have confirmation yet if any are from our precinct.”

The floor tilts for a second, and you blink rapidly, swallowing the sudden rush of dizziness.

Felix appears at your side, pressing a paper cup of water into your hand. “Don’t worry,” he says, but the slight tightness in his voice betrays him. “Chris is… I’m sure he’s fine.”

You take a small sip, but the water tastes like nothing as your eyes drift, almost unwillingly, to Chris’s desk, still empty. You clench the cup harder, forcing the thought into your heart like a prayer. Chris, please… come back to me.

However, the minutes continues to stretch into something unbearable, each one heavier than the last. The longer you wait, the sicker you feel—like your stomach is turning over itself in slow, uneasy flips. You push yourself up from your chair, needing to move, to get air, to do anything other than sit here and wait. But your legs feel weak, they’re trembling and you end up plopping right back down, the edge of the seat catching you clumsily.

Felix is at your side in an instant, helping to keep you steady. “Hey, let’s just—I’ll drive you home,” he offers, crouching slightly so you meet his eyes.

You shake your head quickly, forcing a small, polite smile. “No. It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“Please, let me,” he says gently, sincerely yet his voice tinted with concerns.

You open your mouth to refuse again, but then his gaze shifts—drifting over your shoulder, past you—and something in his expression changes. His eyes widen, relief sparking like a match.

Before you can even turn, Felix is already moving, breaking into a jog. “Chris!” he calls out, his voice suddenly brighter, sharper.

Your heart lurches painfully. It could be nothing. It could be a cruel, false hope. You can’t stand the thought of turning and finding out it isn’t him. But you do anyway and there he is.

Chris is alive, whole and breathing.

-

Chris exhales slowly as he steps out of the hotel, the last of the shaken guests being escorted away by patrol officers. The shooter is in custody now, cuffed and locked in the back of a squad car, but the echoes of gunfire still feel like they’re ringing in his ears. The adrenaline’s fading, leaving behind the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that always hits after the chaos settles.

He walks to his car, sliding behind the wheel, and just sits there for a second, breathing, feeling the thump of his heartbeat start to calm. He’s grateful—God, he’s so damn grateful—to have made it out alive.

Eight years on the job, and it still scares him sometimes. No one likes to talk about that part. Everyone likes to pretend the badge makes you fearless, but fear’s still there, crouched low in the shadows. Chris knows he’s just a human and maybe that’s what keeps him alive—knowing he’s not invincible.

He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, the city lights blurring past his windows. Through all the noise in his head, one thought cuts clear. He has a reason to get back, to make it out alive every time and it’s you.

When he arrives at the precinct, the first thing Chris catches is Felix’s face—wide-eyed, tense, the kind of worry that only comes when you’ve been imagining every possible worst-case scenario.

“Chris!” Felix’s voice is sharp with relief as he strides forward.

Before Chris can even react, Felix’s hand is on his shoulder, gripping it tight enough that Chris feels the press of each finger through his jacket. He knows that hold, knows it’s not about pain, but about making sure he’s real.

Chris reaches up and pats Felix’s side, giving him a small, reassuring squeeze. “I’m alright, man,” he says, letting out a low chuckle that feels a little forced but necessary. “I’m still here to annoy you.”

Normally, that would’ve earned him some sarcastic quip, maybe even a light shove, but Felix doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smirk.

“It’s not that, it’s…” Felix starts, then trails off, his voice thinning out. He takes a small step to the side, letting Chris sees who’s sitting there across from Felix’s desk. You.

Your posture stiff but fragile all at once. You look worn—like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. Eyes still glazed with worry, panic clinging to your features like it’s etched in and his heart… breaks. Because despite everything you’ve said—every wall you’ve put up, every bit of distance you’ve tried to keep—you still care and maybe more than you’ll ever admit out loud.

Chris forces his legs to move, each step feeling heavier the closer he gets to you. He’s got a dozen things lined up in his head—questions, apologies, reassurances—but before he can get a single word out, you’re on your feet.

You don’t even look at him. Instead, your eyes dart to Felix. “We’re done, right?”

Felix hesitates, shoulders pulling tight before he gives a small, awkward nod. “Yeah.”

And just like that, you’re reaching for your purse. No words for Chris, not even a glance, just the quiet swish of the strap as it slides over your shoulder before you turn to leave.

Chris stands frozen, the air in his lungs refusing to move. He knows he should say something—anything—but his feet feel bolted to the floor. Then Felix’s hand presses firmly against his back, a not-so-gentle shove forward. Chris shoots him a glare over his shoulder but Felix doesn’t flinch, instead he snaps at him. “What are you still here? Go after her!”

That’s all it takes for the hesitation to snap. He’s moving before he even thinks, slipping out through the bullpen and scanning the hallway. He spots you on the stairs, your figure descending toward the lobby with clipped, determined steps. He takes the stairs two at a time until he catches up, his hand closing around yours.

Your head turns almost instantly, eyes locking with his. They’re glossy and fragile like one wrong word would send the whole thing shattering.

“Come on. I’ll drive you home,” Chris says quickly, the words tumbling out before you can pull away. He doesn’t wait for your answer, just shifts his grip to guide you toward the emergency stairwell.

The echo of your steps follows his as he pulls the door open, leading you down toward the parking basement. You don’t resist. You don’t speak. But you don’t let go, either. And Chris tightens his hold just enough to tell you—without saying it—that he’s here.

-

The drive home feels like wading through a swamp of silence—heavy, slow, and suffocating. Every glance he risks at you just makes it worse. Your face is turned toward the window, but your reflection in the glass makes his chest twist. He can’t tell if you’re angry, worried, or both, so he forces his eyes back to the road and grips the wheel tighter, letting the hum of the engine fill the void between you.

By the time you both step into the apartment, the quiet has turned unbearable. He sets his keys on the counter, draws in a breath, ready to start with a sincere apology but the words die the second he looks up and sees that you’re crying. Not just a stray tear or two—your cheeks are wet, your eyes swollen and red, your shoulders trembling under the weight of something he knows he caused.

“Hey—hey, baby, no. Please don’t cry,” he says softly, closing the distance in three long strides. His hands come up to your arms, warm and firm, thumbs brushing against your sleeves like he can soothe you through the fabric.

His plea only seems to break something in you as your quiet tears turn to ragged sobs, your breath hitching like you can’t catch it, and it kills him. He doesn’t know what to say, so he does what he can do—offer his comfort. He’s wrapping you up in his arms, pulling you tight against his chest. He buries his lips in your hair, pressing a tender kiss to the side of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words heavy with guilt. “I’m really, really sorry,”

His forehead comes to rest against yours, his palm cupping your jaw with a gentleness that contradicts the desperate edge in his voice. “Please, baby… talk to me, mmh?”

You keep crying instead, the tears slipping over his skin no matter how many times he tries to brush them away. After a while, you pull back just enough to wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand, leaving your skin raw and damp.

Your voice is hoarse, fragile—like it might shatter as you finally speak. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The words hit him like a sucker punch, his whole body goes still and panic flares instantly in his chest. This. You mean this relationship. You mean him and you. Us? His mind scrambles, his grip tightening like he can keep you here if he just holds on hard enough.

“No, no—baby, I’m sorry. This is on me, I’ll be better, I’ll try harder, I—” His voice falters, his breath catching. “Just… don’t. Please don’t—”

“I love you too much,” you suddenly add and your voice cracks as those words hold so much emotions.

For a moment, Chris swears his heart forgets how to beat. He didn’t expect that—not now, not when everything feels like it’s falling apart. And yet, hearing it, just like that… it’s the most beautiful, gut-wrenching thing he’s ever heard.

“And I love you too,” he breathes out, the confession thick with everything he feels but can’t name. He leans in, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your lips before murmuring against them, “So much.”

Chris kisses you again, hard and desperate, pouring everything he hasn’t said into the press of his lips. The world blurs until there’s nothing but the heat between you, the rush of breath, the muffled sounds against each other’s mouths. It’s only a matter of time before it deepens—your lips parting, your hands tangling in his hair, your body pressing closer as though you could disappear into him entirely.

He drops his hands to your waist, fingers gripping tight, and with a swift motion, he lifts you onto the edge of the dining table. The wood creaks beneath the shift of your weight, but he doesn’t hesitate to claim your mouth again, faster this time, rougher, until you’re clinging to him with your arms looped tight around his shoulders.

Your hands roam, impatient, tugging at his shirt until it’s free from the waistband of his jeans. The metal buckle of his belt clinks as you work it open, and he shrugs off his jacket in a rush, letting it drop to the floor with the faint thud of his holster still strapped inside. His shirt follows, gone over his head in one motion.

When he puts his focus on you again, he catches you pulling at the hem of your skirt until it hunches around your waist and you don’t waste any second to tug at the elastic band of your underwear. He immediately helps to get it off of you and the lacey fabric drops onto the floor in a second.

There’s no slowing down now—only heat, urgency, and the need to be closer than close. He pulls you forward until you’re perched at the very edge of the table. You part your legs for him, allowing him to see between the legs, how you’re throbbing and glistening wet for him.

He slips his hand into his brief, taking his cock out of its confine, stroking at it slowly with his eyes glued to your heating core.

God, he can’t hold himself back anymore when you’re so close, so ready for him. So he aligns his length to your entrance and pushes inside, just an inch or two. Then he presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, holding you still for a beat longer as though he’s bracing himself.

A while later, he continues pushing in the remaining of his hard length into you and the moment your bodies fully connect, you both gasp. Your legs wrap around him, pulling him closer, keeping him there.

With a haste kiss on your lips and his hands gripping at your thighs, Chris begins to move, slowly yet intensely, until he’s lost in the feel of you, the sound of your breath, the way your eyes lock with his. He occasionally glances down to where his cock disappeared into you, to where you’re taking him too damn well and the pace builds without either of you meaning to—slower turns urgent, urgent turns relentless. Your fingers dig into his back, his name spilling from your lips between gasps and soft cries.

The table groans beneath the motion, but he can’t stop, won’t stop even though he knows you just came around him just now. When release finally takes him in the next moment, it’s with a raw sound against your mouth, his arms caging you in as though he could keep you right here, exactly like this, forever. He stays there, chest to chest, your breaths mingling, the thundering beat of your hearts in sync. For a long moment, neither of you move—just holding, just feeling, just being.

Then your lips land on his shoulder before trailing up to his neck in soft, tender kisses that make his chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the high he’s coming down from. Gently, you tilt his head, your fingers cupping his jaw with care, and press your lips to his. No rush, no urgency, it’s just a kiss layered with meaning, with intention.

When you pull back, there’s a smile on your lips, and you murmur playfully, “Don’t you miss that, mmh, baby?” before bumping your nose against his.

A chuckle slips from him before he can stop it. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing over the curve of you, but then he pulls back just far enough to see your face. Both his hands cradle it, his gaze locked on you.

For a moment, he simply looks at the person he loves so deeply it hurts. The one he trusts without hesitation. His sanity. His clarity. His home.

The weight of it all sits heavy in his chest, and he lets it spill out in the only way he knows how. “I love you,” he says, the words raw enough to ache.

He leans in, pressing a long, chaste kiss to your lips, letting it linger before pulling away with a small smile. His voice low with amusement as he adds, “And yes. I missed it so much.”

You both laugh softly at that, the sound wrapping around him like the comfort of an old memory. Then your arms loop around his shoulders, pulling him closer. You tilt your head toward his ear, your voice dipping into something smooth, warm, and sinful enough to make his breath catch.

“On the bed next?” you whisper, and Chris knows exactly what you mean without another word.

-

On the bed, you’re lying on your stomach, bare skin melting into the cool sheets, your fingers curling into the fabric as soft moans slip past your lips. Chris’s mouth is warm and unhurried against your back, fluttering little kisses pressing over your shoulder blades, down the dip of your spine. This—this is what you missed. The way he touches you, cherishes you, makes you feel not just wanted, but worshipped.

He keeps going, his lips mapping you until he reaches the curve of your butt. A teasing kiss lands there, followed by a playful nip that makes you gasp and throw him a glare over your shoulder. Your whine only earns a low chuckle against your skin.

Chris shifts, kneeling on the bed, settling himself behind you. His hand slips between your legs, fingers moving between your slick folds with practiced intent until you’re trembling and breathless. He easily locates your clit, applying gentle pressures on it to draw more pleasure, but also more arousal to prepare you for what comes next. Then, with a slow, deliberate push, he eases himself into you again, stopping with half of his length already buried in your tight walls as he hovers above you, forehead brushing your temple, breath warm on your ear.

He kisses along your neck and jaw, and when you tilt your head to meet his gaze, you catch the dark, lust-hazed glint in his eyes. “I almost forgot how big you are,” you whisper.

His lips curve into a knowing smile and he softly mutters, “But you take me so well, baby.”

His mouth crashes to yours at the same moment he pushes in fully, the stretch making you moan against his lips. He swallows the sound, moving with a deep, steady rhythm that leaves you clinging to him. His lips wander to your throat while his hands slip under you, cupping your breasts, kneading gently in time with each thrust, your sensitive buds caught between the fingers.

“You feel so good, baby,” you manage between breaths.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and thick.

Your eyes stay locked on his, drinking in the way his expression changes with every movement. “Oh, so good… so deep inside me.”

You feel him twitch inside you, and your grip tightens on his forearm. “Please, don’t stop.”

Those words unravel him in the best way. His breath turns rough, low groans spilling from his mouth as his pace quickens. The room fills with the sound of your bodies moving together, the sheets rustling beneath you. One of your hands finds his, fingers intertwining, the grip grounding you both even as the pleasure builds to something dizzying.

And then you’re falling—together. His name spills from your lips, his forehead drops to your shoulder, and you both come apart in the same breath, clinging to each other until the world feels still again.

-

You rest against the headboard, a pillow tucked behind your back, the sheets tangled low around your waist. Chris lies sprawled on his stomach, his head heavy on your chest, arms looped loosely around your middle. You’re both still naked, still warm from the sex, still basking in that post-high haze where the world outside doesn’t matter.

It’s nice—comfortable in a way that’s been missing for too long and from the way Chris is curled into you, purring like a contented cat with his eyes closed, you can tell he feels it too. You love him most when he’s like this—unguarded, open, vulnerable… yours.

You press a soft kiss to the top of his head and exhale. “How I miss you.”

His head lifts slightly, his brow furrowed. “I’m here.”

“Well, you were missing until now,” you casually say and you ruffle his hair playfully, but the way his smile fades tells you he understands exactly what you mean.

He props himself up on his elbows, caging you in as he looks down at you. “I’m sorry, baby.”

You can see the sincerity in his eyes, and you smile at him, but you also need him to know and understand—because this isn’t about the job itself, or the nights he’s spent away from you, or even the danger he faces. Your hand comes up to cup his jaw, thumb stroking gently over his stubble.

“I hate not knowing,” you tell him quietly. “I hate being kept in the dark. All I need to know is if you’re okay. If you’re safe.”

Chris nods slowly, taking in your words. His fingers wrap around the hand cradling his jaw as he leans into your touch. “I didn’t want to burden you with all of that,” he admits. “but at the same time, I didn’t realize what it was doing to you.”

“I want to be there for you,” you say firmly, tilting your head to the side without breaking the eye contact.

His eyes soften, but there’s a flicker of something—fear. “What if… it makes you go away?”

Your heart aches at the rawness in his voice. You lean forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “I won’t.”

