Queenie

“But he bullied kids” “but he was a death eater” “but it’s not because of the marauders because he loved the dark arts before too” dude I so don’t care

“Neville was so scared of him his boggart—” he could’ve decapitated Neville with an axe in the middle of potions class. I don’t give a fuck

The tension that had been simmering for months—the stolen glances in the bullpen, the brush of fingers over cold coffee, and the heavy, unsaid promises—finally reached its boiling point.

​It was late, the kind of hour where the rest of Chicago seemed to hold its breath. The door to Hank’s house hadn't even fully clicked shut before he had you pressed against it. The heavy oak was cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the sudden, radiating heat of his body.

​The Release

​There was no more "Sergeant" and "Officer." There was only the raw, desperate need of two people who lived every day on the edge of a knife. Hank’s hands, usually so controlled, were frantic as they cupped your face. His kiss wasn't a question; it was a claim, tasting of the whiskey he’d had earlier and the sheer hunger he’d been suppressing.

​"I've been thinking about this since the briefing," he growled against your lips, his voice a vibration you felt deep in your chest. "Watching you walk across that room... it nearly broke me."

​He didn't wait. His hands slid down, hooking under your thighs to lift you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if there weren't enough air in the room. He carried you toward the bedroom, never breaking the kiss, his movements powerful and certain.

​The Heat

​When he dropped you onto the bed, the moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting long, rhythmic shadows across his shoulders. He stripped off his shirt, revealing the rugged, scarred landscape of a man who had survived everything the city could throw at him.

​When he moved over you, the weight of him was grounding—a solid, physical reminder that you were both alive. His hands were everywhere, tracing the line of your hip, the curve of your waist, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

​"Hank," you breathed, his name a broken plea as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

​"I've got you," he muttered, his breath hot against your skin. "Right here. I’ve got you."

​The slow burn had turned into an inferno. Every touch was fueled by the months of restraint, the danger of their jobs, and the quiet realization that they belonged to each other. When he finally moved into you, it wasn't just physical; it was an anchoring. He moved with a slow, deliberate intensity, his eyes locked onto yours, forcing you to see him—all of him—without the badge, without the armor.

​The Aftermath

​Hours later, the room was quiet, the only sound the steady, synchronized rhythm of your breathing. The sheets were a tangled mess around your legs. Hank was on his side, his arm draped heavily over your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

​He pressed a lingering, soft kiss to the back of your shoulder, his rough stubble grazing your skin.

​"You okay?" he whispered, his voice more sandpaper-dry than usual.

​"Yeah," you murmured, turning in his arms to face him. In the dim light, the hardness in his face had softened into something resembling peace. "More than okay."

​He pulled the quilt up around you both, tucking you into the curve of his body. For once, the city of Chicago and all its monsters felt a million miles away.

The morning air at the 21st District was always thick with the scent of burnt coffee and floor wax, but today, there was an added charge in the atmosphere.

​You walked into the bullpen ten minutes after Hank. You had tried your best to look "Standard Issue"—hair back, vest tight, eyes focused—but there was a looseness in your stride that wasn't there forty-eight hours ago. A quiet, hummed confidence.

​The Tell-Tale Signs

​Hank was in his office with the door open, leaning over his desk. He looked the same as always, but as you walked past to your desk, his head lifted. For a split second, his gaze caught yours. It wasn't the sharp, tactical assessment of a Sergeant. It was heavy, dark, and possessive—a look that remembered exactly how you felt in the moonlight.

​He gave a single, slow nod before returning to his files, but the damage was done.

​Atwater, who was leaning against the breakroom door, lowered his coffee mug slowly. He looked at you, then at Hank’s office, then back to you. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face.

​"Morning," Kevin said, his voice dropping into a register that was far too smooth for 8:00 AM.

​"Morning, Kev," you replied, opening your laptop.

​"You look... refreshed," he noted. "Like you finally got that 'rest' everyone’s been talking about."

​The Bullpen Interrogation

​It didn't take long for the rest of the unit to catch the frequency. Jay Halstead was pinning a photo to the whiteboard, but he kept glancing at Hank.

