Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The restaurant smelled like warm spice and roasted garlic. Tala was perched on the edge of the booth across from me, talking faster than I could keep up, hands gesturing wildly as she rattled off every detail from her latest site visit.

“…and the coordinator swears the courtyard’s big enough for both the dance floor and the band, but I told Sun there is no way I’m risking anyone tripping over cables in heels. Or worse, their jacket catching fire because they thought tiki torches were a good idea—”

I blinked and reached for my glass, sipping water more out of habit than thirst. My brain kept drifting back to my desk—the stack of unsorted financial records from the second victim, the hours of unreviewed surveillance footage, the fact that, despite a year and a half of work, the case still felt like smoke slipping through my fingers.

Tala’s still talking. Something about a florist on hold and a DJ deposit.

She leaned forward suddenly, eyes narrowing. “You’re not listening, are you?”

I met her stare, steady. “I am listening.” Another sip.

“Uh-huh.” She leaned back, squinting like she was trying to see straight through me. It’s a good thing she can’t—if she had even a glimpse of where my thoughts were, she’d probably book me into the nearest psych ward for “mandatory rest.”

I drummed my fingers against the tabletop, trying to appear engaged. “You were talking about the dance floor and the florist,” I reminded her.

She studied me for another moment, but whatever she was about to say was interrupted when her fiancée—Sunwoo—appeared at our table. White hair pulled back in a low knot, chef’s apron still on, the faint smell of caramelized onions clinging to her. She pressed a kiss to Tala’s hair, then glanced at me with a knowing grin.

“How’s it going over here? Nic driving you crazy yet?”

A short laugh escaped me, the corner of my mouth twitching. “She’s always driving me crazy.”

Tala flipped me off without missing a beat. I let it slide and just smiled. We’ve been like this for years — bonded so close we might as well be sisters. Her asking me to be maid of honor hadn’t surprised a soul.

Someone called for Sunwoo from across the restaurant, pulling her away with a weary sigh. The moment she was gone, Tala tapped my hand, bright as ever. “Come on. The boys want to grab drinks and talk bachelorette parties.”

“You’re letting them plan your party?” I arched a brow.

Tala shrugged as she slid out of the booth. “They’re planning mine. Zyanya and Ling are planning Sun’s.”

“At least there’s one responsible adult involved,” I muttered.

The bell over the restaurant door chimed just as Tala launched into another tangent—something about whether Sunwoo’s sous chef should handle the late-night snack bar. I caught the word “dumplings” before my attention shifted toward the front counter.

There she was.

Leaning against the counter like she owned it, one elbow propped as the hostess handed her a takeout bag. Long, dark hair fell neatly around her shoulders, her coat draped like it was tailored for her posture alone—poised, measured, the kind of stillness that pulled your gaze without demanding it.

Her eyes flicked toward us as we left our booth. Not the fleeting, automatic glance of a stranger, but something more deliberate. She lingered, assessing. The faintest twitch of a smile curved her mouth before she dropped her gaze, murmured a thank-you to the hostess, and turned to go.

Naturally, Tala noticed.

She jabbed my arm with unnecessary force, hissing under her breath. “Did you see that? She was so checking you out.”

I rolled my eyes and shrugged into my jacket. “You’ve been watching too many rom-coms.”

“That’s not a no,” she lilted as we stepped outside.

We made it halfway down the sidewalk before she sprinted ahead, spinning to block my path. “You should go back in there and talk to her!”

I stopped, exhaled, and folded my arms. My patience was already thin—no caffeine, a migraine pricking at my temples, and a case that’s been living rent-free in my brain for over eighteen months. Between that and cake tastings, I’m one bad suggestion away from walking into traffic.

“And what exactly am I supposed to say, Tala?” My tone was flat. “‘Hi, I’m Hazal. My friend thinks you were checking me out, so I figured I’d introduce myself?’”

“Yes!” She grabbed my shoulders and pulled me down so we were eye to eye, her grin equal parts pleading and mischievous.

“You need to get out more, ate. This could be the first step—”

“You know I don’t date,” I cut her off, shaking her off and straightening. “Especially not now. It takes too much time, too much energy. I need all of it for my case. And your big day.”

Her lower lip jutted out in a pitiful pout. Normally, I caved to her tricks. Not today.

I brushed past her and kept walking toward my car, her voice still trailing behind me as she listed every reason I should “chase the stranger.” I don’t hear a word. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I started the engine, waited for her to climb in, and pulled out of the lot. But my mind’s already halfway back to the case file waiting on my kitchen table.

Chapter Text

The drive back to Ryo’s apartment was as uneventful as LA traffic could ever be—which is to say, an endless loop of brake lights and impatient horns. Tala practically leapt from the passenger seat when we parked, stretching her arms to the sky like she’d been trapped for hours. I took my time shutting off the car, gathering our purses, and following her up the concrete stairs.

She didn’t bother knocking. “You guys decent?” she called as she twisted the doorknob and swung the door open, voice lilting with a grin.

The sight inside told me everything I needed to know.

Jamie stumbled out of the bedroom, face flushed, uniform shirt wrinkled and half-buttoned, hair sticking up at angles that looked painful. He froze at the sight of us like a kid caught sneaking cookies before dinner. Ryo followed close behind, equally rumpled, a smirk curling his lips as if to say yeah, we were busy—and?

I raised two fingers in a mock salute, ignoring Jamie’s sheepish glare, and drifted toward the kitchen where Tala was already rifling through the fridge.

“Should’ve called first,” I murmured, grabbing a cold beer from the shelf. Normally, I reach for whiskey or bourbon when I need the edges dulled. But today, anything with alcohol would do. Anything to build enough static in my brain to drown out the case files and crime scene photos waiting for me back home.

“Nic did call,” Ryo countered as he leaned against the kitchen island, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “We just… got carried away.”