The tension in his face eases, dimples appearing as his smile blooms again. “Promise?”

“I promise,” you answer without a beat but full of conviction.

The next thing you know, his mouth is on yours again, the kiss he gives is deep and lingering, as if the taste of you is the only reassurance he’ll ever need. When he pulls back, it’s only to settle his head back on your chest, sighing as you thread your fingers through his hair. You hold him close, stroking his back, making him feel loved in the way you’ve always meant to and that you’re here. For him.

-

It’s past midnight and the precinct is quiet except for the constant hum of the vending machine. He’s still here as he decides to continue watching through the rest of the security footage from the MESA gallery. His desk is littered with empty coffee cups and candy wrappers, casualties of the late-night shift.

He yawns, leaning back in his chair until it groans under his weight. The glow of the monitor bathes his tired face as he decides to watch the rest of the security footage from the MESA Gallery. Hours of pixelated nothing. Hours of shadows and empty corridors.

Felix picks up his phone, thumb tapping the screen to see that there’s still no reply from Chris. He scrolls up—three messages, all unanswered.

You back at the apartment yet? Everything good? …You alive?

A small smirk tugs at his lips as he sets the phone back down. “You’re busy making up, I see,” he mutters under his breath, the words laced with a tired chuckle.

Felix rubs at his eyes, ready to give the footage another cursory glance before calling it a night. The video flickers, a subtle jump in the feed, and then—

There. A shadow at the far edge of the camera’s range, just barely illuminated by the flickering security light. The figure moves fast, almost gliding past the frame, their face obscured. It’s too blurry to make out details, too fleeting to be certain, but it’s something.

Felix leans forward, pulse ticking up as he replays the moment in slow motion. The figure turns just slightly, catching enough light to know that it’s someone who has no business being there at that hour.

The screen freezes on the grainy silhouette, and Felix’s lips slowly curve into a smirk. “Gotcha.”

-

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There are thieves, and then there’s Silvene.

Chris has chased men who break into safes with shaky hands and no plan, who leave chaos in their wake and flee in panic. But Silvene, well, if the whispers are to be believed that she even is a she, she moves like breath on glass.

No face. No fingerprints. No mistakes. Only the mark she always leaves behind: a faint dusting of silver.

Silvene doesn’t steal out of desperation. Her heists are too curated, too surgical. The pieces she takes are always one of a kind—historical diamonds, heirlooms with history and she moves with intention like she’s building a collection.

And Chris? He hates being outsmarted, hates the thrill she leaves behind in his chest, hates that months after her last heist, he still stays late just to stare at a wall full of dead ends.

He sits alone in the precinct’s dim back office, the case file open in front of him. There are dozens of photos, all colorless under the flickering light—smashed glass, gutted vaults, nothing helpful. And on the wall, a map. Red pins. Five cities. No pattern. No evidence. Just a name written across every report like a ghost: Silvene.

"You still here?"

Chris jolts slightly, glancing toward the door. His friend and also, a fellow detective, Felix, leans against the frame, sipping from a coffee cup that’s probably not his.

“I thought we agreed you were going to let this one go,” Felix says, eyeing the folder. “That’s the third time this week you’ve gone back to it.”

Chris shrugs, eyes dragging reluctantly from the map. “Just wanted to check something.”

Felix raises a brow. “Right. And that ‘something’ just happens to be the same thief who disappeared almost a year ago.”

Chris doesn’t answer.

Felix sighs, stepping inside. “You’re unbelievable.”

Chris flips the folder shut. “I know.”

“You have a blind date, remember?”

Chris freezes. “Wait—what?”

Felix grins. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you forgot. You told me yourself that it’s tonight.”

Chris glances at the clock and his jaws drop in slight shock. “Shit.”

Felix tosses him his coat. “Go before she thinks you stood her up and swears off cops forever.”

Chris’s eyes flicking once more to the closed file as he stands, grabs his jacket from the back of his office chair, and mutters under his breath, “She probably already hates me.”

Felix smirks. “So? She’ll fit right in.”

-

By the time he pushes open the door to the café, Chris knows he’s already blown it. Not only is he an hour late, but he’s also a mess. He’s wearing the same damn jacket from yesterday and a wrinkled shirt that still smells faintly like sweat and subway grime. He’d tackled a pickpocket this afternoon who tried to outrun him across three blocks and a construction site. There wasn’t time to go home. There wasn’t even time to care. But standing her up completely? That would’ve made him the worst person in the world. He tells himself that showing up counts for something. Even if he looks like a man who lives out of a suitcase.

It’s been years since he’s done this—dating. Or even trying to. Most of his nights are spent hunched over reports or staking out alleyways, chasing ghosts with criminal records.

So, when a friend from another precinct offered to set him up— “You need a damn life, Chris. Let me set you up with someone”—he didn’t say no.

Maybe a date would be good. Maybe it would get his mind off things. Off work. Off… Silvene.

The café is filled with low conversation and the sound of the barista working the espresso machine. There aren’t many people here, most are already in pairs or clustered in groups. For a moment, Chris thinks she’s already left and honestly, he wouldn’t blame her. But as his eyes sweep over the place, he notices a woman in the far corner, half-concealed behind a book. You’re alone, sitting on a table in the corner. Your posture relaxed, fingers curled delicately around the edge of the page.

He can’t see your face, but something about the scene makes him pause. It feels like you. Or he hopes that it’s you. Slowly, he crosses the room with his heart tumbling in his chest. “Excuse me?” he says, cautious.

The book lowers just enough to reveal your eyes and the bridge of your nose. Even half-covered, you’re breathtaking. Something about the eyelash fringed your eyes, the curiosity tinted your gaze, the slight raise of one brow. It’s like you know exactly how much of yourself to show and when.

He clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry—I, uh. I don’t mean to be weird. I’m Chris. Bang. Chris Bang. I’m supposed to be meeting someone here and I just—well, I thought you might be…”

You lower the book all the way now and Chris forgets how to think.

Oh. No, this is... This is unfair. If you’re not her, he’s doomed because there’s no way he’s walking away from this. From you.

You look at him for a beat, tilting your head slightly to the side and say flatly, “And what can I help you with?”

Shit.

Chris immediately hides his disappointment behind a quick, polite smile. “Right. Sorry. My mistake.”

He turns to leave, already cursing himself and he can’t believe that he has to walk away from this. Then, he hears it, your soft laugh that strangely triggers a fluttering feeling in his stomach.

“I’m just kidding,” you say as you slowly put your book down on the table.

Chris turns back around and you're smiling now, and it’s brighter than it has any right to be. He exhales, somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “You got me good.”

You gesture to the seat across from you. “You deserve that much for showing up late.”

He slides into the booth, finally letting the tension melt from his shoulders and he’s glad that you don’t even look mad which somehow only makes him feel worse.

“Hour late and no flowers,” you playfully mutter as you lean back on your chair and quietly taking him in. “You’re really setting the bar high.”

Chris offers a sheepish smile, resting his elbows on the table. “It’s been a long week.”

You tilt your head. “Rough job?”

“Police detective.” He shrugs. “Narcotics, mostly.”

One of your eyebrows lifts slightly. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

Chris huffs a laugh. “God, I hope not.”

You smile again, and it hits him like the coffee he’s drinking—slow, warm, spreading all over him.

“And you?” he asks, leaning forward. “What do you do?”

“IT,” you answer easily, tracing the rim of your glass. “System security. Networks. I keep things safe.”

He nods. “That sounds important.”

“It is.” You pause—just long enough to make him look up at you again. “But sometimes I like the idea of breaking through security instead. Just to see if I can.”

Chris raises a brow. “Rebellious side?”

You shrug and slyly smile as you say, “Oh, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

From that moment on, Chris barely registers the words as he’s too busy watching the way your mouth curves when you speak. The subtle elegance in the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. There’s a grace to you, sharp yet composed like you’re always two steps ahead.

“Detective Bang?” you tease.

“Huh?”

“You spaced.”

Shit. He clears his throat and shyly mutter. “Sorry. I just… you’re really easy to talk to.”

You let out an amused laugh. “That was the worst save I’ve ever heard.”

Chris laughs, genuinely this time, leaning back into his seat. The awkwardness from earlier has dissolved entirely. The conversation begins to flow like it always existed—effortless, steady, charged with something he’s not sure he should name yet.

You talk about growing up in a house full of brothers, how you learned to pick locks out of boredom, and how you once hacked into your school’s grading system “just to see if it could be done” but you swear that you never changed anything and just looked.

“I like knowing things I’m not supposed to,” you say, eyes gleaming in the low light. “It’s a bad habit.”

Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re either going to get promoted or arrested.”

“Let’s see which happens first.”

Chris doesn’t flirt, not really. Not since college. But with you, it’s instinct. The way you laugh at his dry comments. The way you lean forward when you talk, like he’s the only person in the room. Like you’re trying to read him as much as he’s reading you. And the most dangerous part? He likes it. Too much. Too fast.

You swirl what’s left of your drink, eyeing him over the rim with a curious smile. “So, detective,” you start, voice low and teasing, “is that like, actual detective work? Like tailing people and sneaking around with a badge in your sock?”

Chris chuckles. “Only on Thursdays.”

You laugh softly, leaning in just a bit closer. “Seriously though. Do you like it? The job?”

“I do,” he says, almost without thinking. “Most days.”

“And the other days?”

He hesitates. “It gets heavy sometimes.”

You nod, like you understand and for some reason, he thinks you do. Then your voice dips a little lower, more thoughtful. “Is there any case that ever… stuck with you? Something that really got under your skin?”

It’s the kind of question most people don’t ask. Most dates would keep it light—favorite colors, the last movie he watched or his current hobbies, or whether he’s ever been in a shootout, but not you.

Chris opens his mouth, and Silvene is right there on his tongue. The name tastes cold and bitter. The image of silver dust, fingerprints that never exist. He wants to talk about her—how she makes him lose sleep, how she’s the only case that haunts him.

But then he looks at you and you’re here. You’re real, warm and present. And you’re giving him all of your attention. He doesn’t want to think about ghosts when you’re sitting in front of him, full of curiosity and endless possibilities.

So instead, he leans back and says, “There was a murder case. A few months ago.”

Your brow raises in intrigue. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not,” he says with a half-smile. “But it ended well. Took a month of digging, but we got him.”

You don’t flinch. In fact, you look intrigued. “Murder, huh?” you murmur. “Sounds intense.”

“It was,” Chris says. “The guy almost slipped through. Used to be a lawyer, knew all the loopholes. But one detail tripped him up—he left a trail of receipts for a fake alibi.”

You hum appreciatively. “Rookie moves. Amateurs always forget to cover their paper trail.”

Chris huffs a laugh, amused. “Most people don’t say things like that.”

You just smile, that same playful curve of your lips that got him the first time. “I’m not most people.”

It’s true. He feels it in the way the conversation flows between you like you’ve known each other for years. The way you shift effortlessly from teasing to thoughtful, from soft to sharp. You keep him on his toes—and he likes it. It’s not just attraction. It’s something deeper. Something… instant.

When the check comes and you let him pay without protest, he knows he’s doomed. Not in a bad way. Just the kind that means he’s already thinking about when he’ll see you again. Because if this is what it feels like to be with someone who sees you, really sees you—then maybe it’s time to stop chasing a ghost.

-

The two of you step out into the night, the autumn air sharp but not cruel. The kind that slips into your sleeves and brushes against your skin like it’s testing how long you’ll last without a coat. You wrap your arms around yourself, and the wind stirs your hair, catching the light from the café’s neon sign. Chris watches as a few strands fall across your cheek and you brush them back without thinking. You look like you belong in a movie like you’ve already slipped into the kind of memory he won’t be able to let go of.

He doesn’t want to leave yet but he doesn’t know how to ask you to stay—not without sounding like a guy who gets too eager, too fast. And God, that’s exactly what he is right now. Eager. Caught off guard. Already in too deep and trying not to show it.

So instead, he exhales, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and says, “So... I guess this is it.”

You turn to him, smiling softly, and something in his chest tightens.

He clears his throat as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Would you—uh. Want to go out again sometime?”

You stare at him in mock thoughtful. “Maybe.”

Chris raises an eyebrow. “Maybe?”

“Well...” you tilt your head, lips curling into a smirk. “If you show up on time.”

He laughs, dropping his gaze for a second. “Right. Fair.”

There’s a beat of silence where neither of your move. The quiet buzz of the city hums around you two, but it feels far away. Right now, it’s just the two of you, standing under the soft glow of a streetlamp, caught in something warm and unexpected.

And then you look at him right in the eyes and say, “Or… We could just skip the wait and go straight to the second date? That way you have no excuse to be late.”

It hits him in the chest like a slow, soft punch. He wasn’t ready for that. Not from you. Not from someone who’s got every reason to play it cool. But you’re looking at him like you mean it, like this wasn’t just a nice dinner and easy conversation—it was something more. And you want more.

He’s stunned and a little smug, but mostly stunned. So naturally, he tries to play it cool. He nonchalantly shrugs and says, “Hmm… tempting. But I don’t know. I’ve got protocols. Timelines. Rules.”

You roll your eyes. “Wow. Yeah, I forgot you are a cop.”

He grins and crosses his arms together in front of him. “I have a badge and everything.”

“Oh no, I can already hear it,” you say with a dramatic sigh. “Sorry, can’t kiss you, I’ve got a curfew. The chief said no fraternizing past ten.”

Chris bursts out laughing and probably a little too much for a sidewalk at night. He hasn’t laughed like this in months. Not the kind that feels like something cracking open in his chest. He catches your gaze again, and this time he doesn’t look away.

“Okay,” he says. “Screw the curfew. Let’s have that second date.”

You smile, and it’s the kind that doesn’t need words. It just sits there, soft and full of possibility, like something you’re both too scared to name yet. And for the first time in almost a year— Chris thinks maybe he’s allowed to want something that isn’t just the chase.

-

The second date takes place at a bar a few blocks away from the café. It’s dim and loud, but not too loud. It buzzes with warmth—soft yellow lights strung along the ceiling, music humming in the background, and the occasional burst of laughter.

However, to Chris, the world has shrunk down to a booth in the corner and the girl sitting across from him. You’re holding your drink with one hand, fingers lazily circling the rim. Your eyes flick up to meet his, and there’s a glint there—playful, daring. Dangerous, maybe. But God, he’s drawn to it like a moth to flame.

"So,” you say, tone light but laced with something heavier, “is it true all cops are secretly just lonely guys with a badge and a savior complex?”

Chris nearly chokes on his drink, laughing. “Wow. Going straight for the kill?”

You lean in, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Is it a, yes?”

He smiles. “I don’t think I’m lonely.”

“Mm. Just married to your job, then?”

“Basically.”

You tap your glass against his. “Tragic. But we can still fix that.”

He doesn’t even bother hiding the way his gaze drops to your mouth. You’re close. Too close. The kind of close that makes him hold his breathe.

You tilt your head slightly, catching him in the act, and smirk. “Do you always look at suspects like that, Detective?”

Chris raises an eyebrow. “Only the really dangerous ones.”

You laugh and gosh, he wants to bottle that sound, keep it tucked somewhere deep in his chest. It’s reckless how fast you’ve disarmed him and the way your body leans into the space between them—he feels it like a jolt. Everything in him tightens. You’re not subtle. But neither is he.