​"Sarge is in a weirdly good mood," Jay muttered, loud enough for only the inner circle to hear. "He didn't even yell at the courier for the late lab results. He just... thanked him."

​"He thanked him?" Adam Ruzek popped up from behind his monitor, eyes wide. "That’s it. We’ve been compromised. The real Voight has been replaced by a pod person."

​Ruzek’s eyes swung to you. He took in the way you were biting back a smile, the way you were carefully avoiding looking at the glass-walled office. He looked at your neck, where the collar of your shirt sat just high enough to hide what you knew was a faint, fading mark from the night before.

​"Oh," Ruzek breathed, his eyes lunch-plate wide. "Oh, man. No way."

​"Ruzek, get back to work," you snapped, though there was no real heat in it.

​The Sergeant’s Final Word

​Hank stepped out of his office, his boots thudding rhythmically on the hardwood. The bullpen went instantly silent, the air vibrating with the team's collective curiosity.

​He stopped right in the center of the room, his hands on his hips. He looked around at each of them—Atwater’s smirk, Ruzek’s stunned expression, Jay’s quiet realization.

​"If anyone has something they want to say," Hank rasped, his voice carrying that familiar, dangerous edge, "say it now. Otherwise, get your files together. We’re hitting the warehouse at ten."

​The team scrambled. Keyboards clicked furiously. Papers shuffled.

​Hank walked past your desk on his way to the stairs. He didn't stop, but as he passed, he let the back of his hand brush against your shoulder—a brief, electric contact that said everything.

​"Nice shirt," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "It suits you."

​He kept walking, leaving you breathless and the rest of the team whispering in his wake. The slow burn was over; the fire was officially out of control.

The undercover night at the casino had sparked a new rhythm between you. The secrecy was still there, but the weight of it had changed from a burden to a shared language.

​The Silent Protection

​It was one of those Chicago winters that bit straight through to the bone. The heater in your apartment had given out at 2:00 AM, and you were huddled under three blankets when you heard a heavy, rhythmic knock at the door.

​You opened it to find Hank standing there, his face half-hidden by a scarf, carrying a portable space heater in one hand and a bag of takeout in the other.

​"I saw the utility report for this block," he said, stepping in without waiting for an invite. He didn't say I was worried about you. He didn't have to. He just started setting up the heater, his large hands surprisingly deft with the wiring.

​Once the room began to glow orange with warmth, he sat on the edge of your bed, watching you. "You’re stubborn," he murmured, pulling you toward him until your head rested on his shoulder. "You could have called."

​"I didn't want to wake you," you whispered.

​"I'm always awake," he replied, his hand moving in slow, grounding circles on your back. "Call next time. For anything."

​The Badge and the Heart

​A week later, the District was in chaos. A high-profile witness had gone missing, and the brass was breathing down Hank’s neck. You were in the breakroom, staring at a map, when you felt him come up behind you.

​The room was empty for exactly sixty seconds.

​He didn't say a word. He just leaned in, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, ragged breath. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. For those few seconds, he wasn't the "Sarge" or the "Enforcer." He was just a man seeking anchor in a storm.

​"Thirty seconds," he muttered against your skin.

​"Take a minute, Hank," you replied, reaching back to squeeze his hand.

​When he pulled away, the mask was back on—the steel was back in his eyes—but he caught your gaze and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible wink before heading back into the bullpen to bark orders. That one second of vulnerability was yours alone, a private fuel that kept both of you going through the eighteen-hour shift.

​The Midnight Drive

​Sometimes, when the city felt too loud and the cases too heavy, he’d pull the SUV up to the curb as you were leaving the District.

​"Get in," he’d say.

​You’d drive for hours. No destination, just the rhythmic hum of tires on the pavement and the flickering yellow of streetlights. He’d drive with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console, waiting for you to bridge the gap.

​When you finally slipped your hand into his, he’d tighten his grip. These were the moments where the "burn" felt like a steady, glowing hearth.

​"I ever tell you about the first time I saw you?" he asked during one of these drives, his voice low and gravelly.

​"The day I joined Intelligence?"

​"No," he said, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Two years before that. You were a beat cop handling a domestic on 47th. You were outmatched, outnumbered, and you didn't back down an inch. I stayed in my car for ten minutes just watching you. I knew then."