Tala gagged dramatically, drawing a synchronized eye roll from both Ryo and me. Jamie flicked her forehead as he passed, snatching the bottle out of her hand with a grin.

For the next however many minutes, I nursed my drink in silence, watching Tala and Jamie roughhouse like they were still teenagers. I didn’t bother tracking who was winning or how much time passed. My focus stayed on the faint hum of the alcohol in my veins, on how much easier it was to blur out the world when I didn’t try to hold onto it so tightly.

It didn’t last long.

Ryo nudged my arm gently, his expression soft in a way that told me he’d been studying me. “So,” he said, folding his arms, “you have a date for the wedding yet?”

Of course. Everyone’s favorite topic lately.

I know they mean well, but people never seem to understand—I’m single because I choose to be. Not because I’m unlucky or unworthy or waiting for the right person, but because dating asks for a kind of vulnerability I don’t have the time, or the stomach, for. Letting someone in means handing them pieces of yourself you can’t ever take back. Trusting them not to drop those pieces, not to use them against you.

And deep down, if I’m honest, it’s not just about time. It’s about fear. About knowing how badly it hurts when someone takes that trust and grinds it into dust. I’ve seen it, lived it, more times than I can count.

So I shook my head. “No, I don’t.” I tipped back my bottle and finished half of what’s left before my eyes dropped to the floor.

The room stilled. Jamie let Tala down from his shoulder, brow cocked like I just admitted something scandalous. “Need help looking? I got a friend at the station who’d be down.”

“She wouldn’t need help if she actually talked to that hot chick we saw earlier,” Tala added, shooting me a look sharp enough to cut glass.

I rolled my eyes, drained the last sip of my beer, and tossed the empty bottle into the trash. “I told you, Tala, she wasn’t checking me out.”

“Maybe you need a stronger prescription on those glasses.”

When I turned back, Tala was perched on the counter, the boys leaning on either side, all three staring at me like I’m some puzzle they’re dying to solve. I’ve always hated this—the feeling of eyes on me, peeling away layers I’d rather keep hidden. Even when it’s expected, I avoid it. At my promotion party, I vanished halfway through to “take a call” that never came. At my parents’ funeral, I hid in the restroom between condolences, staring at my reflection until I could breathe again.

But here, there’s nowhere to disappear to. Nowhere to vanish before the pity sets in. And I saw it flickering in their eyes—that quiet, unspoken poor Hazal.

Thankfully, my phone saved me. The ringtone sliced through the tension like a lifeline. I fished it out of my back pocket, the glow of the screen lighting up with Captain Callas’ name.

“For the last time,” I muttered, glancing at the trio as I swiped to answer, “I don’t want, or need, a date.”

I turned away from their curious faces and pressed the phone to my ear. “Selam.”

“Detective,” Callas greeted, voice clipped but calm, faint rustling of papers in the background. “Sorry to bother you on your day off. We’ve got a new victim—Renaldo Alvarez. Single shot to the heart. Gold card found near the body. Need you to work your magic, get me something by morning.”

My jaw tightened, just enough for the others to notice. A slow breath left my lungs before I responded. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

The call ended with a click. I snagged my jacket from the couch and shrugged it on. Ryo’s footsteps followed, his voice low as I turned to leave.

“You good?”

“New body, new problems,” I said, the words rolling off my tongue like muscle memory.

He nodded, eyes narrowing slightly. “Need backup?”

“Backup, yes. Bureaucratic bullshit? No.”

I slung my purse over my shoulder and rested a hand briefly on his shoulder—silent thanks for understanding without pressing. He’s not the type to muscle into my work, but his bosses are, and I only call in those favors when my back’s against the wall.

He gave a subtle nod, watching as I jog to my car. I slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine before the dash even finished lighting up, and pulled out of the lot without another glance back.

Chapter Text

By the time I got home, it was a little after nine. Not late by my standards, but the day had worn me down anyway. My body wasn’t even tired—it was my mind, wound tight and thrumming like a live wire that wouldn’t stop sparking.

I moved on autopilot, running through the motions without thinking: jacket on the hook, hair pulled up, fresh sweats, whiskey poured neat into a glass. By the time I actually registered my surroundings, I was already curled in my desk chair, legs cross-legged, fingers tapping across the laptop keyboard as my crime board loomed over me from the far wall.

“Who are you, Renaldo…?”

The background check was quick. Banker. Forty-three. No wife, no kids. A sealed juvenile record, and whispers of laundering for one of the smaller drug crews running out of East L.A.

I jotted the notes on a neon post-it, pinned his picture to the wall, and stepped back to take in the chaos. A year and a half of corpses, names, dates, and red yarn stretching like veins across peeling paint. Each connection I mapped only made the bigger picture harder to look at.

At some point, my headache—born in the afternoon, sharpened at the crime scene—began pulsing like a second heartbeat behind my eyes. I couldn’t tell how long I’d been here. An hour? Three? The reports had all blurred together into a wall of black-and-white smudges.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, dropping my glasses to the desk. “What am I missing…?” The words felt like they evaporated before they left my lips.

Fuck this.

Frustration gnawed at my ribs. I stood, stretching until my joints cracked, then grabbed my things by rote: phone, earbuds, badge, gun, keys. Sneakers laced tight. Door locked behind me.

The city was unusually calm for a Tuesday night. Traffic murmured in the distance, the occasional horn breaking through the steady bass line in my ears. I focused on the beat more than the lyrics, counting it out to keep my chest from tightening. One, two, three, four. Anything to keep my brain from circling Renaldo Alvarez, bullet calibers, or those damned gold cards.

By the time I hit Sixth, I was gone—mind emptied into static, colors bleeding together under the streetlights. Which is how I didn’t see her until I literally walked into her.

The impact jolted me, hot liquid seeping through the front of my tank top. “Shit, I’m sorry—” I started, grabbing at the damp fabric.