The air thickens, becomes electric. Each word, each look is another step toward something inevitable. It’s like gravity. You keep pulling him in.

And then, you do it again—lean in close, lips nearly brushing his ear, your voice a soft whisper: “You keep staring at me like that, and I might start thinking you're the dangerous one.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Yet his voice drops lower. “Maybe I am.”

But just when he thinks you’ll close the gap between you—when the only thing separating your mouth from his is a shallow breath—you pull away. You're standing up, walking away from the booth like you haven’t just set his entire nervous system on fire.

Chris watches as you make your way to the jukebox, hips swaying, your fingers trailing across the dusty surface of the machine like you’re teasing it, too. The hem of your dress rides up just slightly when you lean forward, revealing a hint of thigh that makes Chris’s mouth go dry. He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled.

Soon enough, the music starts—a low, sultry pulse of old rock, smooth and aching. The kind that sinks into the bones and settles somewhere hot. You turn to face him with the soft red glow from the jukebox backlights your silhouette as if warning him that you’re an imminent danger to him. You walk back toward him and there’s no smile this time. Just a look. One that says come here, without needing to say a word.

Chris instinctively stands as you reach for his hand and pull him toward the open floor like you’ve done this before, like he belongs here with you. Your hands slide up his chest, warm and bold, resting against his shoulders. His settle instinctively on your hips, fingers tightening just slightly when you press against him.

The dance starts slow. Swaying, lazy, intimate. He gives you a spin, and when you fall back into his arms, your body fits against his too perfectly. You're so close now. Just enough distance for the tension to settle thick in the air between you. Close enough to feel the shape of your breath on his lips. Close enough to hear your quiet laugh when he fumbles the next step and mutters something under his breath about being terrible at this.

"You’re not that bad," you murmur, leaning in. "Just stiff."

His grip on your waist tightens as he teasingly says "I’ve heard that before."

You smile, eyes catching his like you know what you’re doing to him.

"You should loosen up," you say, voice soft, eyes hooded. "Let go a little."

Your hips move against his, slow and languid, guiding him into the rhythm of the music. It’s not really dancing anymore—not in the traditional sense. It’s something else. Something more primal. Less choreography, more instinct.

The air between you shifts as your arms loop around his neck. Your chest brushes his. Your mouth is so close—so maddeningly close—that all Chris can focus on is the way your lips part just slightly when you breathe, the way your gaze dips to his, then back up, then down again. It’s teasing. Daring. Alluring. Then you lean in, your lips grazing the shell of his ear as you whisper, “You look like you want to kiss me.”

Chris huffs out a soft laugh, heat pooling low in his gut. “I’ve wanted to since you called me out for being late.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your expression unreadable. Your hand cups the back of his neck, fingers playing with his stubborn curl there.

"Then why haven’t you?"

Just like that, his control frays. He finally closes the distance and he’s almost lets out a sigh of relief the second his lips touch yours.

The kiss is slow, deep, and hungry. Your lips are soft, your mouth warm, and the moment your tongue brushes his, something in him snaps. One of his hands slides up your back, gripping you closer; the other stays firm on your waist, grounding him through the storm of sensation. You kiss him back like you're feeding on him, like you need him, like this moment could swallow the both of you whole and neither of you would mind. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s… consuming.

You tilt your head, deepening the kiss. Your fingers tug at the collar of his shirt, and Chris exhales a shaky breath against your mouth, chest pressed against yours like he wants to imprint this memory in the back of his mind.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath and to take you in — the way your lips are swollen from his kiss, the way your eyes gleam under the dim bar lights, like you're lit from within. He gives you a sly, crooked smile, still catching his breath. “So,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “how about we skip ahead to the third date?”

You let out a soft laugh, and it’s almost a purr — dangerous and sweet all at once. “For a cop,” you tease, inching closer, “you really don’t give a damn about rules.”

Chris’s hands tighten on your waist. “Not when it comes to you.”

Your lips brush his again, but this time, it’s you who kisses him — slower, deeper, like a promise and a dare rolled into one. When you pull away, your lips linger against his, breath warm and ragged. “Then let’s go straight to the third date,” you whisper, barely audible against his mouth.

Chris is already moving before you finish the sentence — chasing another taste of you, heart pounding, knowing he’s in trouble, and yeah, you’re right, he’s not giving a damn.

-

Chris doesn’t know how he got here—tangled with you on his bed, your mouth moving feverishly against his, your body pressed so tight against him it feels like he’s burning alive.

You’re still in that damn dress, the one that’s been driving him insane all night. His hands glide down your sides, exploring every curve through the thin fabric until that’s no longer enough for him so he slips a hand beneath the hem, and the heat pooling between your legs nearly makes him lose it.

You gasp — breath catching, eyes fluttering — the moment his fingers manage to trace your clit through the silky fabric. He swears under his breath, voice hoarse against your ear.

“So soft…” he murmurs. “So goddamn responsive.”

Your body arches into his touch, hips moving with each slow, deliberate circle he draws on your bundle of nerves, and your moans are like gasoline to his fire. He can barely think. He doesn’t want to think. He only wants more, more and more.

With a rough tug, he slides the flimsy barrier down your legs, the cool air hitting your skin, and he shudders at the sight of you — bare and breathtaking. He pushes the hem of your dress higher, bunching it at your hips, then lowers himself between your thighs.

Chris doesn’t hesitate. He leans in, tasting you with a hunger that startles even himself. And God, the way you react — fingers tugging at his hair, back arching off the mattress, mouth parting around his name — he’s never wanted anything more than to give you everything you’re asking for without words.

He wraps his arms beneath your thighs, pulling you closer because he wants you and that sweet cunt nowhere but in his greedy mouth. Every sound you make urges him on, every tug of his hair lights a fuse inside his chest. Then he hears his name, falling from your lips like a breathless confession.

“Chris?”

He pauses, just long enough to lift his head and meet your eyes. His face is flushed, lips wet, chest rising and falling like he’s the one unraveling.

And you smile at him, sly and adoring all at once, as you murmur, “I like you. So, so much.”

Chris’s answering grin is cocky and sweet all at once, pure triumph and pure affection mixed together. “Yeah?” he says, eyes gleaming as he lowers his head again. “Let me show you how much I like you too.”

And then he’s lost in you again, in the taste, in the sound, in the way you give yourself so completely to him and Chris knows, even now, he’s already too far gone.

-

The room is dark, lit only by the faint moonlight leaking through the blinds. Shadows dance across your skin, soft and warm beneath him, your breath feathering against his jaw as he presses a kiss to your lips, to your jaw, to your neck, anywhere he can land his lips on.

Chris moves not out of restraint, but reverence. Every roll of his hips into yours is measured, deep and unhurried, like he’s trying to savor every second of being inside you. How it feels to be seen like this — touched, trusted, held in your gaze like he’s something worth holding on to.

God, he wants to ruin you. Wants to lose himself in the slick sounds and the grip of your cunt around his cock and the desperate way you whisper his name. But more than that, he wants this. This connection. This rhythm. This fragile, burning intimacy that wraps around the two of you.

You look up at him with your eyes soft, wide and vulnerable in a way that cuts him open. You’re letting him in, letting him see the person behind the teasing smiles and clever remarks. Letting him be with you, not just inside your body, but somewhere deeper.

Chris’s not prepared for it. Not for the way it hits him like a slow, rolling wave — steady and immense. You’re pulling him under, and he doesn’t even want to come up for air.

I want this. He finds himself thinking, chest tight, heart hammering as he thrusts into you again and again, your bodies moving in perfect sync. Your fingers trail along his spine, your legs wrapping tighter around him, and that look in your eyes… that look tells him you might just want the same.

The next day, when the morning light creeps in Chris wakes up to the steady rise and fall of your breathing against his chest, he knows for sure it wasn’t just a dream. You’re still here, curled beneath his blanket, tangled in the fabric and the afterglow of last night, your body tucked close to his like it’s always belonged there.

When he shifts, he does it carefully as to not wake you, his eyes find your face — serene, lips slightly parted, hair tousled across his pillow. God, you’re beautiful.

The flutter in his chest is immediate. It’s stupid, giddy, a little out of place for a man like him who’s hardened by the job, by long nights and empty beds — but it’s real and he wants this. Waking up to you, seeing you first thing in the morning, every morning.

Your lashes flutter open just as he’s about to lean down and kiss your shoulder. Your eyes meet his, still heavy with sleep — and instinctively, he blurts it out. “You’re my girlfriend now.”

A moment passes in silence. You blink once, twice, and slowly roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with an exaggerated groan. “God, what have I done?” you mutter, dramatic and husky with sleep. “I’m dating a cop.”

Chris laughs — a low, warm sound that rumbles in his chest — and shifts to hover above you, bracing his arms on either side of your head. “That’s right,” he says, grinning down at you. “No more breaking the law for you.”

You stretch your arms and put your wrists together before offering them to him with a sly smile. “Might as well arrest me now, detective.”

He easily takes both of your wrists in one hand and pins them gently to the mattress above your head, his body lowering until there’s barely any space between you. His breath brushes over your lips as he leans in, eyes locked on yours. “There’s no escaping me now,” he murmurs, voice deep and rough with affection.

With that, he kisses you, slow and consuming like a promise sealed in soft moans and sunlit sheets. Soon enough, the kiss deepens, lazy and heated, and he doesn't stop until you’re sighing into his mouth again. Your wrists still in his grasp, your body pliant beneath his, Chris pulls back just enough to look at you — flushed, smiling and officially his now. And in that look, in that breathless pause between kisses, he decides that he’s never letting you go.

-

SIX MONTHS LATER

The sky is a dull gray, heavy with the promise of rain, and the alleyway reeks of smoke and gasoline. Chris stands in the middle of the taped-off crime scene, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat as he surveys the area. His gaze is sharp, sweeping over the shattered glass, the scorched remains of a getaway vehicle, the bloodstains smudged on the pavement.

He points toward the burned-out car. “Get the forensics team to check for accelerants. If this was intentional, I want to know what kind of fuel was used.”

Felix, crouched nearby with a small notepad in hand, nods and scribbles it down. “Already flagged it.”

Chris’s attention shifts to a trail of footprints leading out of the alley. “Get prints and shoe impressions, too. And the camera—” He gestures to a security cam mounted just above the fire escape. “We’ll need that footage ASAP.”

“On it.” Felix flips to a new page, pen racing across the paper. “So far, we’ve got arson, suspected assault, possibly linked to the earlier drug bust. What else?”

Chris glances at his watch, the leather strap is worn, the one thing he never takes off. “Check if any witnesses were nearby. That diner down the block—someone had to see something.”

Felix nods again as he slips his notepad shut. “Already talked to the owner. He’s checking his own CCTV for us.”

Chris exhales slowly, looking around the crime scene once more just in case he missed something the first time. “Anything else?”

Felix stands, brushing dust from his pants. “Not until the lab sends back the full report.”

Chris takes one final look around the alley before nodding. “Alright. Let’s head back to the precinct.”

The precinct is quieter than usual, late afternoon light casting long shadows across the walls. He’s buried in paperwork—incident reports, witness statements, evidence logs—everything from today’s scene stacked neatly on his desk, waiting for his final signature. His fingers move across the keyboard steadily, the soft clack of the keys blending into the low hum of conversation and the occasional ring of a phone. He’s just finishing up the last report when he senses someone hovering nearby and he doesn’t need to look up to know it’s Felix. The quiet tapping of his pen against the desk gives him away.

“You done yet?” Felix asks, half-sighing. “Come grab a beer. You owe me one after I had to talk to that diner guy who only spoke in riddles and ancient parables.”

Chris chuckles but keeps typing. “Can’t tonight.”

Felix drops his head to the side and groans. “Let me guess—going home early again?”

Chris nods, still not looking away from his screen. “Told her I’d be home for dinner.”

Felix lets out a dramatic sigh and flops into the chair opposite Chris’s desk. “Jesus. You act like you’ve got a wife waiting at home with curlers in her hair and a roast in the oven.”

That makes Chris grin, his eyes finally flicking toward his partner. “Jealous?”

Felix scoffs. “I’m offended, actually. You’ve known her for, what, six months? We’ve been through hell together since the academy, and you’re ditching me for what? A roast chicken and mashed potatoes?”

Chris chuckles again and clicks submit on the final report. “It’s pasta night, actually.”

“Unbelievable,” Felix mutters, crossing his arms like a sulking child and starts swiveling his office chair from side to side.

Chris stands and starts gathering his things—his phone, keys and then his bag. He shrugs on his jacket last and gives Felix a firm pat on the shoulder. “Next time, drinks are on me.”

Felix narrows his eyes as he crosses his legs together. “Damn right they are.”

Chris heads for the elevator, already loosening his tie when he hears Felix behind him again. “I’m keeping your promise, you know! You owe me, Chris!”

Chris turns back just before the elevator doors begin to slide shut. “I know,” he laughs, lifting a hand to wave.

Felix scowls and flips him off in return, and Chris is still laughing when the doors finally close.

-

Chris can already feel his exhaustion leaving him the moment he steps into his apartment.  He toes off his boots and calls out, “Baby, I’m home,” like he always does and he can already picture you welcoming him with that soft smile you always wear when you see him.

However, there’s no response, not even the faint shuffle of footsteps. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the hook by the door and try again, “Babe?”

Still no answer and a subtle tension begins to thread itself through his muscles, the instincts that have kept him alive in back alleys and tense raids kicking in. His eyes sweep the space as he steps further in and that’s when he sees a trail of red—thick, wet, splattered across the floor near the kitchen island.

Chris’s heart lurches into his throat. His hand instinctively goes to his side, where his weapon still trapped to its holster, his hand lingers there ready to use it when the situation calls for it. He moves quietly, cautiously and then he hears footsteps echo behind him. He swiftly spins around and ready for—

It’s you, you’re standing there holding a mop, eyes wide, startled by his sudden turn. But his gaze drops, locking on the front of your shirt, soaked in red and streaked across your chest, blotched near your ribs.

“Are you—what happened?” he asks with voice strained.

You immediately set the mop aside and hold your hands up like you’re about to calm a wild animal. “Don’t panic,” you say, already half-laughing at yourself. “It’s not blood.”

Chris’s jaw tightens, not entirely reassured until you continue. His hands reaching for you, wanting to make sure of it himself.

“It’s tomato sauce. I dropped the jar trying to twist it open and it exploded all over me.” You glance down at your shirt while uselessly trying to wipe it away. “It looks like a murder scene, huh?”

Only then does Chris let out the breath he’d been holding, the knot in his chest slowly loosening. He lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Gosh. I thought—” He stops himself before saying it. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You smile sheepishly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I was going to clean it up before you got home, but I guess you’re early.”

Chris steps closer, watching the way the mess clings to you. “Want help?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, no. You’ve had a long day. Go shower first. I’ll handle this.”

But he doesn’t move toward the bedroom. He keeps his eyes on you, his expression softening. “Can I at least get a kiss first?”

You glance down at your shirt. “Chris. I’m covered in sauce.”

“So?” He shrugs with a smile.

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch into a grin as he steps forward. He gently cups your face, careful not to brush against your stained clothes, and leans in. The kiss is long and lingering, the kind that makes time slow down for a few precious seconds.

When he pulls back, your lips curve upward and you murmur quietly, “Welcome home.”

Chris lets the words settle into him and he can feel the eight of the day melts away from him because now he’s here with you. He’s home.