​"Knew what?"

​He pulled the car over by the lakefront, the dark water of Lake Michigan churning under the moon. He turned to look at you, his expression more peaceful than you’d ever seen it.

​"Knew I was eventually going to have to find a way to keep you," he said. "Took me long enough, didn't it?"

The following weeks weren't marked by grand gestures, but by the small, tectonic shifts in the way he allowed you into his world.

​The Morning Ritual

​It started with a key. No speech, no ceremony. Just Hank dropping a heavy brass key onto your desk one morning before the rest of the team arrived.

​"Don't lose it," he grunted, not looking back as he walked into his office.

​Now, mornings didn't start at the District; they started in his kitchen. You’d find him at 6:00 AM, already dressed in his signature dark jeans and boots, leaning over the counter with a newspaper he actually read.

​One morning, you caught him staring out the window, his hand frozen mid-pour of the coffee. You walked up behind him, sliding your arms around his waist. You felt the momentary tension in his back—the instinct of a man used to being hunted—melt away the second he realized it was you.

​He turned in your arms, resting his large hands on your shoulders. "You're going to make me soft," he teased, though his eyes were anything but joking.

​"Never," you whispered, reaching up to smooth the permanent crease between his brows. "I’m just making sure you remember you're human."

​The "Undercover" Night

​There was a Friday when the case required a "social" presence at a high-end underground casino. Hank insisted on being your "handler" inside.

​You were in a silk dress that felt like a second skin; he was in a suit that made him look like the most dangerous man in the room—which he was. Every time a suspect looked at you for a second too long, you could feel the temperature around Hank drop forty degrees.

​At one point, while leaning against the bar to relay info to Jay via your comms, Hank stepped up beside you. He didn't look at you; he looked at the room, his hand settling possessively on the small of your back.

​"Careful," you breathed into your drink. "The team is listening."

​"Let 'em listen," Hank growled, his voice a low vibration you felt in your bones. "I’m playing the part of a jealous guy. It’s not a stretch."

​For the rest of the night, he didn't leave your side. It wasn't just for the mission. It was a message to the city, and to the team: This one is mine.

​The Quiet Confession

​The most defining moment happened on a Sunday—no case, no sirens. Just a rare day off. You were sitting on his back porch, the Chicago wind biting at the air. Hank was cleaning a service weapon, his movements methodical and rhythmic.

​"My father used to say that this city takes more than it gives," he said suddenly, breaking an hour of comfortable silence. He didn't look up from the slide of the gun. "I believed him for a long time. I lived like I was already a ghost."

​He finally set the piece down and looked at you. The setting sun caught the grey in his hair, the hardness of his jaw.

​"But then you showed up," he continued, his voice rougher than usual. "And suddenly, I’m looking at retirement years I never thought I’d want. I’m looking at a future that isn't just a prison cell or a grave."

​He reached out, taking your hand in his. His skin was calloused, smelling of gun oil and soap.

​"I don't know how to do 'normal' well," he admitted, his thumb tracing your palm. "But if you’re willing to put up with the mess... I’m not letting you go."

​You didn't need a ring or a promise of "forever." In that moment, seeing the vulnerability in the eyes of the man the whole city feared, you knew the slow burn had finally forged something unbreakable.

The aftermath of the warehouse bust didn't end with the sirens. It lingered in the hallways of the 21st District like a thick fog. The team knew—they had heard the raw, unpolished panic in Hank’s voice over the radio. They saw the way he didn't leave your side while the paramedics checked your scrapes.

​The "slow burn" had reached its peak; now came the part that was even more dangerous for two people in their line of work: the domesticity.

​The Quiet After the Storm

​Two nights later, you were at his house. It was a place few people ever saw—clean, minimalist, and smelling faintly of old wood and expensive bourbon. Hank was in the kitchen, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing the faded ink on his forearms.

​He wasn't the Sergeant tonight. He was just a man trying to figure out how to be "Hank" while you were in the room.

​"You’ve been quiet," he said, handing you a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. He didn't ask if you needed it; he’d seen you flinch when you moved your shoulder.