And then I looked up.

It was her. The woman Tala had nearly shoved me at in the restaurant. Taller than I realized, maybe six feet, dark hair spilling down her back in loose waves. Thin-framed glasses perched neatly on a sharp nose. A black tracksuit hugging her frame in a way that said casual but looked deliberate.

Her eyes caught mine—storm-gray, level, unreadable. The kind of gaze that doesn’t glance through you, but at you, like it’s taking notes.

“For a detective, you’re not very aware of your surroundings,” she said. Not unkindly, not mocking, just… amused. The corner of her mouth twitched, almost a smirk. Her voice was low and smooth, like velvet cut with smoke.

I blinked. “How’d you know…?”

She gestured to my waistband. My badge glinted under the neon glow of the café sign.

Heat crawled up my neck. I couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment, or the heat of scalding coffee. Probably both. “Right. Um… are you okay?”

She nodded, casually unzipping her jacket and tying it around her waist. Producing a crumpled stack of napkins from her pocket, she held them out without ceremony.

I took them, muttering a quiet thanks, dabbing at my shirt while trying to ignore the way my pride was shriveling. Tala would never let me live this down if she saw it.

When I finished blotting away most of the coffee, I stooped to pick up the empty cup and lobbed it into a trash can. “Seriously, I’m sorry. Can I at least buy you another coffee?”

She studied me for a beat, like she was weighing something invisible. Then, “I’d like that.” Her smile was small but real.

I nodded, gesturing toward the door, holding it open as she brushed past me. Her fingers skimmed mine, light as a spark, but I pretended not to notice.

Inside, the café was warm and humming softly with late-night energy. She ordered first. “Cass,” she told the barista when asked for a name, tapping her card before I could even reach for my wallet.

I arched a brow. “I thought I was paying.”

Cass’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a dare. “You can pay next time.”

Next time?

My pulse ticked up, the words lodging in my chest. Tala had been right—she was checking me out. And the universe really had shoved us together, whether I liked it or not.

I kept my tone even, playing it off. “Next time, huh?”

She didn’t confirm or deny, just hummed quietly and retrieved our drinks when her name was called, handing mine over without fanfare. “So, do you have a name, detective?”

“Hazal.” I extended my hand out of habit more than warmth.

Cass accepted it with a grip that was firm, steady, professional. The handshake of someone used to commanding respect, not just exchanging pleasantries.

We sat, sipping our drinks in near-silence. Not awkward, exactly, but not comfortable either. My brain kept cataloguing details—the perfect posture, the measured calm, the eyes that didn’t miss a thing. She wasn’t police. She didn’t have the attitude for FBI. Military? Maybe. But something about her didn’t fit that either.

And she was watching me just as closely, though it didn’t bother me the way it usually does. Normally I’d feel stripped bare under that kind of scrutiny. Instead, I just… noted it.

Her phone buzzed eventually, breaking whatever strange rhythm we’d settled into. She answered, voice smooth and polite, even as her jaw tensed on the word “Understood.” Whatever it was, it wasn’t my business.

When she hung up, she drained the rest of her coffee and rose smoothly from her seat. “I have to go. It was nice meeting you, detective.”

“Likewise. And thanks for the coffee.”

Cass gave a small nod, lifting her empty cup in a silent toast before slipping out into the night.

I realized, then, that I’d been holding my breath. Slowly, I let it out, gripping the paper cup like it might ground me.

What the hell just happened?

On the walk home, I debated calling Tala. Or Zyanya. Or Ling, who was the most level-headed of us all.

But by the time I hit my building, I’d made up my mind. Nope. This one, I’d figure out on my own.

Chapter Text

The next time I blinked, two weeks had slipped through my fingers.

And in those fourteen days, Cass had somehow threaded herself into my orbit. Not fully, not enough to disrupt my carefully maintained balance, but… enough that I noticed her absence when she wasn’t there.

Sometimes I’d see her at Sunwoo’s restaurant when I stopped by to help finalize catering menus. Other times, she’d be leaning against the counter of that all-night café, her hair tied back, fingers curled around a steaming cup like it was the only thing tethering her to the world.

Most of the time, our interactions were quiet. A nod, a murmured hey, fingers brushing when we both reached for the door. We’d both pretend not to notice, but I always did.

Around day five, she asked for my number. It wasn’t as dramatic as Sunwoo seemed to think—though judging by the way the chef nearly choked on her own drink when she overheard, you’d think the woman had proposed marriage. She had simply approached, confident but not smug, and offered her number like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Yes, Cass was… striking. Attractive in that deliberate way that makes people look twice, but I didn’t see why it needed to become a group spectacle. Of course, Sun tried prying for details later, but I gave her nothing to work with.

Still, somehow, what began as coincidental run-ins turned into planned late-night meet-ups. Texts asking You up? and Caffeine run? became a quiet ritual.

And I hate to admit it, but I’d started to look forward to those meet-ups.

Cass’s attempts at flirting had gotten bolder—not obnoxious, not overbearing, just enough to make the back of my neck heat. I never flirted back. Not because I didn’t notice, but because it’s not who I am. I don’t do the dance. If I feel something for someone, I’ll say it plainly when I’m ready. And right now? With this case, with Tala’s wedding, with everything—I’m not.

So I kept those thoughts at arm’s length, the way I kept everyone at arm’s length.

I was halfway through reorganizing the crime board when a heavy-handed knock jolted me, followed by the sound of my lock turning.

“Hope you have snacks, ‘cause I’m starving!” Tala’s voice carried through the apartment before she even stepped inside.

I stepped out of the hallway just in time to see her kick the door shut behind her, dropping her bag by the island like she owned the place. “Don’t you live with a literal chef?”

“Yes,” she said, already hopping onto a barstool, “but my chef is at work.”