“You’d better put away that thing first, mmh?” You mutter, eyeing the gun resting against his hip.

Apart from the safety, the wage and the insane working hours, your least favorite thing about Chris’s job is his gun. In fact, the only condition you asked of him when he asked you to move in with him is to put that thing away from you. He doesn’t need to ask why, he understands right away without having you explained it to him.

So Chris heads straight into the bedroom, unholstering his gun with the practiced ease of muscle memory and secures it in the lockbox beneath the nightstand. Then he tucks away his badge, and places his handcuffs on the dresser where he’ll grab them again in the morning. That ritual also marks the line between his world out there and this world that feels far softer.

A hot shower is next. Steam rises in curls as the water beats against the back of his neck, washing away the city grit and exhaustion clinging to his skin. He leans into it, letting the tension roll off his shoulders, muscles loosening with every pass of soap and water. When he emerges minutes later, towel drying his hair, he’s already shed the weight of the day. He dresses in a soft, worn t-shirt and grey sweatpants, and with that, he walks out of the room.

Chris immediately finds you in the kitchen, completely in your element. The light above casts a warm glow over you, catching the curves of your face, the slope of your nose, and the small furrow in your brow as you concentrate. One hand stirring the sauce in a pan, the other is scrolling down the tablet probably making sure you’re following the recipe to a tee because you’re meticulous like that.

He leans against the doorway for a second, just watching. These are the moments that remind him he’s more than the badge, more than the cases and the cold bodies. It reminds him that he can have this. He can want this.

As if sensing his eyes on you, you glance up and flash him that radiant smile. “Due to the tomato sauce incident, dinner needs a little bit more time,” you inform, voice soft and inviting over the gentle sizzle from the pan.

His feet pulling him without thought, he comes up behind you, slipping his arms around your waist, fitting himself snug against your back as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

The scent of garlic and herbs drifts up, and he inhales deeply. “Smells amazing,” he murmurs.

“It better be. I’m not risking another kitchen massacre,” you say with a light chuckle.

He laughs and watches you dip the spatula into the sauce and have a taste with your finger, your face contemplative. “Mmm,” you hum, unsure. “I don’t know…”

Chris doesn’t hesitate to dip a finger on the sauce coated the spatula and brings it to his mouth, tasting it with a satisfied hum. “I think it’s good.”

You turn your head slightly to look at him, your lips curving. “You sure you’re not just biased?”

“Totally biased,” he admits, grinning. “Still delicious.”

You reward him with a quick peck on the lips. “Well, dinner’s ready then,” you say as you turn off the stove and start to pull away.

But Chris doesn’t let go. Instead, he turns you gently to face him, his arms still circled around you, and kisses you again, tasting a hint of sweetness lingering on your lips. In the next moment, he deepens the kiss as hunger rising in his chest. A different kind of hunger that can only be satisfied by you.

The scent of sauce fades into the background, replaced by the way you gasp softly against his mouth, the way your fingers tugging at the front of his shirt. Before he knows it, he’s lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms sliding around his shoulders.

You glance down at him, breath warm against his cheek. “Dinner first,” you remind him teasingly. “Dessert after.”

Chris huffs out a playful breath, shaking his head with a grin. “You think I came home early for your cooking?”

Your eyes widen, mock-offended. “Wow. I’m genuinely hurt.”

He kisses you again, slow and deep, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “Dinner can wait.”

You open your mouth to protest, but before a single word can escape, he’s already carrying you toward the sofa, both of you laughing as the sauce simmers forgotten on the stove.

-

The sofa creaks beneath you both as Chris moves over you with a hunger he’s barely managed to keep under control all day, his pace relentless now as he thrusts into you. He glances down to where your bodies are connected, his cock slipping in and out of you One of your hands is braced against the armrest, your knuckles pale from the grip, while the other clutches at his shoulder, nails digging into the skin.

He loves this. God, he lives for this. It’s the way your body yields to him, the way you hold on like he’s the only thing anchoring you, and maybe he is. Because when Chris makes love to you, it’s never just about release—it’s about claiming, about worship, about telling you without words how badly he needs this. Needs you. How most of his day had been spent glancing at the clock, wishing the hours away, just so he could come home and lose himself inside you again.

When he looks down at you, at the way your back arched, your mouth parted open with breathless moans and stuttered words that don’t even make sense anymore, your eyes squeezed shut from the overwhelming pleasure, your breasts bouncing with each thrust—you don’t look real. You look like a sacred thing wrapped in sin, and you’re all his.

You whisper his name in desperation and needs, and he feels you clench around him—tight, trembling, fluttering in a way that tells him you’re close.

Chris groans low, the sound guttural, as you cry out, your body arching into his. "Chris—god—I’m coming," you gasp, voice airy and broken. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

That’s all it takes for him to finally able to let go. Chris lets out a strangled breath, nearly losing control then and there, but he pulls out just in time. His hand wraps around his throbbing cock, quick strokes guiding him through the final push, and with a rough gasp, he spills onto your stomach—thick, hot, the release shaking through him as his eyes stay locked on you.

Damn. That sight of your skin flushed, chest rising and falling fast, the white of his seed glistening on your stomach… it’s something that lodges itself in his memory, permanently etched there.

You squirm slightly beneath him, glancing down at your body, then look up at him with that teasing glint in your eye. “That’s a lot of cream for dessert,” you quip, voice light and lazy with satisfaction.

Chris lets out a breathy laugh, heart still thudding wildly in his chest. That’s what he loves about you—you always know. When to tease. When to be soft. When to melt into him like this, to offer yourself so openly, so fully. And when to hold your own with that sharp tongue and fire in your eyes.

Still catching his breath, he leans down and presses a kiss to your lips—slow, tender, lingering. Your hands come up to brush through his hair, fingers curling against his scalp, before a hand slides down to cradle his jaw. It’s so affectionate, so sweet, so you.

When you pull away, your expression shifts into something mockingly stern. “Can we have dinner now? The pasta’s getting soggy,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes.

Of course that’s what you’d say. Chris grins because that’s exactly why he loves you. Because you’re everything he wants—sultry, sharp, grounding, wild, soft—all wrapped up in one woman who makes his heart race and his world feel whole. He leans in and kisses you again, slower, sweeter. When he pulls away, he mumbles against your lips, “We’ll reheat it later.”

As you’ve expected, the pasta’s soggy and the sauce lukewarm but Chris couldn’t care less. You’re sitting beside him on the sofa, your legs tucked under you, wearing nothing but his oversized white t-shirt that hangs loose on your frame and honestly, you look too good for his own peace of mind.

Chris digs into the bowl of food, his bare chest still red in places from the aftermath, his grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips. You both eat like it’s the best thing in the world, even though objectively, it’s not. But there’s laughter between bites and that’s what makes it special.

And yes, he’s aware of your gaze that is burning into him from the side so he pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, and glances at you with a crooked smile. “What?” he asks with a teasing tone, already knowing there’s something behind that look.

You immediately look away, shoulders shaking with a quiet laugh. “Nothing.”

Chris leans in just a little, nudging your leg with his knee. “No, come on. Don’t do that. You were staring at me. I want to know what was going on in that beautiful little head of yours.”

You let out a soft chuckle, your fingers wrapping around your wine glass as you take a slow sip like you’re stalling. Finally, you glance over at him again, eyes dancing with amusement. “I was just wondering,” you murmur, lips curving into a knowing smile, “how you can eat like that after railed me so hard a moment ago.”

Chris grins around a mouthful of pasta, clearly pleased with himself. He sets the bowl down and leans back against the sofa, eyes gleaming. “I’m impressive like that,” he says, smug. “Multitalented.”

You roll your eyes but laugh, reaching over to tap a finger to his chest. “Flattery won’t get you a second round tonight.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Was worth a shot.”

In the bedroom, the movie flickers on the TV screen but none of you really pay attention to it as the two of you are tangled together on the bed. Chris has his head rested against your chest, listening more to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat than the film. Your fingers are in his hair, lazily combing through the strands as he melts under your touch.

“I didn’t really do much today,” you say softly, your voice a gentle hum above him. “But on the way back from grocery shopping, I found this new pho restaurant three blocks down. I think we should check it out.”

Chris hums, eyes half-lidded, comforted not just by your voice, but the casual way you say ‘we’ like it’s always been this way, like it’ll always be this way.

He shifts slightly, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before speaking. “It’s a long day for me,” he mumbles. “Felix and I checked out a new scene. Might be connected to a drug ring, might not. We’re waiting on lab results, so it’s more of a hold-your-breath kind of day than a productive one.”

You murmur a soft sound, encouraging him to go on and he sighs into your skin before speaking. “It gets frustrating, y’know? There’s always bad things happen every day. And sometimes I wonder if we’re ever going to catch a break.”

You keep running your fingers through his hair, silent but present, and he loves that. He loves that you don’t always have to fix it, just that you listen.

“I often find myself asking…” he adds with a thoughtful, wistful tone. “Am I doing enough?”

You gently cup his chin and tilt his head toward you, meeting his gaze. “Trust me when I say you’re doing the best you can, baby,” you assure him, keeping your voice low and soft. “Even though people couldn’t see it, but I do. And I’m so proud of you for making the world safer, better every day.”

He softly smiles when you bump your nose and rub it against his. Both his voice and gaze soften as he mutters, “I like talking to you about it. About all of it. Not just the job. Me. My head. It feels… safe.”

It’s true. He feels it deep in his bones in the way his body relaxes around you, in the way your touch melts the last of the day’s weight off his shoulders. This—being able to talk, to share, to just exist with you like this—is the kind of beautiful he never thought he’d deserve.

You tilt your head down, pressing your lips briefly against his. “And I feel safe when I’m with you,” you whisper.

The two of you eventually fall quiet, not because there’s nothing left to say, but because words aren't necessary anymore. You shift slightly and turn his face toward yours, and with a soft smile, he kisses you slowly yet deeply.

“Goodnight,” you whisper against his lips.

Chris brushes his thumb over your cheek and replies just as softly, “Goodnight.”

With that, he closes his eyes and slowly drift into sleep with a smile etched on his face because right now, he’s already had the best part of coming home.

-

Chris stirs awake to the sensation of someone collapsing on top of him. Warm, soft and familiar. You press your body flush against his and pepper lazy kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, the bridge of his nose.

“Christopher,” you sing in a sweet, melodic tease, dragging out the syllables like you’re serenading him into consciousness. “Wake up.”

He groans low in his throat, arms instinctively wrapping around your waist like a net pulling you in. “No,” he mumbles into the pillow, voice gravelly with sleep. “Five more minutes.”

You lean down to kiss the corner of his mouth and try again. “Come on, Christopher. Wake up...”

Without warning, Chris flips the both of you over, the world briefly turning upside down as he pins you beneath him, his arms caging you in. He lets his full weight rest gently atop you, head buried into the crook of your neck.

“You’re such a menace in the morning,” he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled and thick with sleep.

You huff but don’t push him away, your fingers slipping into his messy bedhead and combing through it lovingly. “We don’t have time to play,” you remind him softly, though the way you fondly touch him betrays you.

Chris only hums in response, burrowing even deeper into your neck like a cat refusing to be moved. “We’ve got time,” he says with a lazy smirk.

“We really don’t,” you reply with a sigh. “You’re going to be late. Again.”

Still, Chris refuses to move but then the sharp buzz of his phone on the bedside table breaks through the sleepy silence. He ignores it at first, clutching you tighter as if he can will the world to wait.

“That could be work, you know?” You sing again, taunting him sweetly. “Could be a bad guy on the loose and they need their favourite detective to catch him?”

Chris chuckles sleepily but cracks one eye open. “You’re evil.”

“I know I am,” you playfully admit as you’re wiggling under him.

With a sigh that sounds like it comes from the depths of his soul, he reluctantly reaches over and grabs his phone, squinting at the screen.

Of course, you’re right that it is work calling. Felix to be exact. He accepts the call and presses the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” His voice is still hoarse, but his posture begins to shift into work mode.

Felix’s voice crackles through the speaker, urgent but steady. “Lab results are in. There’s a development on the drug ring case.”

Chris rubs the sleep off his eyes and lifting himself to sit up on the bed, fully awake now. “Alright. I’ll be in soon.”

While he’s mid-conversation, you slip out from under him, smooth and smug. He watches with narrowed eyes as you saunter toward the bedroom door, wearing nothing but a grin and one of his old sweatshirt that hangs loose around your thighs.

You glance back over your shoulder with a smirk. “Better hurry, detective. You’ve got bad guys to catch.”

Chris groans and flops back against the mattress, the warmth of your body lingering on his skin and as much as he wants to stay buried in bed with you, tangled in sheets and sleepy kisses, he knows the world’s not going to stop spinning.

Criminals don’t take breaks but God, he wishes they did so he can have a few more minutes with you.

-

Chris moves in a blur, pulling on his clothes piece by piece, tugging the zipper of his pants while trying to shake off sleep’s last hold on his body. His shirt is neatly ironed, thanks to you. He shrugs on his jacket, reaching for the essentials from inside the lockbox. The gun goes into the holster, badge clipped onto his belt, and finally, he slides the cold weight of the handcuff back into the inner pocket of his jacket. His routine is always the same tedious thing until he walks out of the bedroom and finds you standing in the kitchen, a small wrapped sandwich already packed in wax paper and a bottle of orange juice waiting next to it.

You glance up as he enters, smiling as bright as the morning sun. “For the road,” you playfully say.

Chris feels the tightness in his chest that only comes when something feels too good to be real. He walks over and takes the breakfast with a soft “Thank you,” and without thinking, leans in, cupping your waist with one arm as he pulls you close and kisses you.

“Will you be home for dinner?” you ask, your voice gentle against the curve of his jaw as he pulls away.

Chris exhales, eyes flicking toward the clock on the microwave. “I doubt I’ll make it in time,” he admits. “But I’ll let you know.”

You nod with a small, understanding smile. “Okay.”

He hates leaving you, rushing off, but you never make him feel guilty for it. Somehow, you always manage to be soft when the rest of the world demands him to be hard.

“I have to go,” he says, and he really means it this time, though his body refuses to move just yet. “You know how it is.”

You step back slightly, giving him space, but not without brushing your fingers against his chest one last time. “Be safe, yeah?”

Chris turns to head for the door, but on impulse, he doubles back, giving your butt a quick, cheeky slap. “You too,” he says with a grin. “Gotta keep that safe.”

You scoff a laugh and raise an eyebrow. “Me or my butt?”

He lets out a bark of laughter, grinning. “Yes.”

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling and he sees the way your cheeks crinkle, the way your eyes soften. He leans in again, slower this time, taking a moment to really look at you. His fingers graze your jaw as he gives you a lingering kiss, one that says everything he doesn’t have time to: I love you. I’ll be back soon.

When he finally pulls away and heads for the door, you follow him out to the hallway. He presses the elevator button, adjusting the collar of his jacket as he waits. Out of temptation, he looks over his shoulder and there you are, lingering in the doorway and waving your hand at him with a scintillating smile that puts the summer sun to shame.

As the elevator doors close, Chris smiles as he mutters to himself that he already can’t wait to go home.

-

The precinct is buzzing with all kinds of noises from footsteps across the linoleum, papers shuffled, phones ringing and also, the occasional drunken shouts coming from the holding cell. Chris leans over the case file, elbows planted on the edge of the cluttered desk he shares with Felix. The drug ring case has taken a turn, a new lead surfacing late last night. Surveillance footage, a car trace, a potential drop location. It’s not a breakthrough, but it’s enough to chase.