​"Just thinking about the paperwork," you lied, taking the pills.

​Hank leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "The paperwork is done. I handled it."

​You looked up, surprised. "Hank, that’s my job. I made the move, I should write the report."

​"I wrote that you followed a tactical opening," he said, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly frequency. "I didn't mention the order I gave you over the radio. I didn't mention that I nearly lost my head."

​He stepped closer, the space between you vanishing. "Because if I put that in the report, they’ll see it. They’ll see the crack in the armor. And they'll use you to get to me."

​The Vulnerability

​This was the reality of loving Hank Voight. It wasn't just about the heat or the stolen kisses; it was about the targets on your backs.

​You set the glass down and stood up, stepping into his personal space. You placed your hands on his chest, feeling the steady, heavy thrum of his heart beneath his shirt. "Is that what this is? You're going to keep me at arm's length to 'protect' the unit?"

​Hank’s hands came up to rest on your waist, his grip firm, almost desperate. "I’ve spent twenty years building walls, and you walked through them like they weren't even there. It scares the hell out of me."

​He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours. The smell of him—leather, rain, and something uniquely Hank—enveloped you.

​"I don't want a wall," you whispered. "I want you. The good, the bad, and the parts you think are too dark to show me."

​The New Normal

​Hank didn't say anything for a long time. He just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head. It was a quiet admission that the "slow burn" had turned into a permanent flame.

​"Stay," he murmured. "Don't go back to your place tonight."

​It wasn't a question. It was a request from a man who spent his life being the hunter, finally admitting he didn't want to be alone in the dark anymore.

​"I'm staying," you promised.

​As the city of Chicago hummed outside his windows—the distant sirens, the screech of the 'L' train—Hank Voight finally let his guard down. He led you toward the living room, his hand entwined with yours, finally accepting that while the job was his life, you were the reason he still wanted to have one.

The transition from "partner" to "everything" happened in the quiet moments, but the test came in the loudest one possible.

​It was a warehouse bust on the South Side that had gone sideways in seconds. What was supposed to be a clean sweep turned into a crossfire. The air was thick with the scent of drywall dust, cordite, and the metallic tang of adrenaline.

​The Chaos

​"Officer down! I repeat, officer down!"

​The call over the radio was a jagged blade. It wasn't you, but you were pinned behind a rusted shipping container, rounds snapping overhead like angry hornets. You could hear Voight’s voice over the comms—it wasn't the steady, tactical growl the team was used to. It was a frantic, raw edge of a man about to lose his mind.

​"Talk to me! Who is it? Name!" Hank’s voice roared through your earpiece.

​"It’s Ruzek! He’s hit, shoulder!" Kim yelled back over the sound of a shotgun blast.

​You saw the opening. If you moved now, you could flank the shooter and give Kim the cover she needed to get Ruzek out. But it was a suicide sprint across twenty feet of open concrete.

​"Hank, I'm moving to the north pillar," you keyed in, your voice tight. "I can draw their fire."

​"Negative! Stay down!" The command was immediate. It wasn't a tactical decision; it was a visceral one. "That's an order! Stay behind cover!"

​The Choice

​You looked at Kim, who was struggling to drag a bleeding Ruzek toward the exit. You looked at the shooter’s muzzle flash from the catwalk. You didn't listen.

​You moved.

​The world turned into a blur of grey concrete and the zip-zip of lead passing inches from your ears. You hit the pillar, rolled, and emptied your magazine into the catwalk. The shooter went down. Kim vanished through the exit with Ruzek.

​Silence fell, heavy and suffocating.

​Then, the heavy thud of boots. Hank rounded the corner of the container. His face was a mask of pale fury, his eyes wide, his chest heaving. He didn't look at the fallen suspect. He didn't look at the tactical spread. He looked only at you.

​The Aftermath

​He slammed his hand against the pillar next to your head—not out of aggression toward you, but out of a desperate need to touch something solid. To make sure you were still there.

​"I told you to stay down," he hissed, his voice trembling with a rage that was 90% terror. "I gave you a direct order."

​"They were going to kill him, Hank," you said, your own hands starting to shake as the adrenaline crashed. "I had the shot."