She popped open her laptop, spinning it toward me. The screen was a disaster of open tabs—wedding dresses, Pinterest mood boards, floral arrangements. I leaned against the counter, idly clicking through them while she pulled out a protein bar from her the bowl I had on the counter.

One dress stood out. A pearl-white gown with a sweetheart neckline. Strapless and clean-lined, form-fitting without screaming for attention. No train, just long enough to graze the floor. It matched the ceremony’s quiet intimacy more than anything else she’d bookmarked.

I turned the laptop back to her. “You should try this one.”

“I was thinking about that one too,” she admitted, voice softening, though something in it wavered. “What if it’s too simple, though? I mean… this is a big deal.”

“Do you like the dress?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then the rest doesn’t matter.”

I reached across the counter, resting my hand over hers until she finally met my eyes. Her smile was small, a little tired—the one she wears when she’s trying to downplay how much she’s second-guessing herself.

“You could walk down that aisle in a damn trash bag, and Sun would bawl her eyes out,” I said, my voice low, gentler than I am with anyone else. “You’ll look beautiful in anything, Tala. Simple, extravagant, whatever. Pick the one you want—not the one everyone thinks you should want.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just sighed, pulling her hand free and resting her forehead on the countertop like the weight of the decision was suddenly too much.

I shook my head and let her sit there, silent. Tala might be fearless in a sparring ring and a storm of energy in any room, but moments like these… she’s fragile in a way only I get to see.

And I’m just glad she finally stopped trying to hide that from me.

Just as I turned to open the fridge, my phone buzzed against the counter. I picked it up without thinking, thumb ready to swipe it open, only to see a text pop up across the lock screen.

Cass [1:43 PM] — Coffee tonight? My treat.

Before I could even unlock it, the phone was gone—snatched right out of my hand. I blinked, stunned, and found Tala already a few steps back, staring down at the screen like she’d unearthed classified intel.

“Is this the chick that was checking you out?!” Her voice pitched high enough that the neighbors probably heard.

I lunged for my phone, but she twisted away, holding it behind her back like we were teenagers and this was some schoolyard crush.

“Yes, it is. Now give me the phone.” I reached for it again, feeling my patience thinning by the second. “We’re not doing this, Tala.”

“When did you get her number?”

“Almost two weeks ago. Sun didn’t tell you? She was there when it happened.”

Her eyes went wide, and then—because she thrives on the dramatics—she slammed both palms on the counter with a sharp thud, sending my phone skidding forward. “You what?! You got this hot girl’s number and didn’t think to tell anyone?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. I really, truly didn’t have the energy for this. Not after a night at the crime board, not after staring at autopsy reports until the words blurred together.

“There’s nothing to tell, Tala.” I slid the phone back into my hand and typed out a quick reply to Cass’s text before pocketing it again. “I bumped into her on a walk. We kept running into each other. She gave me her number. End of story.”

But Tala wasn’t done. She never was. “Hazal, dude, you don’t just—”

I tuned out the rest of her rant and cracked open the fridge, fingers closing around a beer. If we were going to keep dissecting my nonexistent love life, I needed something stronger than patience.

I popped the cap and took a long sip, leaning against the counter as she hit me with her best attempt at a stern glare. Her so-called “scary serious face” didn’t land—it never did.

“Tala, this is ridiculous,” I finally said, my voice flat. “Cass is just another contact in my phone. We grab coffee, talk for twenty minutes, and leave. That’s it.”

“Then why have you been smiling at your phone lately?” she shot back without missing a beat. “I know you, Hazal. You have, like, two games on that thing. Every other contact you text outside of us is work-related. So unless Captain Callas is suddenly hilarious, that leaves… mystery girl.”

I froze mid-sip, frowning into the neck of the bottle. Had I really been doing that? Smiling at my phone like some lovesick sap?

Pathetic.

I didn’t dignify it with an answer. Instead, I turned and walked down the hall, letting the beer sweat against my palm. My bedroom was dim, the blinds drawn, the soft hum of the ceiling fan the only sound. I set the bottle on my nightstand and let myself fall back onto the mattress, arms sprawled, black and grey hair fanning across the pillow.

I shut my eyes, but I heard the familiar pad of Tala’s steps behind me. Then felt the mattress dip as she sat beside me.

“I’m not trying to pressure you,” she said softly this time, her voice stripped of all its usual bite. Her hand slid into mine, warm and steady, like she was anchoring me. “It’s just… if she does like you, don’t shut her out. It’s okay to like her back. Even if it’s just a little.”

“Yeah… I know.” The words came out as a sigh more than anything. I let her hand go, rubbing both palms over my face, as if I could scrub the thought away.

Because Tala was right, but it wasn’t that simple.

It’s not that I don’t want someone—it’s that I can’t. Not the way other people can. I’m not ready to hand someone my scars and trust they’ll hold them gently. I’m not ready to let someone peel back the layers and see the pieces I’d rather keep buried.

Because if I do… and if they leave… or worse, if they use it against me… that’s on me.

Some people are just better off alone. For one reason or another.

And maybe… I’m one of them.

I made peace with that a long time ago. Or at least, I thought I had.

By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, I was still sprawled across the bed, staring at the shadows cutting across the ceiling. My beer had gone flat on the nightstand, untouched for the better part of an hour.

I could’ve ignored Cass’s text. Pretended I was buried in case files or too tired to function. Both were technically true. But when the clock hit eight, I found myself standing in front of my closet anyway, thumb hovering over the first neutral hoodie I could grab.

‘It’s not a date,’ I reminded myself as I tugged the fabric over my head. Just coffee. Two people feeding a caffeine addiction at the same cafe. No reason to overthink it.

Still, I swapped my sweats for jeans, laced up my boots, and made sure my hair didn’t look like I’d just rolled out of bed. I told myself it was for the sake of not looking like a total mess, not because I cared what Cass thought.