“My CI confirmed that there’s going to be a drug deal at the warehouse. We’ll need to do a stakeout,” Felix mutters, tapping the map laid out on the desk. “Tonight.”

Chris nods, already reaching for his phone as he pushes away from the desk. “Yeah. Okay. I just need to make a quick call.”

He steps out into the hallway, somewhere quieter and presses call on your numbers. It rings once, twice, and then he hears your voice, soft and playful.

“Hey, sexy.”

“Hey,” he exhales a supressed laugh, the weight in his chest lightening. “Just wanted to tell you I won’t make it home tonight. We’ve got a new lead—stakeout duty.”

There’s a pause, then a teasing lilt in your voice. “Oh no, I guess I’ll have to put on my new lingerie and enjoy the silence all by myself.”

Chris’s eyes widen slightly, and he instinctively bites down on his lower lip, turning his back to the hallway to hide the grin that tugs at his mouth. Aware that people could pass him by at any moment, he keeps his voice low. “That was a dirty move.”

You laugh on the other end and hearing it makes him homesick. “Just trying to give my hardworking detective something to look forward to.”

Chris swallows hard, casting a glance around to make sure no one’s listening but of course, when his eyes land back on the bullpen, Felix is throwing daggers with his eyes from the desk, completely unamused. He clears his throat and composes himself.

“Nice try,” he mutters into the phone, as if that’s enough to hold back the image your words have already planted in his head.

You hum, not even a little sorry. “Promise me you’ll stay safe?”

He nods, even though you can’t see it. “Always. Try not to worry about me.”

“I always do,” you say quietly. “But I trust you.”

He can hear your smile through the phone and he can picture it perfectly, the curve of your lips, the crinkle by your eyes. He wants nothing more than to be home already.

“Go and save the world, tiger,” you say just as he’s about to hang up.

Chris can’t help the way his lips curl into a grin. He chuckles softly under his breath.

“Talk soon, baby,” he says, voice warm, and hangs up.

He tucks the phone into his pocket and turns to head back toward Felix, who’s already shaking his head in mock disgust.

Chris shrugs, smirking. “What?”

Felix rolls his eyes as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “You’re completely whipped.”

Chris grabs his jacket and the car keys. “Yeah,” he says without shame. “And I’m not even mad about it.”

The sky has long lost its colour, and the dark outside is only interrupted by the distant hum of traffic and the flicker of a faulty streetlamp near the edge of the warehouse. The stakeout’s been dragging as there’s no movement on site yet.

Chris exhales, his fingers tapping mindlessly on the steering wheel, the silence in the car thick until his phone buzzes from the inner pocket of his jacket. He reaches inside and fishes out his phone. The screen lights up with your name and a text preview. He unlocks it quickly and the first thing that loads is a photo.

You’re sprawled across the bed, lying on your stomach with your head turned just slightly toward the camera. The silk of your camisole barely contains the generous curve of your breasts, the neckline dipping dangerously low. The colour flatters your skin, but what makes him sucks air through his teeth is the way you look so damn tempting without even trying.

“Dammit, baby!” He swears softly under his breath and looks out the window to make sure no one’s approaching the car before turning his attention back to the screen.

Too bad I’m sleeping alone tonight, the next text reads.

Chris runs a hand down his face, fighting off the groan threatening his throat. God, you know exactly what you’re doing because he’s two seconds away from turning the car engine on and driving straight home.

Instead, Chris inhales air to calm himself down and composes a reply.

Stay like that until I come home.

Your response comes seconds later.

But then the ghost in our bedroom would be enjoying the view instead.

Chris huffs out a laugh, too loud in the stillness of the car. His head falls back against the seat, grin spreading uncontrollably.

The ghost can enjoy the view. And also enjoy what happens when I come home later.

Can’t wait to put on a good show later ;)

His thumbs hover above the keyboard before typing out, Go to sleep. I’ll be home soon.

Your final reply makes his chest warm. Okay. You stay safe for me, okay?

Copy that. Goodnight, baby. See you soon. He writes then presses send.

The moment he locks his phone, the passenger-side door swings open and Felix slides in, a little breathless from the short walk after debriefing the special ops. The car shifts under his weight as he pulls the door shut.

“Everyone’s in position,” Felix says, grabbing the soda can from the cupholder. “Now we wait.”

The silence resumes as Chris adjusts in his seat, brushing off the heat from your messages and trying to shift his focus back to the job. He thinks he’s succeeded until Felix speaks.

“So,” Felix starts, voice nonchalant, “things are getting serious between you two, huh?”

Chris glances at him, raising an eyebrow but casually, he answers. “Nah. Not really. We’re taking it slow.”

Felix snorts into his soda and quickly wipes a drop dribbling down his chin with the back of his hand. “Slow? Dude, you asked her out and started dating her after one date. Then a month later she’s living with you. You literally act like a loyal husband. You stay in on your day off and refuse going to the bar you’re your friend because she made dinner.”

Chris shrugs with a grin. “What can I say? I like her cooking.”

Felix raises the can to his lips but doesn’t drink it. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve got a ring already tucked somewhere, waiting for the right time.”

Chris lets out an awkward chuckle. “It’s not like that.”

Felix side-eyes him, skeptical.

“We’re not in a rush,” Chris adds defensively.

“Sure. Tell that to your face every time she calls.”

Chris leans back, folding his arms over his chest as he looks at his friend of eight years. “Are you jealous? Want me to set you up with someone, Felix?”

Felix groans, his face is a mix of disgust and disbelief. “Absolutely not. I have peace. I cherish it. I don’t need anyone sending me thirst traps while I’m on the job.”

Chris laughs, the sound echoing slightly in the car. “Your loss, man.”

Felix takes a slow sip of soda, then adds more seriously, “I just don’t want you to make a decision you can’t walk back. That’s all.”

Chris nods in understanding. “I get it. I do. But this doesn’t feel rushed. Not with her.”

Before Felix can respond, he lifts a hand and points ahead. “Hey. Movement.”

Chris snaps his head toward the warehouse. A dark van has pulled up, headlights briefly flashing before cutting off. Two figures step out from the shadows, one with a briefcase. He leans forward, heart rate shifting gears. “That’s our guy.”

He grabs the radio mic clipped to the dash and brings it to his lips. “Suspects have arrived. Operation is a go. Special units hold position for confirmation.”

As adrenaline begins to churn low in his gut, Chris slips into professional mode—sharp, alert, steady. Still, the ghost of your photo, your teasing texts, your soft voice telling him to stay safe, stays right there in the back of his mind. Suddenly, he has even more reason to make it through the night unharmed.

-

The drug bust is a win. A big one. They seize everything—pills, cash, weapons. Arrests go smoothly. No one gets hurt. Felix is still riding the high from it, chattering about the logistics of processing evidence and writing up the report, but Chris’s mind is already somewhere else.

By the time he makes it home, it’s almost dawn. The apartment is quiet, dark except for the warm glow of a lamp in the corner. He exhales as he steps inside, shrugging off his jacket and the weight of the day slides off his shoulders with each step closer to the bedroom.

He knows you’re asleep so he tries not to make any sound as he slowly pushes the door to the bedroom. He pauses at the doorway, taking in the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the silk of your night dress catching the faint moonlight spilling through the blinds. You look so peaceful, radiant as you lie on your side, one arm tucked under the pillow, your face turned slightly toward him.

He pads over to your side of the bed, crouching down. Carefully, he brushes a lock of hair away from your face and leans in to press a kiss to your cheek.

“I missed you,” he whispers as he tenderly rubs your cheek with his thumb.

He moves quietly to his side, removing his belt, setting his badge and sidearm in their locked case. The routine is muscle memory, but his thoughts are still wrapped in you, in how you looked, in how you smelled and how he can’t wait to wrap himself around you.

After a quick rinse in the shower, Chris finally slides under the covers. The mattress dips as he presses close, spooning you from behind. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you snug to him. His nose buries in the crook of your neck, drinking in the scent that gives him a sense of comfort, of safety, of… home.

He knows he should let you sleep, but he can’t help it. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then your shoulder and then the curve where your neck meets your collarbone. Each kiss lingers longer than the last. His hand rests on your stomach, thumb brushing the silk of your night dress. Your skin is right there—bare, inviting.

Soon enough, you stir and a breathy sigh escapes your lips before your eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep. You blink at him, the corners of your mouth lifting into a small smile.

“You’re home,” you mumble, voice low and soft. “Hi.”

Chris’s heart swells at your sweet, sleepy welcome. “Hi,” he whispers back.

He kisses you once and then, he kisses you again, deeper and harder. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, drawing him closer. His hand slips beneath the silk of your dress, palm finding the curve of your breast. You let out a soft sound, arching into him, and he can feel you waking under his touch. You delightfully hum as his thumb brushes your nipple, slow and teasing. He kisses you even hungrier now, like he needs you to know how much he missed this—missed you.

Your hand drifts down his torso, curious and unhurried, trailing heat in its wake. Then you pull back just slightly, and your sleepy voice is laced with mischief.

“I told you…” You pout. “No guns allowed in the house.”

He furrows his brows, confused—until your hand finds the growing bulge poking against his boxers.

You grin as you seductively murmur. “This is dangerous.”

Chris huffs out a quiet laugh, his voice low and rough. “Well…” he murmurs, brushing his lips against yours, “looks like you’ll have to disarm it.”

He crashes his lips against yours—slow, deep, with the kind of promise that curls low in his belly and settles in his bones. He presses into you, his hand slipping down your body again, the heat between you two pulling tighter, closer.

Everything else—cases, reports, the city beyond the bedroom walls—fades. All that matters is this. Your warmth, your skin, your heartbeat against his and Chris never feels safer. Or more undone.

-

The soft shuffle of your footsteps enters the room just as Chris is slipping on his pants. He glances up—and there you are, holding a freshly ironed white shirt on a hanger, pride written all over your face.

“Wear this one,” you say, walking over. “You’re talking to the press today about the drug bust, remember?”

Chris raises an eyebrow as he takes the shirt from your hands, smiling. “You’re more excited about this than I am.”

“Of course I am,” you reply, smoothing your hands over the fabric as you help him slide his arms into the sleeves. “I want you to look good so people know how hot my boyfriend is.”

He chuckles, letting you button him up. Your fingers work quickly, carefully, and when you're done, you head for the drawer, picking out a navy tie with a subtle pattern.

“This one would go well on you,” you declare, holding it up to his chest for a moment before beginning to loop it around his collar.

Chris rests his hands on your waist, his thumbs grazing gently over your sides. As you work on his tie, he can’t stop watching you—your focused expression, the little wrinkle that forms on your brow when the knot doesn’t sit quite right the first time. His heart feels… full.

Ever since you came into his life, things have felt lighter. Easier. Better. He still works the same gruelling hours, still stares down dangerous criminals and long, dark nights, but now he has you. He gets it now what people mean when they say behind every successful man, there’s a woman. For him, that’s you. You’re his calm against the chaos. His anchor. His reason to come home.

You smile brightly once you’re done and gently pat the end of the tie flat on his chest. “There. That’s it. You’re perfect.”

Chris glances down at the knot, tugs lightly on the end of the tie, then raises an eyebrow, impressed. “You’re good at this.”

“Please,” you scoff playfully, stepping back. “You already look hot. I just made you look hotter.”

That earns a laugh from him, and before you can step away, he pulls you close again. One hand cups your jaw as he leans in, eyes searching yours and there’s so much he wants to say—about how much he appreciates you, how deeply he feels for you—but words aren’t enough. They never are.

Chris kisses you instead. It’s soft at first and then deeper, hungrier. It’s his way of saying thank you. Of saying I love you. Of saying I’d fall apart without you.

Your hands press lightly to his chest, and after a moment, you giggle, gently pushing him back. “Hey—don’t wrinkle the shirt.”

He pouts, just a little, but it melts into a smile as he leans his forehead against yours, savouring the closeness. The two of you stay like that for a while, holding each other, breathing each other in.

Until you break the moment with a whisper near his ear. “You’re going to be late.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he mutters followed by a sigh, spinning toward the dresser to grab his badge and holster, checking that everything’s in place.

You’re already jogging off to the kitchen and when he turns to the door, you’re there—waiting for him with a breakfast sandwich to go and a bottle of juice in hand.

He takes both with a grateful smile. “What would I do without you?”

“Starve,” you tease, stepping in for one last kiss and it lingers for a moment, a quiet goodbye wrapped in affection.

When he finally pulls back, you grin and give his butt a playful slap. “Kill it today, tiger.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he walks backward toward the elevator, eyes never leaving yours. You stay in the doorway, waving until the doors slide shut—and even then, Chris still feels the warmth of you clinging to his skin like sunlight.

-

Chris and Felix finishes the press conference with a question related to community outreach. Chris responds with confidence, emphasizing rehabilitation efforts, neighborhood support programs, and their department’s ongoing commitment to protecting the city.

“That’ll be all for now,” Chris finally says, backing away from the mic.

They step off the platform together, the crowd of reporters still calling after them, but Chris tunes it out.

“That went well,” Felix mutters beside him as they weave through the hallway.

Chris exhales, loosening his tie a bit. “You think?”

“You didn’t even stutter once,” Felix teases, nudging his arm. “Proud of you, man.”

Chris cracks a grin, bumping his shoulder in return. “Takes a good partner to make it smooth.”

Felix flashes him a crooked smirk. “Guess you’re lucky you’ve got me then.”

Chris chuckles, but there's a deeper truth behind the banter. They’ve been through a lot together—close calls, cold nights in stakeouts, months of tension building a case with nothing but scraps and gut instincts. The kind of stuff that forges bonds deeper than friendship. Brotherhood.

As they step back into the precinct, leaving the noise behind, Chris glances over at him again. “Drinks on me tonight,” he says.

Felix grins. “Make it top shelf.”

Chris nods, the corners of his lips twitching upward. “Well, you earned it.”

As it’s considered early for alcohol, the bar is not crowded—just enough people to blur into the background, giving them space to decompress without feeling alone. Chris leans back in his seat, shoulder pressing into the leather booth, his second drink in hand. The ice clinks gently as he swirls the glass and the sting of the liquor is familiar on his tongue.

Next to him, Felix raises an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing at his lips. “So…” he starts, lazily dragging his finger along the rim of his glass, “your wife not looking for you tonight, Detective Bang?”

Chris chuckles, lifting his glass in mock salute. “She’s not my wife,” he says, voice light. “But I appreciate the concern.”

Felix scoffs as he leans back on his chair. “Right. Not your wife. She just happens to like ironing your shirts and pack you breakfast every day. Totally casual.”

Chris laughs, warmth rising in his chest, and he claps a hand on Felix’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, she knows I needed tonight. She's cool with it.”

Felix nods, clearly satisfied with that. “She’s good for you,” he adds after a beat, quieter this time. “I mean it.”

Chris offers a small, grateful smile. “Yeah… she is.”

They fall into a comfortable silence for a moment, sipping their drinks, letting the weight of the day gradually fall off their shoulders.

“You ever think,” Felix begins, staring down into his glass, “how different life would be if we weren’t doing this job?”

Chris quirks a brow. “Different how?”