​"You could have been killed!" He stepped into your space, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot against your skin. The "Sergeant" was gone. There was only the man who had almost watched his world end. "Don't you get it? I can't do this if you’re a ghost. I can't lead this unit if I'm looking for your body every time a gun goes off."

​"You have to," you whispered, reaching up to grab the lapels of his vest. "Because I'm not going anywhere. And I'm not going to stand by while our people die just because you're scared for me."

​Hank closed his eyes, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs pressing hard into your cheeks. For a long moment, in the middle of a crime scene with sirens wailing in the distance, he just held you. It was the hardest test of all: balancing the badge he wore with the heart he’d finally given away.

​"You're a hell of a cop," he muttered into your hair, his voice breaking. "And you're going to be the death of me."

Hank didn’t do reservations at fancy places where the napkins were folded into swans. He didn’t do candlelight and soft jazz. When he told you to meet him at a small, dimly lit Italian joint on the edge of the West Loop, you knew exactly what to expect: red checkered tablecloths, the smell of garlic and old wood, and a corner booth far from the windows.

​The Transition

​You arrived first, wearing something that was a step up from tactical gear but still felt like you. When the bell above the door chimed, you didn't need to look up to know it was him. The entire room seemed to settle as he entered.

​He wasn't wearing the leather jacket. Instead, he had on a dark, well-fitted overcoat and a charcoal sweater. He looked less like a wolf and more like a man, though the sharp, observant glint in his eyes remained.

​"You're early," he said, sliding into the booth across from you.

​"Habit," you replied. "Besides, I wanted to see if you’d actually show up in civilian clothes."

​Hank let out a rare, genuine chuckle—the kind that didn't sound like gravel rubbing together. "I have a life outside the district, believe it or not. It's just... usually a lot quieter than this."

​The Unmasked Sergeant

​The dinner was easy. For the first hour, there was a silent agreement: No talk of the 21st District. No talk of the body count, the paperwork, or the Internal Affairs sharks circling the waters.

​Instead, you talked about the city—his version of Chicago, full of history and ghosts, and your version, full of hope and grit. You watched his hands as he spoke; they were steady, scarred, and surprisingly gentle as he poured the wine.

​"I didn't think you'd actually go through with it," he admitted, swirling the red liquid in his glass. "Bringing me out here. Letting people see."

​"I'm not ashamed of being with you, Hank. If that's what you're worried about."

​He looked at you then, really looked at you, with an intensity that made the rest of the restaurant fade into a blur. "It’s not shame I’m worried about. It’s the target it puts on your back. People like me... we don't usually get the 'happily ever after' part."

​"Then we'll settle for 'happily right now,'" you said, reaching across the table and covering his hand with yours.

​The Walk Home

​The night air was crisp as you walked toward your apartment. He kept his hand at the small of your back, a protective gesture that felt more like a promise than a habit. When you reached your door, the city sounds seemed to dim, leaving just the two of you in the amber glow of the streetlamp.

​He turned you toward him, his hands resting on your waist. "I meant what I said in the car. There's no going back from this."

​"I know," you whispered, leaning into his space.

​Hank didn't wait for a formal invitation. He leaned down, his kiss slow and deep, tasting of red wine and the quiet resolve of a man who finally decided to stop fighting himself. It wasn't the frantic heat of the stakeout; it was a slow-burning fire that felt like it could last a lifetime.

​He pulled back, his thumb grazing your jawline. "See you at 0800, Officer."

​"Goodnight, Sergeant."

The atmosphere in the 21st District was usually sharp and caffeinated by 8:00 AM, but this morning, the air felt different.

​You walked up the stairs, shedding your damp jacket, trying to maintain your usual "ready-for-the-grind" expression. Hank was already there, standing at the top of the stairs by the railing, overlooking the bullpen. He didn't say a word as you passed, but he didn't have to. The brief, steady nod he gave you held a weight that wasn't there yesterday.

​The Observation

​You sat at your desk and started pulling up the previous night's surveillance logs. Within ten minutes, Kevin Atwater leaned over his monitor, his eyes darting between you and the Sergeant’s office.