By the time I stepped into the familiar hum of the cafe, she was already there—claiming a corner booth with her usual quiet confidence, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other idly scrolling her phone. Even in something as simple as a fitted sweater and dark jeans, she carried herself like she owned the space.

Her gaze lifted as I approached, and I caught it again—that faint, knowing smile. Like she’d been expecting me.

“Detective,” she greeted, smooth as ever. No nickname, no familiarity, just that slight formality that somehow sounded like a tease.

“Cass,” I returned, sliding into the seat across from her. My hands curled around the paper cup the barista had handed me at the counter, the warmth grounding me.

She tilted her head slightly, studying me like she had at the restaurant, and I felt the urge to fidget. Instead, I sipped my coffee and kept my expression even.

For a while, neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to. The low hum of jazz over the speakers, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the soft clatter of other customers’ mugs filled the space between us.

“You always this quiet?” she asked finally, her voice low, smooth.

“Only when I’m not interrogating someone,” I replied, deadpan.

Her lips curved just slightly. “Good to know. I’ll try not to incriminate myself, then.”

The faintest spark of amusement tugged at the corner of my mouth before I hid it behind another sip. This was… easy. Too easy. Which, in my experience, usually meant dangerous.

She leaned back in her seat, resting an elbow against the booth. “You don’t strike me as the type who does this often.”

I raised a brow. “Coffee?”

“Coffee with someone who isn’t wearing a badge or asking about a case file,” she clarified.

She wasn’t wrong. Most of my non-work hours were swallowed by either Tala or a pile of paperwork. But I wasn’t about to hand that truth over. Not when I was still trying to figure out why I even showed up here.

“Maybe I just like caffeine,” I said instead, shrugging lightly.

Cass hummed—a low, knowing sound—and didn’t push. She just sipped her coffee, those storm-grey eyes staying on me like she could read the words I wasn’t saying.

And maybe that’s why I didn’t get up and leave after finishing my drink. Maybe that’s why I stayed when she offered to get us both refills, when the conversation finally drifted into safer territory—favorite late-night haunts, the worst traffic jams we’d sat through, how LA always managed to feel like it was on the verge of collapsing in on itself.

By the time we both glanced at our phones, it was well past midnight.

Cass slid out of the booth, stretching her long frame like a cat. “Same time tomorrow?”

I hesitated. My first instinct was to say no—to draw the line now, keep my walls where they belonged. But the thought of another night alone with the case board, autopsy reports, and silence felt heavier than usual.

“…Yeah,” I said finally, grabbing my jacket. “Same time.”

Her smile was small, but genuine. She held the door for me as we stepped into the cool night air.

And as I walked back toward my car, I couldn’t shake the question circling my mind.

Was this just another distraction? Or was I already letting myself get pulled into something I wouldn’t be able to walk away from?

Chapter Text

When I got to work the next morning, the last thing I expected to see was Zyanya lounging in my office—leaning back in my chair like she owned the place, feet propped on my desk, my butterfly knife dancing between her fingers like a toy.

I stood in the doorway for a beat, fighting the urge to slam it shut and pretend I hadn’t seen her. The day had barely started, and I already had enough on my plate—a new victim, no leads, the usual headaches from brass breathing down my neck. And now? Now my head was still fogged from too many late nights and too many coffees with a woman I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about.

“Zy, I’m really not in the mood,” I said finally, shutting the door behind me and twisting the blinds closed. I gestured to one of the visitor chairs, waiting until she vacated my seat before I sat down. I didn’t miss the sly grin tugging at her lips as she spun my knife once more before snapping it closed and sliding it across the desk.

I busied myself with pulling out my laptop and the stack of case files I needed to sort through, more to avoid her gaze than anything else. My hand found the half-empty cigarette carton in my blazer pocket, and I lit one with fingers that trembled slightly from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. The inhale burned my lungs in a way that was almost grounding.

“What’s this I hear about some mystery woman?” Zyanya asked, casual, like she was asking about the weather. She rested her chin on her hand and watched me like a hawk, nails tapping against her knee in a slow rhythm.

I exhaled a stream of smoke, tapping the ash into my tray. “Don’t you have celebrity gossip to keep you occupied, Ms. Model?”

“Oh, hermosa, nothing out there is nearly as interesting as your gossip.”

“Who told you?” I asked, though I already knew.

“Tala.”

“Figures.” I rolled my eyes, stubbing the cigarette out halfway and setting it aside. “It’s nothing. Just someone I ran into on a walk. We’ve hung out a couple of times. Totally casual.”

Zyanya hummed softly, unconvinced, one brow arched like she could see straight through the paper-thin excuse. “If it’s so casual, why did your shoulders tense when I mentioned her?”

The silence that followed stretched, thick and uncomfortable. My fingers hovered over my laptop keyboard, unmoving. Because she was right. Why was I reacting like this? Why did the sound of Cass’s name make my chest tighten? Why did I feel like I had to defend something I kept insisting didn’t matter?

“Fuck you,” I muttered, barely audible, but loud enough for Zyanya to hear.

Her laugh was low, amused. “Don’t shoot the messenger, amiga. I’m just pointing out what’s already obvious.”

She leaned forward, tapping the desk until I finally looked up. Her eyes—dark, sharp, endlessly observant—softened in a way I wasn’t used to seeing.

“Admit it,” she said, voice gentler now, though no less firm. “You’re at least interested. More than you want to be.”

I wanted to deny it. To tell her she was wrong, that Cass was just… noise. A distraction. Another warm body in a city that chews people up and spits them out. But the words caught in my throat, dying there before I could force them out.

Because the truth? The truth was worse.

It wasn’t just distraction. With Cass, the chaos in my head quieted—even if only for a little while. The ghosts faded to background noise. The nightmares, the endless weight of this case, the feeling that everything in my life was unraveling one thread at a time… it didn’t feel as heavy when she was around.

And that was dangerous.