“I don’t know,” Felix says, shrugging. “Like, waking up at normal hours, not having to chase dealers through alleys or sit on rooftops in the cold for stakeouts. Having time to… breathe.”

Chris hums, considering it. “Yeah, maybe. But I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if I wasn’t doing something that mattered.”

Felix glances up, eyes meeting his. “You think we’re making a difference?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. He thinks of the drugs taken off the streets, the terrified kid they pulled out of that warehouse last night, the quiet relief in the voice of that mother when they called her about her missing son.

“Some days,” he says softly. “Yeah. I do.”

Felix nods again. “Some days is enough.”

They clink glasses, a soft, solid sound in the middle of the bar's low noise.

Chris sighs as he leans back again. “It’s the people who keep me going. You, my ‘wife’,” he pauses to add a sly grin before continuing, “… the little wins.”

Felix grins as he raises his glass. “Well, let’s drink to that. To little wins, good partners, and your ‘wife’ whose patient enough to deal with your grumpy ass.”

Chris laughs, full-bodied and real, and raises his glass again. “Cheers to that.”

Their glasses meet again and, in this moment—with the burn of liquor, the sound of Felix’s chuckle, and the thought of you waiting at home—Chris feels like, maybe he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

-

Felix is halfway through some long-winded joke—something about a drunk guy, a raccoon, and a karaoke machine—when Chris’s phone buzzes against the wooden table. He ignores it at first, trying to focus on the punchline, but then it buzzes again.

Curious, Chris tilts his phone toward him, screen lighting up. His curiosity piqued the moment he sees your name so he taps it open and immediately presses his lips together, hard, in a weak attempt to suppress the smirk spreading across his face.

You send him photos of you wearing that white lace set he knows damn well you bought just to tease him. The first photo is you lying back against the pillows, your legs slightly crossed, your fingers toying with the strap of your bra. The second is even worse—no, better. You’re on your knees now, one hand on your hip, eyes half-lidded, lips parted like you’ve just whispered something filthy.

Then another text comes: “911! Help! There’s a bad girl on the loose.”

His chest tightens with fondness but at the same time, something curls on the pit of his stomach. He bites his bottom lip and shakes his head, hoping his expression isn’t giving too much away. But of course, Felix notices.

“Let me guess,” Felix drawls, raising an eyebrow, “your wifejust sent you a picture that makes you want to risk a speeding ticket?”

Chris can’t help the grin. “Busted.”

Felix chuckles and takes another sip of his drink. The way his face contorts right after makes Chris laugh. “Jesus, why do I keep ordering this?”

“Because you never learn?” Chris offers, amused.

Felix shakes his head, then gestures lazily toward the door. “Just go, man. I’d rather drink alone than compete with your wife.”

Chris chuckles and slips his phone back into his jacket, shaking his head. “Nah. I’m here to hang with you. She’ll understand.”

Felix finishes the last of his drink with a wince and smacks his lips. “You’re a terrible liar, Chris. And also—you’re taking up too much of the ladies’ attention. I think I’ll have better odds without your face around.”

Chris barks a laugh and signals the bartender to close his tab. He glances back at Felix with a raised brow. “You sure it’s okay if I head out?”

Felix scoffs. “Please. I don’t want to be responsible for you getting scolded by the missus.”

Chris throws on his jacket, still grinning. “She’s not—you know what, fine. Whatever makes you happy.”

He takes a step toward the door but turns back. “Take a cab home, yeah?”

Felix slumps deeper into his seat. “Yes, Mom.”

Chris just rolls his eyes, walks behind Felix, and throws a playful headlock around his neck. “Don’t fall asleep here and make me come back to drag your ass home.”

Felix grunts under the hold but laughs. “Yeah, yeah. Go handle your emergency.”

Chris pulls back, gives his shoulder a squeeze, and says, “See you tomorrow, partner.”

“Not if I sleep in,” Felix mutters, waving him off with a lazy hand.

Chris walks out with a lightness in his step, the memory of your photos burned into the back of his mind. His fingers itch for his phone, his body already humming with anticipation.

Once he’s outside, cool air brushing against his flushed cheeks, he slides his phone from his jacket and opens your thread. His thumbs move swiftly across the screen and he writes back:

"Don’t worry, ma’am. Officer Bang is on his way."

He stares at it for a second, smirking to himself before hitting send and it’s game on.

-

Chris smooths down the front of his shirt as he steps out of the elevator and makes his way down the hall. He adjusts the tie around his neck, tugging it just right. It’s slightly wrinkled from the bar and the cab ride, but he straightens it anyway. His fingers graze the badge clipped to his belt, a subtle reminder of the role he’s about to play.

He stops at the door of your shared apartment and exhales slowly before rapping three sharp knocks. He hears you before he sees you, your soft footsteps and a faint, amused hum behind the door.

A while later, the door swings open and you’re leaning casually against the frame, lips curved into a knowing smile, the white lingerie set you’re wearing is concealed under a black silk robe but it’s just as inviting, as dangerous.

However, Chris doesn’t falter. He falls into character with practiced ease.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he says, voice low and polite, laced with authority. “I’m Officer Bang from the 25th precinct.” He flashes his badge as if you don’t already have it memorized. “We received a call about a disturbance in the area.”

You arch a brow, arms crossing slowly over your chest—drawing his attention precisely where you want it. “Good evening, sir.”

Chris narrows his eyes just slightly. “It’s Officer Bang, Ma’am.”

Your smirk deepens and you look down for a second to compose yourself. “Apologies. Officer Bang.” You shift, your hip pressing into the doorframe, chin tilted up as you look at him through your lashes. “How can I help you, Officer?”

He plants his hands on his hips, widening his stance, his voice steady even as your eyes rake slowly down his body. “There was a report of a… bad girl on the premises and I’m here to investigate.”

You say nothing for a beat, eyes lingering at the tight line of his tie, the broad set of his shoulders. Then you meet his gaze again, biting your lower lip with shameless intention.

Chris clears his throat, fighting the heat spreading in his chest. “Ma’am, I need you to use your words so I can assist you properly.”

You sigh, dramatic and sultry. “I called because…” You lean in just slightly, your voice like velvet. “There’s a very bad girl on the premises.”

Chris inhales through his nose. His jaw tightens but he reminds himself to stay in character. “Can you describe her to me?”

You turn now, letting your back rest against the doorframe as your body faces his, closing the gap between you by an inch, maybe two. Your voice is pure mischief, slow and teasing.

“She’s about this tall,” you hold up your hand to your height with a coy smile and the other playing with the knot on your silk robe, “wearing something extremely inappropriate… and she looks like she’s looking for trouble.”

Chris fights the twitch of a smirk. “Any additional information?”

You hum, lips pursed like you’re thinking real hard. “Well, she looks like she wants to be punished,” you whisper, “and punished thoroughly.”

The way you’re acting right now… Chris presses one hand to the doorframe beside your head, the other resting on his belt, and leans in just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off of him. “Well,” he murmurs, voice dipping deeper, “that’s why I’m here, Ma’am.”

His gaze drops to your lips for just a second. “To deal out punishment.”

Then he smiles a wicked smile and adds. “Respectfully, of course.”

You don’t move, don’t breathe, but he can hear the way your breath catches, sees the way your chest rises slightly faster, the way your lashes flutter and he hasn’t even touched you yet. Not really. But he’s going to.

Chris’s knuckles knock once more against the doorframe as he leans slightly in, voice steady and commanding.

“Ma’am, I need you to step aside,” he says coolly, letting his eyes shift past you into the darkened apartment. “I’m going to need to take a look around. Just procedure.”

Without words, you open the door wider with a graceful push and step aside, your silk robe brushing against his sleeve as he enters. He moves in with slow purpose, like a man walking into unfamiliar territory, even though he’s been living this space for almost five years now.

Still, tonight it feels different. The shadows stretch longer. The air carries warmth and spice from the flickering candles you’ve lit in the bedroom. A scene you set with intention.

He walks further in, his socked feet thud softly against the floor as he moves, and you trail just behind him, quiet as a secret. The lights are dim, golden and seductive, and it works. He stops at the threshold of the bedroom, pausing to take it all in. Then he turns to you, brow creasing slightly in mock concern.

“I’m sensing something dangerous here,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ll need to perform a full body check.”

You blink, feigning innocence. “Excuse me?”

Chris straightens, letting authority roll off of him like thunderclouds. “Put your hands behind your head,” he orders. “And face the wall.”

You hesitate, lips parting in soft rebellion, but the moment he says, “Unless you want me to cuff you right now,” the spark in your eyes betrays your excitement.

With a sultry smirk, you obey, lifting your hands behind your head and turning to face the wall. Chris’s breath hitches slightly at the view—your silhouette outlined by candlelight, the silk robe hugging your figure, slipping slightly at the shoulder.

He makes you wait, letting the anticipation bloom and stretch, winding around your spine until he sees you shift slightly in place. After a while, swiftly but gently, his hand finds the back of your neck, fingers curling around the base as he pushes you forward, your chest lightly pressing against the wall.

“Stay still,” his voice low and sharp, oozing with assertiveness. “And don’t even try to do anything stupid.”

Hearing no answer, he grips your neck just a little tighter. “I said—answer me.”

Your voice comes out like honey laced with sin. “Yes, Officer.”

That voice. That tone. Chris quietly exhales as he begins the search, starting with your arms. He’s running his palms down slowly, deliberately, feeling every curve, every shiver beneath your skin. His hands slide down your sides, the silk barely separating his touch from your flesh. At your waist and hips, he squeezes with unmistakable intention and then, he stretches his hands around you from behind, sliding across the front of your body. He palms your breasts in his hands, slow and unhurried, kneading as if testing you, testing himself. Your head bows slightly, eyes fluttering, and he watches every reaction, feels every breath catch.

He moves lower, his hand drifting toward your abdomen and then, he stops only to slide behind you again, patting firmly over your ass, then gripping, kneading, dragging his palms along the swell of your curves like he’s deciding whether to punish or worship.

Then, he steps back and shifts his stance, planting one knee between yours. “Open your legs wider,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your ear.

He hears the sharp inhale and notices the way your body responds—legs parting just slightly more.

Chris crouches low, running his hands down your thighs in slow yet firm touches. He drags them back up again, under the hem of your robe, getting a brief glimpse of your lace underwear. Your body trembles ever so slightly as his fingers skate up the inside of your thighs, nearing where you want him most. He keeps his hand there, hovering over your clothed sex and just when you start to sway, he pulls back.

He gets back on his feet and takes another step back. “Now, turn around.”

You obey him, turning on your feet slowly, like a slow burn and your eyes meet his immediately. Dark, full of wanting.

“Take off the robe,” he says, voice clipped but polite.

You cock your head. “Why, Officer?”

He plants his hands on each side of his hips to give off a sense authorities. “To make sure you’re not hiding anything… dangerous.”

“If you insist,” you mutter with a faint smirk tugging at your lips. You don’t break eye contact as your hands move to the knot at your waist. Slowly, sensually, you tug it loose and let the robe slip from your shoulders, and it hits the floor without a sound.

Chris swallows hard at sight of white lace, bare skin, delicate straps and sinful curves. He can barely breathe, can barely think at all.

“What’s wrong, Officer?” you ask with faux innocence.

He licks his lips before answering. “You’re clearly armed with dangerous intentions.”

You bat your eyes, feigning confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “You’re trying to seduce a police officer.”

“Is that wrong thing?”

Chris lets out a sigh. Controlled. Calculated. “I’m going to have to arrest you.”

You tilt your head and daringly say, “But I don’t feel like being arrested today.”

Chris doesn’t hesitate to sternly warns you. “Don’t make me use force on you, Ma’am.”

You shrug, not even hesitate to show your defiance this time.

That does it. He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out the handcuffs. They glint under the candlelight as he lets them dangle from his fingers. Your expression falters just briefly as he steps forward.

“Bend over the bed.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head slowly.

Chris inhales air before he grabs your waist firmly and hauls you forward. You gasp as you land face-down against the bed, and before you can fully push yourself up, his hands are already on yours, pulling them behind your back.

The cold metal of the cuffs click against your wrists and you groan softly beneath him, head turned to the side, breath uneven. He steps back to take in the sight, watching you—his perfect, dangerous girl—bent over with your hands restrained behind you.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Aren’t you going to read me my rights?”

Chris smirks, his eyes dark and hungry. “You don’t get rights,” he murmurs. “Not when you’ve been this much of a brat.”

This time, when Chris moves toward you, he does it with no more hesitation. He hovers above you, savoring the sight of your body bent over the edge of the bed, wrists bound, your breath shallow and trembling with anticipation. He lingers in that moment—watching you struggle to see him, turning your cheek toward the mattress as though trying to follow the heat of his presence behind you.

He leans in, mouth grazing your ear, his voice low and full of promise as he whispers, “Still going to act like a brat?”

You scoff, breathless but defiant. “Yeah.”

That answer makes something in him tighten with desire. He wraps a hand around your throat—not hard, just enough to tilt your head and expose your neck to him. He plants slow, heated kisses along the delicate skin, lips pressing down like a seal of ownership and then his body lowers, his weight brushing over your back, his hips rolling just enough for you to feel the hardness between his legs rub against the soft heat of your lace-covered core.

A quiet moan escapes you, muffled against the sheets, and Chris smirks. His hand traces down the curve of your back with purpose until he finds the swell of your ass and squeezes, letting his fingers dig in between your legs, meeting the lace fabric of your underwear.

“Yeah,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, “keep being a brat.”

He dips his hand deeper and palms you through the lace, his touch both firm and calculated. His fingers easily trace your clit and begin to tease, circling lazily while he leans down, voice laced with teasing mockery.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying this that much…”

A lie, of course. He can feel the heat radiating through the thin fabric and when he slips beneath it, he immediately greeted by your heating wetness. He wastes no time but let his fingers part you slowly, running them between your slick folds and the truth reveals itself in the essence that coats his fingertips. He finds your clit again, applies gentle pressure on it, and hears the stutter of your breath. Taking you by surprise, his two fingers slide inside and the way your body tightens around them sends heat flooding through him.

He watches your face as he curls his fingers inside just right, watches the way your brows knit, lips parting on a soft, involuntary moan. Your body gives him away—reveling, needy but he’s not going to let you have it easy. He draws his hand back suddenly, leaving you empty and the whimper you let out in protest tugs at something feral in him.

“Well?” he asks, voice gravelly. “Still going to be a brat?”

You glance over your shoulder, a wicked glint in your eye, and smile.

Without needing to hear it, he knows you’ll rebel so he delivers a firm slap to your ass once and then another one, measured yet sharp. You gasp, body jolting, and before you can fully recover, he lands a light, taunting smack over your clothed cunt. He can tell you enjoy it from the way you breathlessly, needily and fuck, he loves it.

Chris grabs your wrists, uncuffing them just long enough to flip you over. You barely have time to blink before he’s moving you to the center of the bed, guiding you like a man who knows exactly what he wants. Your back hits the sheets and then your wrists are bound again, this time above your head, metal cold against your skin as he locks the cuffs to the bedframe.

And now… now he gets to see you laid out in lace and silk, your chest rising, your lips parted, your eyes dark and wild. Your legs curl slightly, already aching for contact, but Chris takes his time, drinking in the sight. The glow of the candlelight dances along the contours of your body. He can see everything and it only fuels the hunger burning in him.

He leans over, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your thigh, and with a devilish grin, he lets his voice drop again into that delicious, commanding tone.