​"You look... rested," Atwater noted, a playful but suspicious lilt to his voice. "Stakeout ended at four, right? You got more energy than I do, and I slept six hours."

​"Good coffee this morning, Kev," you said, keeping your eyes glued to the screen.

​"Must be," Jay Halstead chimed in from across the way, his brow furrowed as he looked at the whiteboard. "Hey, Sarge? Did we get those plates from the warehouse?"

​Hank stepped out of his office. He looked exactly the same—leather jacket, stern expression, gravelly demeanor—except for one thing. He didn't go to the whiteboard. He walked straight toward your desk.

​The bullpen went silent. Ruzek stopped mid-bite of a donut.

​The Tell

​Hank stopped right beside you. He didn't lean over the desk this time; he just stood there, his presence radiating that same pressurized heat from the SUV.

​"The plates are in the system," Hank said, his voice directed at Jay, but his eyes never left the side of your face. He reached out and, with a casualness that felt like a localized earthquake, tapped the edge of your desk twice. "Get the warrants ready. We move at noon."

​As he turned to walk back to his office, he did something he never did. He let his hand linger on your shoulder for just a fraction of a second—a firm, grounding squeeze that was entirely too personal for a Sergeant and his officer.

​The door to his office shut with a decisive click.

​The Verdict

​The silence in the bullpen stretched for three long seconds.

​"Okay," Ruzek said, pointing a finger at the closed office door and then at you. "Did I just see that? Or did I have a stroke?"

​"He didn't yell once," Kim Burgess whispered, leaning in from the breakroom doorway. "And he touched your shoulder. Voight doesn't do 'supportive shoulder touches.'"

​You felt the heat rising in your cheeks. "He's just focused on the case, guys. Let’s get to work."

​Atwater chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back to his computer. "Nah. That man isn't focused on the case. He’s focused on the person solving it. Good for you, kid. But watch out—if he starts smiling, I'm calling a priest."

​From inside his office, through the glass, you saw Hank look up. He caught your eye for a fleeting moment, a glimmer of something soft and incredibly dangerous dancing in his gaze before he looked back down at his paperwork.

The rain had turned into a rhythmic drum against the roof of the black SUV. It was 3:00 AM, the dead zone of a stakeout where the coffee had gone cold and the silence in the car usually became a vacuum.

​But with Hank, the silence was never empty. It was pressurized.

​The Stakeout

​You shifted in the passenger seat, your joints aching from six hours of sitting still. Outside, the neon sign of a failing laundromat flickered, casting rhythmic pulses of blue light across Hank’s profile. He was perfectly still, his hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the warehouse across the street.

​"You're overthinking," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a low-gear engine.

​You blinked, startled. "I didn't say anything."

​"You didn't have to. I can hear your brain whirring from here." He finally turned his head, his gaze heavy and unreadable. "What is it?"

​"Just the case," you lied.

​Hank let out a short, dry huff of a laugh. He shifted, unbuckling his seatbelt so he could turn more fully toward you. The movement brought him closer—close enough that the heat radiating from him seemed to fill the small gap between the seats.

​"Liar," he murmured.

​The Breaking Point

​The air in the car suddenly felt thin. You looked away, staring at the blurred raindrops on the windshield. "It’s just... it’s been a long year, Hank."

​"It has," he agreed. He reached out, not to the dashboard or the radio, but to the center console where your hand rested. This time, he didn't just graze you. He covered your hand with his, his palm rough and warm. "And you’ve been carrying a lot of it for me. I know I’m not easy to work for."

​"That’s not it," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper. You finally looked at him. "You’re not just my Sergeant. And we both know it."

​The blue neon light pulsed again, illuminating the sudden intensity in his eyes. The "slow burn" that had been simmering for months suddenly spiked into a flashpoint. Hank’s hand tightened slightly on yours, his thumb tracing the back of your knuckles with a deliberate, grounding pressure.

​"If we go there," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "there’s no going back. You know how I operate. You know what this life does to people."

​"I’m not afraid of your life, Hank," you countered. "I’m already in it."

​The Crossing

​Hank didn't hesitate this time. He reached out, his hand sliding behind your neck, fingers tangling in your hair to pull you toward him. It wasn't a gentle movement; it was a possessive, certain one.