“Even if you’re right,” I said finally with a shaky exhale, “I can’t… I can’t go there. Not yet.”

Not when I still felt like a collection of fractures barely held together by caffeine and stubbornness. Not when letting someone close meant handing them all my sharp edges and hoping they didn’t cut themselves—or worse, cut me.

Zyanya didn’t argue. She didn’t tell me I was being dramatic or broken or scared, even though all of that was true. She just stood, crossed the space between us, and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. Her frame was slender but grounding, steady in a way I couldn’t bring myself to be.

For a moment, I let myself lean into her. My hand closed around her forearm, my forehead pressing lightly to her collarbone. I didn’t hug back, not fully, but I didn’t pull away either.

“It’s okay to want this, Hazal,” she murmured, her nails brushing gently against my scalp in a motion that almost lulled me. “You deserve something good. Even if you’re not ready for it yet.”

I don’t know how long I let her hold me there—long enough for my cigarette to burn out in the tray, long enough for my breathing to slow. But eventually, I pulled away, slipping the mask back over my face. I had a job to do. A case to solve. No time to fall apart, not here.

Zyanya just smiled faintly, grabbed her purse from my couch, and plucked the half-burned cigarette from the tray to tuck between her lips. “I’ll leave you to it. Try not to drive yourself crazy.”

“Too late,” I muttered, but couldn’t hide the faint twitch of a smirk.

And then she was gone, leaving me alone with my files, my thoughts, and the gnawing question I couldn’t shake—

Was I keeping my walls up to protect myself?

Or because, deep down, I already knew Cass could knock them down if I let her?

Before I realized it, midnight had crept past and the precinct was silent. The fluorescent hum of the overhead lights was the only sound keeping me company, mingling with the faint tick of the wall clock. Everyone else had cleared out hours ago, leaving me in my office with nothing but cold coffee, autopsy reports, and a chair that should’ve been retired five years ago.

The case files sprawled across my desk looked like static—blurred words, blurred photos, all bleeding together until they may as well have been in another language. My gaze kept drifting back to that single gold card sitting dead center on the stack. Taunting me. Daring me to make sense of it before another body turned up.

I rubbed at my temple, jaw tight. My focus was gone, my patience worn down to threads. That’s when my phone buzzed against the desk, lighting up the dim room.

Cass [12:17 AM] — Can’t sleep. Walk?

I stared at the screen until the letters lost their shape, my reflection in the black border staring back at me like she had answers I didn’t. My pulse picked up, sharp and steady, an unwelcome rhythm against the suffocating quiet.

And just like that, Zyanya’s words from earlier pressed down on me like a weight:

It’s okay to want this.

Was it?

I shouldn’t. Every instinct in me screamed to shut it down—to put the phone away, bury myself in these files, and pretend the tension curling in my chest didn’t exist. The case needs me focused, detached, clear-headed.

But the thought of going home and sitting in my apartment alone, staring at that crime board until dawn? The thought of another night with nothing but ghosts for company? That was the last thing I wanted.

Right now, I just want to breathe. Even if it’s only for an hour. Even if it’s a mistake waiting to happen.

Hazal [12:24 AM] — Be there in 10.

Chapter Text

Two weeks.

Two weeks of playing stalker. Two weeks of haunting a restaurant that’s far too cheerful, too warm, too alive for someone like me. Two weeks of trading my usual vodka-soaked nights for midnight walks and overpriced coffee, pretending I’m just another insomniac roaming the city.

At first, it was strictly professional. Watch the detective. Learn her rhythms. See what she knows about the House—see what she doesn’t. Vincent wanted her watched because she’d gotten too close before. Close enough that he sent me to shadow her instead of simply… removing her.

That’s what I do. That’s all I do. I get a name, I end it, I go home. I don’t linger. I don’t talk. I definitely don’t spend weeks weaving myself into someone’s orbit under the guise of casual conversation.

But Hazal… Hazal is different.

I told myself I was just gauging her threat level. That my lingering was strategy, not sentiment. But somewhere along the line, I realized I liked being around her. Not just tolerated it—liked it.

She’s quiet, guarded, whip-smart, but not cruel. She’s not trying to impress anyone or pull rank. She reminds me of the person I used to be before the House burned that softness out of me. Before every job, every kill, became just another tally toward a fat payout and a life that feels increasingly hollow.

With her, the city doesn’t feel so loud. So sprawling. When she’s near, everything sharpens, narrows, until it feels like the world is just the two of us, no noise, no distractions.

Which is why it’s dangerous.

And yet here I am, standing in front of my mirror, applying a swipe of nude lipstick, making sure the loose button-down I chose fell just right. I couldn’t remember the last time I cared what someone thought about how I looked—let alone let it slow me down. But today, before meeting Hazal and her friend for lunch, I caught myself wondering more than once what she’ll notice first.

She’d invited me two nights ago, voice quieter than usual, fingers restless as they tapped against the table. She could barely hold eye contact—odd, considering we usually stared each other down like it was a contest neither of us wanted to lose. Her voice even had this subtle tremor to it, like she was prepared to retract the offer if I so much as blinked wrong.

Not that I would’ve said no.

But I kept telling myself this was nothing. That I wasn’t falling for a detective. It’s a pull, a spark, something physical to keep things interesting while I do my job. That’s all it can be. That’s all it’s allowed to be.

The soft chime of my doorbell snapped me out of my thoughts. I grabbed my purse, smoothed my shirt as I cross the room, and swung the door open.

Hazal’s eyes widened like they always do when we first see each other—just for a second, before she reins it back in. I leaned lazily against the frame, letting her take me in while I did the same.

Her freshly pressed hair caught the afternoon light. The makeup was minimal but deliberate, sharp enough to highlight those mismatched eyes. Her cropped sweater hung comfortably, just enough fabric to tease a sliver of midriff above her baggy jeans. She looked relaxed—still carrying that permanent shadow of exhaustion, but lighter than usual.