“Looks like I’ve got no choice,” he says, eyes dark with lust. “I’m going to have to take my time… make sure you’ve got nothing else dangerous hidden.”

He lowers himself until he’s right above you, lips brushing your collarbone, hands sliding up your legs again. He knows he still has a role to play but goodness… you’re making it so hard to stay in character.

Chris continues with his delightful assault by pressing warm, lingering kisses along your neck, savoring every twitch, every breathless gasp that escapes you. He trails down to your chest, letting his lips brush over the lace that barely contain the ample flesh of your breasts, and lower still—across your stomach, your hips, each kiss deliberate and unhurried. He dips to the side of your thigh, then lifts your leg gently, pressing your ankle to his cheek as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss the inside of your ankle, then your instep, and finally the sole of your foot—his touch reverent, a quiet act of worship that makes your chest rise with uneven breaths.

Chris gently lowers your leg back to the bed and then, he stands. He takes a step back from the mattress, his eyes remain on you. Still cuffed, still sprawled and flushed and helplessly beautiful. The sight of you stirs something dangerous in him—a mix of tenderness and need—but he holds back cause it’s your turn to wait.

Chris is putting on a show for you as he begins to undress himself in front of you. He shrugs off his jacket first and lets it fall to the floor without a second glance. Next, his tie. He tugs it free with one swift motion, the knot coming undone with a satisfying snap of tension, and he tosses it aside too. His fingers find the buttons of his shirt. One, two… each button opens like a secret, and he feels your eyes clinging to every inch of newly exposed skin.

By the time he parts the shirt open, revealing the lines of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders, he hears the soft jangle of metal—your wrists tugging at the cuffs, your need too great to stay still and you’re probably itching to touch yourself to the show he’s putting on for you.

He quietly smirks in triumphant, leaning forward with both hands propped against the mattress. “This much,” he says, pausing with the shirt still hanging open, “is all you get for being a brat.”

Your groan of protest is immediate, and your voice is sweet when you beg. “Please.”

Chris climbs onto the bed, one knee wedging between your legs as he hovers above you, eyes locked on yours.

“Please what?” he asks, but you don’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he feels you—your hips pressing up, grinding against his thigh, the friction making you shiver. He glances down and sees the darkened patch on his jeans, a visible mark of just how much you want him.

“Ma’am, you’re ruining my jeans,” he mutters, feigning disapproval.

You brazenly smile at him, clearly proud of what you’ve done and Chris, Oh… he’s weak for you.

He sighs and shakes his head. “Guess I have to get rid of the jeans too, yeah?”

He kneels on the bed, fingers working on his belt with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The metal buckle clinks, the leather slides free, and the zipper opens with a drawn-out rasp that echoes in the quiet room.

Your eyes stay glued to him. Wide, wanting and full of anticipation.

Chris pulls down both the jeans and briefs in one motion, tossed aside with zero care. Now, there’s nothing between him and you. He kneels there, bare and unashamed, desire etched in every line of his body. Your eyes fall to the evidence of just how much he wants you, your breath goes shallow at the sight of his swollen member with veins coiled every inch of the length.

He wraps a hand around his cock, stroking slowly, teasing you now with nothing but a look. “Do you want it?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod, lips parted, dazed.

His gaze sharpens as he catches your chin in his free hand, forcing you to look at him in the eyes. “I need you to use words, ma’am.”

“Yes,” you answer without a beat, “I want it.”

Chris continues to tantalize you, he strokes again, slower this time, his thumb brushing over the tip. “Where do you want it?”

You swallow, your breath shaky before you whisper, “In my mouth.”

That pulls a sharp laugh from him—mocking, amused. “Ma’am, I don’t think you can take my cock in your mouth.”

You match his energy with a wicked grin and say, “Don’t worry, officer. I’ll make it fit.”

That mouth of yours.

Chris groans, low and hungry. He shifts forward, one hand bracing the headboard beside you, the other still lazily stroking himself. “Open wide then,” he murmurs, gaze burning. “Let’s see what that bratty mouth can really do.”

Chris kneels in front of you, his length hovering inches from your parted lips, the heat between you palpable. You open your mouth without needing to be told, instinctively drawn to him. So eager, wanting.

He smirks, fingers lifting your chin with a teasing gentleness. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Open up.”

You do as you’re told and he slides two fingers past your lips, you suck on them immediately, your tongue swirling with purpose. Chris draws in a shaky breath, eyes narrowing at the feel of your mouth wrapped around him, wet and warm and knowing. You don’t look away. You want him to see. You want him to imagine.

He chuckles, a sound caught between amusement and arousal, and he slowly slips his fingers out your mouth, a trail of saliva left behind. “Open wider now,” he commands, soft but firm.

You lick your lips and obey, tilting your head slightly and parting your lips further, tongue peeking out in invitation.

He takes his cock in hand, lining up just right and then, slowly, he pushes in—just an inch or two, just enough for your lips to stretch and wrap around him. He watches, mesmerized, as you take it like you’ve been waiting all night. Your mouth molds perfectly around his girth, and the sound he makes is barely a groan—it’s too raw for words.

Getting impatient, you push forward, trying to take more of his length into your mouth by moving your head back and forth.

Chris scoffs a breathless laugh. “A greedy little brat, aren’t you?”

His hand slides into your hair, tightening just enough to anchor you. You don’t stop. Your mouth moves with intent, tongue curling around him, sucking deeper, harder, like you know exactly what it does to him.

And you know what? It’s working. He lets you go on for a while, his breathing unsteady, watching as your head bobs with a rhythm you’ve claimed as your own. But then he notices the way your movements begin to slow, fatigue starting to creep in.

He gently pulls back, not all at once, giving you a break, a space. You gasp when his cock slips free, breath catching, a string of saliva still connecting your lips to the tip of crest of his cock.

He cups your jaw firmly, tilting your face up to his. “You think you can take more?” he asks, voice gravel.

Despite everything, you smile at him, eyes daring. “Yes, officer.”

That damn mouth.

He slides his thumb over your bottom lip, pressing slightly, prying your mouth open again. “Stay just like that.”

And you do—obedient, still, with lips parted and your gaze locked on his.

This time, Chris leans forward, guiding his swollen cock into your mouth again, slowly and carefully. He waits for you to adjust, watches your eyes flutter, feels the way your body tenses slightly before easing into it.

When he deems you’re ready, he begins to move. His grip finds the bedframe behind you as he sets a pace, moving his hips, thrusting into your mouth—not fast, not rough, just steady, deep, deliberate. The slick heat of your mouth surrounds him, your tongue teasing him with each glide in, each slow pull out. He glances down and the sight of his cock disappearing between your lips nearly undoes him. You’re doing well. Too well.

He slows to stop, intent on pulling away, but you have other plans—your mouth sucks harder, refusing to let go. His hips jerk, an involuntary reaction, and his free hand finds your jaw again.

“Stop,” he breathes, warning low but you don’t. “I said stop!”

Even without his movement, you continue—relentless, sinful, determined to ruin him. He has no choice but to pull himself out with a little force, retreating from your warm, slick mouth.

You inhale deeply, your chest rising, but the grin that spreads on your face tells him everything.

He grips your chin again, eyes narrowing with a sharp heat. “You want me to come all over your face, huh?”

You meet his gaze, lips swollen, breath still uneven. And with that smirk that drives him insane, you answer, “You think I’d mind, officer?”

Chris exhales a low curse as he stares down at you, chest rising and falling as he fights to catch his breath, his gaze sharp and searing. You’re still panting, lips parted, hair wild across the pillow, your body flushed from his touch—and yet, somehow, still insatiable.

He smirks, eyes dark as he murmurs, “You really need to be punished for that.”

Before you can react, he kisses you—hard, hungry, a kiss that takes and demands, leaving no space for air or thought. His mouth moves with raw intent, tongue tangling with yours, hands fisting the sheets beside your head. When he finally pulls away, you gasp for breath, but he doesn’t give you long for his mouth trails down your skin, igniting sparks in every place he touches.

He sucks a kiss onto the soft swell of your breast, just above your heartbeat, and you squirm beneath him, back arching as his mouth finds another spot along your hip. He doesn’t stop until a dark mark blooms on your skin. Then he goes lower, his head between your legs, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. You hold your breath in anticipation. His mouth brushes over your inner thigh, and he bites just enough to make you whimper. You tremble, caught in the edge of pain and pleasure, his thumb rubbing softly over the fresh bruise he’s left behind.

Chris looks down between your thighs and lets out a low, amused chuckle. “Look at that,” he drawls, almost mockingly. “You’re making a mess on the bed.”

You don’t deny it. Instead, your hips move instinctively against his hand when he cups your drenched cunt, his thumb putting gentle pressures on your clit just enough to make you moan. Your body arches off the bed, chasing his touch, needing more.

“You’re so needy it’s pathetic,” he teasingly mocks you, his voice thick with amusement and something darker.

He lowers his head, giving your clit kitten licks before giving a kiss on it, softly at first and then sealing his mouth around it and sucking gently. His fingers join in, moving in sync, working in tandem to unravel you. He gives you no mercy, no escape—only everything you’ve been silently begging for.

When you hit your climax—when your legs tremble and your body seizes beneath him—he holds you down with one arm across your stomach, keeping you grounded as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

But Chris doesn’t wait long. He rises, positions himself between your legs, and in one smooth thrust, slides into you—hot, deep, all-consuming. You’re still fluttering from the aftershocks, and the way your body grips him almost undoes him. He groans low in his throat, forehead pressing against yours for a moment. It’s overwhelming—how right it feels to be inside you, to be connected like this. And just like that, you both drop the act.

He thrusts into you—not with dominance, but with heart. With the kind of passion that leaves no room for anything else. It’s all him, all of you. Bodies moving as one. You clutch the bedframe, holding on as he drives into you, strong and deep, your moans filling the room, your voice crying out his name over and over again.

“Please… please, Chris, please—”

He knows what you want. He wants it too. He leans in, capturing your mouth again, swallowing every broken sound you make as the pleasure builds and builds, a crescendo that neither of you can fight.

In no time, you come together and he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he pushes deeper, burying himself fully as the last of his release spills inside you, his hands braced on either side of your head. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer still, and he lets you. He needs it too. His forehead rests against yours, your heartbeats pounding in unison, bodies still trembling from the high.

After a long moment, still hazy from it all, Chris reaches toward the nightstand, unlocking the cuffs with a soft clink. He immediately takes your hands in his, rubbing gently at your wrists, concern flickering in his eyes. He pulls you close until you’re snug to his side and it’s just hitting him now of what he’s done, what you’ve shared.

“You okay?” he asks softly, voice rough around the edges.

You laugh—soft, amused—and slide your arms around his neck. “Are you really asking me that?”

Chris lets out a breathy chuckle, kissing your forehead before try again. “Anything hurt?” he asks more seriously, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

You shake your head, eyes playful. “If anything, I want to thank you for not taking this bad girl to jail, officer.”

That teasing lilt in your voice makes his heart swell. You lean in and kiss him again and it’s gentle, warm, sweet that he feels it in every part of him. Oh, he can’t love you more than this. But somehow, he knows he will.

-

The morning sun filters through the tall windows of the hall, catching glints of silver and brass as the sea of formal uniforms shifts quietly in their seats. The room is packed—officers polished and poised in navy blues, caps resting on laps, medals already pinned or soon to be. The commissioner stands at the podium, his voice calm but authoritative, opening the ceremony with commendations and words about justice, integrity, and sacrifice.

Chris sits in the front row with the other recipients, his hands clasped in his lap, posture stiff but eyes distracted. The crisp edges of his uniform feel too tight today, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything else pressing on his chest.

He tries not to glance over his shoulder—tries not to look at the back row filled with families and relatives, but the pull is magnetic.

“Stop turning around,” Felix mutters beside him, voice low enough only for Chris to hear. “You’re not slick.”

Chris suppresses a sigh. “I wasn’t—”

“You were. You are,” Felix says, without looking at him. “She’s here. Your wife is here.”

Chris rolls his jaw, glancing down to hide the ghost of a smile that threatens to surface. “She’s not—”

Chris refrains from explaining further and shifts in his seat, his fingers brushing absently at the edge of his cuff. The word—wife—echoes again in his head. He’s denied it out loud too many times now, but the truth? He loves the sound of it. Loves the way it fits with you. Loves the idea of you standing beside him, not just after a case, or a long day, but for all the days that come after.

A thought pops in his head. Maybe it is time to start looking for a ring.

He doesn’t have time to follow the thought much further—because the commissioner finishes the speech, and the ceremony begins. Names are called, medals readied. Applause rings out as each officer takes the stage, and then—it’s their turn.

“Detective Sergeant Bang Christopher and Detective Felix Lee,” the announcer calls.

Chris stands with Felix and walks to the stage under the bright lights and reverberating claps, the echo of polished shoes against polished floors. Their recent bust had made headlines—months of wiretaps, surveillance, and calculated moves culminating in the biggest drug ring takedown the precinct’s had in years. It had been grueling, dangerous work but it’s worth every drop of sweat.

Felix accepts his medal first with a respectful nod, the commissioner clapping him on the shoulder and then it’s Chris’s turn next. The medal is clipped onto his chest, the commissioner’s praise ringing faintly in his ears—but his eyes are already moving, scanning the crowd, searching instinctively.

Even in a sea of faces, his eyes find you like they always do. You’re standing at the back, just a little to the side, away from the rows and rows of uniforms and brass buttons. But your smile is what struck him the most, bright, proud and it’s just for him. He doesn’t need anything else. Just you, smiling like that, looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters.

Something in his chest softens. Or tightens. He’s not even sure which anymore. All he knows is this—his heart just recognizes you. Always has.

He returns your smile—small, private, meant for only you. And in that moment, with a medal pinned to his chest and applause still echoing in the air, Chris doesn’t feel like a detective or a hero or a man in uniform. He just feels like… a man in love.

And yeah, maybe it really is time to start looking for a ring.

-

The precinct doesn’t do celebrations halfway. The bar’s packed—shoulder to shoulder with uniforms, laughter spilling into the night, glasses raised, backs clapped. The music’s low enough for conversation, but the mood’s buzzing. A win like this calls for drinks. Lots of them.

Chris stands near the long end of the bar, sipping on whiskey, keeping tabs on his surroundings out of habit. He’s been pulled into a few conversations already—his captain, some detectives from vice, a couple of brass from upstairs. But most of them are here for the same reason: to relax, to drink, to celebrate.

And you, you glide through the crowd like you belong here. Dressed in something understated but elegant, you’re effortlessly warm, even with strangers. Chris watches as you talk to the partner of one of his colleagues, your voice low and animated, your smile soft and easy. The way you laugh like you’re not even trying, like you’ve known these people for years. You seamlessly fit into this part of his life too like this was always meant to be. The next thing he knows, he can’t stop staring at you.

“Dude,” Felix mutters beside him, half-amused, half-exasperated. “She’s not going to vanish if you blink.”

Chris scoffs lightly but doesn’t deny it. He takes another sip, eyes still on you. “Just checking.”

“She’s in a room full of cops. She’s probably safer than you are.”

Chris laughs, his eyes finally leaving you for a beat to look at his partner. “You’re just bitter.”

Felix raises his glass. “I will be, until I’m dead or married. Whichever comes first.”

“Well, if it’s the latter, I’m gonna be the one teasing you when you start acting like this,” Chris says, nodding at himself. “All moony and shit.”