​When his lips finally met yours, it tasted like cold coffee and the lingering smoke of the city, but the kiss itself was pure heat. It was a release of months of held breath and stolen glances. It was rough, grounded in the reality of who he was—a man who lived in the gray, who fought for his city, and who finally found something he wanted to keep for himself.

​He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was ragged, hitching in the quiet of the car.

​"I’ve wanted to do that since the day you walked into my unit," he admitted, his voice a raw growl.

​"Why didn't you?"

​"I was trying to be a good boss," he said, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth before he leaned back in for more. "But I think we both know I’ve never been much for following the rules."

The bullpen of the 21st District was humming with its usual low-frequency grit—the sound of clicking keyboards, the hum of the coffee machine, and the distant ringing of a desk phone that nobody seemed inclined to answer.

​You felt his presence before you heard it. It was a shift in the air, a certain gravity that followed Hank Voight wherever he went.

​The First Shift

​You had been in Intelligence for six months. Long enough to know the rules, but not long enough to stop your heart from doing a double-tap against your ribs when he leaned over your desk.

​"You're still here," he noted. His voice was that familiar gravel-drag, low and sandpaper-dry.

​"Just finishing the background on the Lamont cell," you said, not looking up yet. You knew if you did, you’d lose your place in the files—and your composure. "I didn't want to leave it for the morning."

​Voight didn't move. He stood close enough that you could smell the faint, sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the Chicago cold clinging to his leather jacket. He placed a hand on the back of your chair. It wasn't a hug; it wasn't even a touch, really. Just a claim of space.

​"Go home," he said. It wasn't a suggestion. "The monsters will still be there tomorrow. Get some air."

​The Unspoken Language

​Weeks turned into months. The "burn" wasn't a fire; it was a slow, steady heat. It was in the way he started bringing you coffee—black, no sugar, exactly how you liked it—without asking. It was the way his eyes would find yours across a crowded crime scene, a silent check-in that passed between you like a physical wire.

​One rainy Tuesday, the team was celebrating a closed case at Molly’s. The bar was loud, filled with the boisterous laughter of Ruzek and Atwater. You were tucked into a corner booth, nursing a drink, when Voight slid in across from you.

​He looked tired. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper in the amber light of the bar.

​"You did good today," he said quietly.

​"I had a good lead," you deflected, tracing the condensation on your glass.

​"No." He reached across the table. For a second, his fingers brushed your wrist—just a graze, but it felt like a jolt of electricity. "You stayed calm. You kept your head when everything else was going sideways. I noticed."

​You looked up then, meeting that piercing, steady gaze. For the first time, the wall he kept between himself and the world felt thin. Transparent.

​"I learned from the best, Hank."

​The use of his first name hung in the air between you. It was a bridge crossed. He didn't pull away; instead, his thumb traced the pulse point on your wrist for one beat, then two, before he slowly withdrew his hand.

​The Threshold

​An hour later, you were walking to your car in the drizzling rain. The street was quiet, the city muffled by the fog.

​"Wait."

​You turned to see Voight standing by the exit of the bar. He walked toward you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He stopped just inches away, shielding you from the wind with his frame.

​"Be careful driving," he said. His voice was lower now, a private frequency meant only for you. "The roads are slick."

​"I will," you whispered.

​Neither of you moved. The silence wasn't awkward; it was heavy with everything neither of you was ready to say yet. He reached out, his hand hovering near your face before he finally tucked a stray, damp lock of hair behind your ear. His knuckles grazed your cheek, lingering for a second too long to be accidental.

​"See you at the District," he murmured.

​"See you, Hank."

Jax Teller

Juice Ortiz

Tig Trager

Happy Lowman

Smiley Face Ink

Happy Lowman loves you so much that he forgets that you aren't his girl. So, when a guy is flirting with you, he doesn't hesitate to set the guy straight.

You suffer from migraines.

Sitting on Happy's lap

In a desperate attempt to get over your friend Happy Lowman, you download tinder.

Happy learns that the best way to help you calm down when you're spiralling in a pit of anxiety is to lie on you like a weighted blanket.