And, for the first time in years, I felt overdressed. The tailored slacks, the crisp shirt—functional for my usual world of penthouses and boardrooms, but next to her, I looked like I’m about to negotiate a merger, not grab lunch. I didn’t own much “casual.” Never needed to. Everyone I dealt with was either a colleague, a client, or a corpse.

Maybe I needed to change that. If I kept… seeing her.

“Ready to go?” I asked, voice smooth and steady.

Hazal blinked like she was rebooting. “Uh… yeah. Let’s go.”

I nodded and stepped outside, locking the door behind me before falling into step beside her. She lead me to her car—a surprise in itself, given I half-expected her to rely on department vehicles. And not just any car. A late-model BMW, one of the sleeker trims. The kind that didn’t scream “cop salary.”

The drive downtown was quiet, the way it usually was with us. Not awkward, not tense, just… easy. Comfortable silence. The kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

Though I noticed the little things—the way Hazal glanced at me when the car idled at a light, the way her elbow brushed the armrest then retreated like she caught herself getting too close. I had half a mind to tease her, to lean in and whisper something just to watch her blush. But I didn’t.

Because I can’t.

She’s not my friend. Not my partner. Not some casual fling I can take to bed and forget in the morning. She’s a detective—a complication wrapped in sharp edges and quiet shadows. And my job was to keep her in my sights, not in my sheets.

But every day I spent with her, my job feels harder to do.

We finally parked on the street and started toward the café. We hadn’t even walked a dozen feet when Hazal reached for my arm—gentle, instinctive—and steered me to the inside of the sidewalk. It was automatic for her, something she’d clearly done a thousand times before, but the gesture still made my pulse skip.

And she looked completely unfazed, like she didn’t even realize what she’d done. By the time I noticed, her henna-inked hands were already shoved back in her pockets, her mismatched eyes fixed straight ahead like nothing had happened.

Who would’ve thought the brooding detective had a streak of chivalry?

I didn’t get time to dwell on it before we turned the corner and, out of nowhere, a woman with blue hair came barreling toward us like a runaway train. She wrapped Hazal in a hug so tight it nearly knocked her off balance.

“Mavi—Tala—” Hazal hissed, her arms flailing until she pried herself free. She muttered something in Turkish, low and clipped, probably an insult best left untranslated.

The blue-haired woman spun to face me, crossing her arms with all the false menace of someone trying to size me up. “You must be Cass,” she said, eyes scanning me head to toe.

I didn’t flinch, didn’t even shift my stance. I’ve had senators glare at me with more heat. “I am.”

“Cass, this walking blueberry is Tala,” Hazal said, ruffling the younger woman’s hair before she could protest. “Tala, be nice.”

“I am always nice!”

“Sizing her up isn’t nice,” Hazal deadpanned.

The pink flush at Tala’s ears made me smirk despite myself. I could tell immediately they were close—closer than Hazal probably lets herself be with most people. There was a comfort there, a sister-like shorthand that said Tala was one of the few people Hazal trusted enough to drop the armor for.

And for some reason, watching that bond didn’t irritate me like I thought it would. Normally, I’d be rolling my eyes at the bubbly type—too loud, too nosy, too careless. But Tala didn’t feel careless. She just felt… safe. Like someone Hazal could actually breathe around.

Some part of me—one I didn’t want to acknowledge—wanted to settle into that dynamic, too. Not just hover on the edges of Hazal’s life, but actually exist in it.

Before I could linger on that thought, I felt a hand brush the small of my back—Hazal again, featherlight, urging me forward. She didn’t linger, didn’t look at me, just guided me toward the café entrance like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Inside, Tala ordered first, rattling off something long and overly complicated to the barista. I stood at Hazal’s side, scanning the menu but feeling her eyes on me more than the words.

“What are you getting?” she asked.

The question yanked me back to the moment. When I looked at her, she was already looking at me, her mismatched eyes catching mine with an intensity that made the air feel heavier. I had to glance away before I forgot how to answer.

“Um…” I cleared my throat and nodded toward the board. “I’ll take whatever you’re having.”

Hazal didn’t question it, just placed our order. When I tried to hand the cashier my card, she pushed my hand away and paid herself—subtle, calm, but firm. I let her, though it left something buzzing in my chest that I couldn’t quite name.

We slid into the booth Tala had claimed, and the blue-haired menace was already smirking like she’d just caught us sneaking in past curfew.

“I saw that, ya know,” Tala teased, her voice sing-song.

“Saw what?” Hazal replied flatly, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the tabletop.

“Oh, come on, ate. You’re not slick.”

Hazal only shrugged, that practiced air of indifference falling over her like a shield. Tala, clearly unimpressed, turned her mischief on me.

“So, what’s ‘Cass’ short for?”

“Cassandra,” I said. It felt strange saying it aloud, like speaking a name that should’ve stayed buried. No one calls me that anymore—no one alive, anyway. Cassandra and all her softer edges died a long time ago.

Tala hummed, something sly flickering in her eyes, and Hazal shot her a look sharp enough to slice steel. It didn’t faze Tala in the slightest.

“You kinda have the same vibe as Haze,” Tala said. “You PD?”

Haze. That I’d be keeping in my pocket for later.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not law enforcement.”

“So what do you do?”

“Odd jobs,” I answered evenly. “Consulting, mostly.”

Her hum was skeptical, but I didn’t elaborate. Hazal’s gaze was heavy on me now, just as curious as her friend’s, though quieter, sharper. I’m used to being scrutinized, interrogated—but for some reason, being under Hazal’s lens feels different. Not unwelcome, but disarming.

Even after our drinks and sandwiches arrived, Tala’s questions didn’t slow. Where I was from. Why I came to LA. Favorite band. Favorite movie. And, of course, what my “intentions” were with her friend.