“Can’t wait,” Felix deadpans, draining his drink.

Chris is about to clap back when movement catches the corner of his eye—and there you are, walking toward him, drink in hand, eyes already on him like you knew he was watching. He can’t help the way his smile, it just… happens.

You slip into his side easily like you’ve always belonged there and if he weren’t surrounded by his entire precinct, Chris would kiss you right now—slow and deep and possessive. Instead, he slides a hand around your back, resting it on the small of your waist, behaving well.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” you say sweetly, eyes flicking between the two detectives.

“Just in time,” Chris says with a smirk.

Felix sighs dramatically. “Nope. Just talking about my inevitable descent into emotional unavailability.”

Chris shoots him a warning look. “Actually, I was planning to set Felix up with someone. Might help with the whole ‘bitterness’ thing.”

You laugh, glancing at Felix. “Oh, that sounds like a great plan. I mean, Chris and I met because someone set us up.”

Felix rolls his eyes so hard Chris swears he can hear it. He takes a slow, passive-aggressive sip from his drink.

“Felix, I’m sorry but I have to steal your drinking buddy,” you say with a charming tilt of your head. “I need to talk to Chris for a bit, if that’s okay.”

Felix forces a smile. “Go ahead. Take him away.”

Chris raises an eyebrow. “You want to talk?”

You nod. “Mhmm.”

You lace your fingers through his and tug, leading him toward the back. Chris follows with a quiet smirk playing on his lips, throwing one last smug glance over his shoulder at Felix, who flips him off behind his glass.

The bar’s back alley is quiet, dark and tucked away from the noise and chatter. The second the door closes behind you, you push him against the brick wall and crash your lips onto his.

He grins against your mouth, kissing you back with just as much want, just as much need. His hands find your waist, dragging you flush against him. It’s messy and heated, and neither of you seems to care. You're like two teenagers sneaking around again—and honestly, he’s enjoying the thrill.

You pull back just a little, your breath mingling with his, your eyes half-lidded with lust as you whisper, “I just can’t help it. Seeing you in this uniform…”

You bite your bottom lip and trail your fingers down his chest. “It does things to me.”

Chris smirks, eyes gleaming. “What things?”

You chuckle, voice low and sinful. “I mean, Detective Bang… you’re hot, you save the world and even got a medal for it—and now you’re in this uniform…”

Your hand glides lower, briefly grazing the front of his pants, and your eyes flick up to meet his again. Then you lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “Please. Breed me already.”

The words hit him like a match to gasoline. His restraint crumbles and he growls into your mouth as he kisses you hard, deep, his tongue pressing past your lips. It knocks the air out of you, but you kiss him right back—equally desperate. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up your back, tugging down your cardigan as his lips trail to your neck.

“You’re thinking of doing it here?” you whisper with a breathy chuckle.

He plants a kiss on your cleavage, breath hot against your skin. “You said it yourself. Don’t you want me to breed you already, huh?”

You laugh against his mouth, the sound full of disbelief and arousal. “Yeah, but not here—not now.”

He shuts you up with another searing kiss. He hoists you up easily, and your legs wrap around his waist like it’s muscle memory. The heat of you pressed against him—he swears he might lose it right here.

You’re kissing him back like the world is ending, like you can’t get enough of each other. Hands, lips, need—everywhere. Well, until your phone shrills from inside your purse and you freeze for a second, groaning as your head tips back.

Chris lets out a frustrated breath but he sets you down, though his lips never leave your neck. He kisses along your jaw as you fumble to dig out your phone and answer it.

From the short responses you give, he knows it’s work. Nothing personal. Nothing he should be worried about. Still, he pouts into the crook of your neck, leaving soft, ticklish kisses there that make you giggle despite trying to sound serious.

When you hang up, he kisses your lips again, and again, and again—but when he pulls away, you’re already telling him, “It’s a work emergency. I have to go.”

He groans, frustrated and needy, pulling you close again. “Don’t go.”

“I have to.”

He nibbles your earlobe which he knows for sure is your weak spot and you nearly drop your phone right there.

“Chris,” you laugh breathlessly, gently pushing him away. “Later, okay?”

He groans again, defeated, as he wraps his arms around you in a tight hug, his thoughts already racing with everything he wants to do to you once you're back.

Chris understands. He always does. Your job isn't always nine-to-five—especially when something serious hits, like a cyber-attack that demands your whole team onsite to contain it. So even if you're usually working from home and within arm’s reach, tonight isn’t one of those nights.

He slides his hand into yours and quietly leads you back through the hum of the bar, weaving through your goodbyes. He watches as you exchange short, warm words with a few of his colleagues—your smile easy, your presence so natural among them. He wonders again how he ever got this lucky.

Eventually, you return to Felix, who’s leaning against the bar, lazily nursing his drink with a side glance.

“Hey,” you say with a teasing smile, brushing a hand along Chris’s arm before facing Felix, “I give you your friend back.”

Felix, deadpan and dry as ever, lifts his glass and mocks, “Yay.”

Chris just shakes his head in disbelief, lips twitching in amusement, but when he glances back at you, you're chuckling, radiant even in the dim light.

You step closer to him, lowering your voice. “I really have to go now,” you say.

Chris draws you into his chest, letting his lips graze your ear as he mutters low enough only you can hear, “Go save the cyber world. And we’ll continue our breeding business later.”

He catches that flustered little flicker in your eyes before you gather yourself again, your gaze sharpening in that way he secretly loves. You lean up to press a quick kiss to his lips, murmuring, “Enjoy tonight.”

Then you turn to Felix with a playful and say, “Please, don’t let him go home until he’s drunk.”

Felix raises a brow at that, clearly impressed. “Noted.”

Chris catches your wrist gently just to steal one more kiss—soft and quick—and whispers, “Stay safe.”

You smile, nod, and finally head out the door. He watches you disappear into the night, fighting the part of him that already wants to chase after you.

With a deep breath, he returns to the bar and drops into the seat next to Felix. “Drinks,” he tells the bartender. “Two more.”

The bartender slides over fresh glasses just as Felix sips his old one and says, smirking, “Okay… I might like your wife a little.”

Chris chuckles, lifting his glass. “You know it’s better if you don’t like her at all.”

Felix snorts, “Fair.”

They clink glasses for a toast. “To us,” Chris says, “and the insane amount of work we’ve done.”

Felix lifts his drink. “And to the people who tolerate us.”

Much later that night, Chris stumbles into the apartment past midnight, drunk but still aware enough to notice one thing immediately: the bed is empty.

Chris exhales slowly, the pleasant buzz of celebration fading just a little. He knows you said it might be an all-nighter, and he trusts you, he does—but still. He shrugs off his blazer, toeing off his shoes messily before collapsing face-first into the bed that feels too big without you. But he can’t rest without making sure you’re okay, needing to hear your voice, even if it’s sleepy and annoyed.

Chris rolls onto his back and squints at the screen, his thumb fumbling through recent calls until he hits your name. It rings and rings, but you don’t pick up.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, staring at the screen until it goes dark.

He starts composing a text but somehow, midway through typing, his eyelids get heavy. He tells himself he’s only going to rest them for a minute. Just a second. But who is he kidding?

-

When he wakes up, it’s bright outside and the headache kicks in as soon as he opens his eyes, pounding right behind his temples. Chris groans and drapes an arm across his face, peeling it off only when the silence settles strangely in his chest. He turns his head to the side and your side of the bed is still empty.

That jolts him up and he stumbles into the kitchen, the cold tile waking his bare feet a little as he reaches for a glass and fills it to the brim, chugging it down like a man dying of thirst because the hangover is brutal and it’s not getting easier as he gets older.

He checks his phone, swiping through missed notifications, and scoffs at the half-written text still sitting in the message field. He really was going to send it, really meant to. He’s about to press call again when he hears the front door creak open.

Your voice follows, tired but sweet: “I’m home.”

Chris immediately steps into the threshold. You’re still in the clothes from last night, dark circles under your eyes, exhaustion weighing heavy in every step. And yet, you’re the best thing he’s seen all morning.

Without a word, he welcomes you with a smile and open arms.

You don’t hesitate—you run into it and immediately melt into him, dropping your bag by the door as you step into his embrace. Chris wraps you tightly, pressing his lips to the top of your head and keeping you there, like he’s afraid to let go. “Welcome home,” he murmurs against your hair.

You tip your head up and let him kisses you—slow and soft, as if grounding both of you. When he pulls back, his smile is sleepy and crooked. “You must be tired.”

You nod, pouting dramatically, then smirk just a little. “And you must be hungover.”

Chris chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guilty.”

Your lips curve up as you raise a hand, showing him the small brown bag and two takeout cups in your grasp. “Good thing I bought breakfast on the way home.”

His heart does that stupid fluttering thing again and he reaches out, takes the bag from you with a grin. “You’re an angel.”

You shrug like it’s nothing, but he can tell—underneath the fatigue, you were thinking of him too. You always do.

The two of you sit across from each other at the dining table, still in the morning haze, two people fueled by caffeine and the comfort of shared silence. You take a slow bite of your croissant, your voice soft and sleepy as you begin, “It was a ransomware breach—really bad. The company’s firewall got bypassed and a huge chunk of their data was encrypted. They called our team in around midnight. We’ve been trying to trace the entry point and isolate the damage ever since.”

Chris listens, nodding even though some of the words fly straight over his head but the fatigue in your voice, the long-winded frustration—he can relate to that. He may not know a thing about servers and packets, but he knows what it’s like to be called into chaos with no end in sight.

“That sounds like hell,” he murmurs.

You hum, lifting your cup for another sip. “Pretty much. I’m running on caffeine and pure spite.”

Chris chuckles at that, resting his chin on his palm as he watches you. Even exhausted, you’re effortlessly beautiful. How is it fair?

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he innocently blurts out mid-sip of his coffee, voice hoarse from the hangover.

You smile, still a little dazed. “Tell me that again after I’ve showered.”

Once the last bite is gone and your cup’s nearly empty, you rise from your seat and press a hand to his shoulder. “I’m gonna go wash up and change. You should too. Don’t you have work?”

He grunts as he leans back on his seat. “Eventually.”

The two of you move around the apartment in rhythm—Chris heads for the bathroom, you disappear into the bedroom. Doors open, water runs, drawers creak. It’s the normalcy he craves, just the mundanity of it.

After his shower, Chris steps out with a towel slung low around his hips, wiping the mist off his face. He expects to find you already curled up under the covers, buried in pillows like you always do after a long night shift.

But no, he finds you in the laundry room. His eyes widen at the sight of you crouched in front of the washer, a loose shirt draping over your thighs, an open jar of detergent perched on top of the machine like an afterthought.

“You’re doing laundry?” he asks, half amused, half exasperated.

You don’t even flinch. “I’m just loading it. The machine does the rest.”

He crosses his arms, water still beading off his shoulders. “Baby, the world won’t end if the laundry waits a few hours.”

You close the detergent jar and shoot him a tired little smirk. “Yeah, but my brain won’t stop thinking about it until it’s done.”

Fair enough. Once the machine starts its rhythmic hum, Chris steps in, curling his fingers gently around your wrist and steers your body. “C’mon. Let’s get you to bed.”

Without protest, you let him lead you. He guides you to the bedroom, tucks the sheets over you with a tenderness most people wouldn’t expect from a guy like him. But just as he’s about to pull away, you catch his wrist.

“Cuddle me?” you mumble, eyes half-closed.

He exhales, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re dangerous when you ask like that.”

Of course he can’t say no to that. He climbs in behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as you both melt into the mattress. His nose buries into your damp hair, and his chest presses against your back. Your breathing slows and he feels it in the rise and fall of your body against his. Within minutes, you're out—completely, deeply asleep.

Chris just lies there, letting the silence settle and the world stop for a while until his phone buzzes against the nightstand. He considers ignoring it, not wanting to face the world just yet but curiosity wins. Carefully, he shifts just enough to peek at the screen without disturbing you.

Felix: Meet me at MESA gallery. Don’t go to the precinct. It’s important.

Chris taps out a quick reply with one hand: Be there soon.

But before he moves, he looks at you again, watching you peacefully sleeping and decides to stay one more moment longer. Just holding you, memorizing the feel of you breathing softly in his arms. Then he slips out, slowly and carefully as to not wake you.

He brushes the hair from your forehead and kisses the space just above your temple, lips lingering. “I’ll be home soon,” he whispers. “Sweet dreams, baby.”

With one last glance, Chris shrugs into his jacket, fastens his badge, holsters his gun. He lingers in the doorway for a second, watching you in the hush of morning light, still sleeping, still his and still the one he can’t wait to come home to.

-

Morning traffic blurs past him, but all he can focus on is Felix’s text. His brows stay furrowed, the headache from last night barely hanging on—though now dulled by a new, sharper tension. The engine hums low as Chris turns onto the narrow street leading to the MESA Gallery and when he pulls up, it’s immediately clear something serious has happened.

The place is crawling with uniforms and yellow tape. Squad cars parked along the sidewalk. Forensics wheeling cases of equipment inside. A small crowd has already gathered outside, murmuring behind the barricades. Press will be here soon, if they aren’t already. Chris flashes his badge at the officer by the door and steps inside.

The gallery—usually quiet, pristine, almost sterile in its curated elegance—is in controlled chaos. Technicians move with gloved hands, cameras clicking, laser scanners humming. The polished white floor now marred by footprints in plastic booties.

He finds Felix near the center of the gallery, speaking with one of the forensic specialists. Chris doesn’t interrupt, just steps beside him and waits, hands on his hips, eyes scanning the room. When the conversation ends, Felix turns to him.

“What’s going on?” Chris asks, his voice low but firm.

Felix doesn’t answer right away. He just jerks his chin, gesturing for Chris to follow. They walk past rows of cordoned-off exhibits—ancient crowns, jeweled scepters, ceremonial daggers—each displayed in thick glass enclosures.

Felix lets the silence stretch for a beat, then murmurs, “This gallery was hosting a royal jewelry exhibit. The Crown of Ancients was taken sometime last night. No witnesses. No footage. Same signature.”

The further they go, the quieter it becomes, until they reach the back of the gallery, where one display sits out of place. A single glass case, now empty. Chris’s eyes don’t stop at the missing piece but his gaze drops lower—to the faint trail on the velvet platform inside the case. A silvery shimmer. Almost invisible unless you know what to look for.

His jaw tightens as the recognition hits like a punch to the ribs. No. It can’t be. But it is.

Felix glances sideways at Chris, then adds with a low, knowing voice, “It looks like your favorite thief has returned.”

Chris doesn’t respond right away. His eyes stay locked on the delicate dusting of silver inside the case—taunting him, unmistakable. It glints under the track lighting like a signature.

She’s back.

His mind reels, trying to retrace the years, the nights, the investigations, the gut instincts he pushed aside in favor of peace. Turns out, it’s a lull in the storm and now the storm has returned, soft-footed and smiling in the shadows.

The silence between him and Felix stretches—weighted and tense—until Chris finally mutters, voice low and laced with disbelief, “Why now?” Felix doesn’t answer and the only reply Chris gets is the echo of his own question in his head so he steps closer to the empty case, like getting nearer will help him understand. But all it does is confirm one thing: Silvene wanted him to know that this is only just beginning.

-

✨CLOSER: CHAPTER TWO is available on my Patreon ✨

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