Hazal was a second away from snapping when my phone buzzed, sharp and jarring. I checked the contact, and it was Zhao. Of course.

I exhaled through my nose and rose from my seat. “Excuse me.”

Once outside, I answered with a clipped, “Yes, Zhao?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m out. What is it?”

“We have a meeting in an hour. Kiss your girlfriend goodbye and meet me at the house.”

The line went dead before I could respond. Girlfriend. The word lodged under my ribs like a blade. Hazal isn’t my girlfriend. She’s part of the job. A target to monitor. A detective too close to the House’s business for comfort.

Yes, she’s attractive. Dangerously so. But that’s not why I’m here. It can’t be.

Even if I wanted her, I can’t have her. My life is too unpredictable, too soaked in blood and secrets. Anyone who lingers too close ends up burned.

With a steadying breath, I pocketed my phone and walked back inside. Tala’s laughter faded when she saw me. Hazal’s mismatched eyes met mine, steady but searching.

“Everything okay?” Tala asked.

“Yeah,” I said smoothly. “Just a client. I have to go, but it was nice meeting you, Tala.”

I extended my hand, offering her a smile warmer than I felt. She took it, clearly unconvinced but polite enough not to call me out. Hazal was already halfway out of her seat, ready to walk me out, but I stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Stay with your friend,” I said softly. “I can take a cab.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, eyes flicking to Tala before coming back to me.

I wanted to say no. To tell her to drive me, just so I could have ten more minutes of quiet before stepping back into the chaos of my other life. To sit beside her and pretend, for a little while longer, that I could belong in her orbit.

But I just nodded, even as my chest tightened with every step I took toward the door.

Chapter Text

The bell above the café door jingled as Cass disappeared down the street, swallowed by the steady stream of pedestrians. I didn’t realize how long I’d been staring after her until Tala snapped her fingers in front of my face.

“Earth to Hazal,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement.

I blinked and tore my gaze away, settling back into my seat. The warmth Cass’s hand left on my shoulder had already faded, but my chest still felt oddly heavy.

“She didn’t have to leave like that,” I muttered, more to myself than to Tala.

“Oh, so you are disappointed,” Tala teased, leaning forward on her elbows.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Her grin was as infuriating as it was knowing. “So. What’s the deal with you two? You never bring new people around. Do you like her?”

“There’s no ‘deal.’” I reached for my coffee and took a slow sip, letting the bitter warmth coat my throat before adding, “Like I told you, she’s just… someone I’ve been hanging out with. It’s not serious.”

“Not serious, huh?” Tala arched a brow, unconvinced. “You’ve seen her more in the past two weeks than I’ve seen you voluntarily hang out with anyone in the last six months.”

I wanted to argue, to shut her down with some half-hearted excuse about coincidence or caffeine dependency, but I didn’t have the energy—or the conviction—to make it sound believable.

Instead, I stared at the half-empty cup between my hands and admitted, “Fine. Yeah, I… like her. A little.” The words felt heavier than I expected. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Because it just doesn’t.” I leaned back, tilting my head to stare at the café’s exposed beam ceiling. If I looked at Tala’s face, I knew I’d see that mix of concern and stubborn determination, and I didn’t want to deal with it. “I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me. And I don’t… do this. Not anymore.”

Tala was quiet for a moment, letting my words settle, before nudging my leg under the table. “You don’t have to do anything, Hazal. But if you like her, maybe give her a chance. Invite her to the engagement party next week.”

The suggestion made my pulse spike. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? It’s low stakes. Everyone will be there, so you’re not stuck one-on-one. Plus,” she added with a sly grin, “it’d be the perfect chance for me to grill her properly without you glaring at me the whole time.”

I shook my head, fingers drumming a restless rhythm against my cup. “It’s too soon. And I don’t even know if she’d want to come. Or if I’d want her there.”

“Uh-huh.” Tala leaned back, crossing her arms like she had me cornered. “You don’t have to decide right now. Just… think about it, okay? You deserve to have someone show up for you, even if it’s just for a party.”

I didn’t answer right away. I wasn’t sure I could. The thought of inviting Cass—to something as personal as Tala and Sunwoo’s engagement party—felt like stepping off a ledge without knowing if there was solid ground below.

“Fine,” I said at last, exhaling slowly. “I’ll… think about it.”

Tala grinned like she’d already won.

But even as we changed the subject, my mind kept drifting back to Cass—her calm gaze, the quiet steadiness she carried like armor, the warmth of her hand guiding me on the sidewalk as if it was second nature.

And the ache in my chest I refused to name.

As soon as I got home that evening, I poured a glass of whiskey—half the bottle, really—and shut myself in my office. The crime board loomed in the corner, every photograph and red string mocking me like a jury I couldn’t win over.

“Fuck this…”

The words left me in a groan, heavy and low. I dragged myself into the chair that had seen too many sleepless nights, palms pressed to my face before I forced myself to focus again.

Hours bled together. The ice in my glass melted into nothing, and I didn’t bother refilling it—just drained what was left like it would help dull the migraine pounding at my skull. The photos swam in and out of focus despite my glasses, the autopsy reports blurring together until the words felt like static. The whiskey buzz humming in my veins only made it worse.

I needed a fresh angle. A fresh set of eyes. Or maybe just a reason to get out of this chair before it swallowed me whole.

Instead, my mind drifted. To her.

The tall, guarded, infuriatingly composed woman who had somehow wormed her way into my thoughts far more than I’d ever admit. The one who made things feel quieter for a little while, even when everything else was chaos.

Before I could stop myself, my fingers had already unlocked my phone. Cass’s name sat at the top of my screen, waiting, daring me. I shouldn’t call. I never call anyone.

But I hit the button anyway.

The ring barely lasted before her voice—low, groggy, real—filtered through the speaker.

“Hello?”

My pulse jumped, the whiskey not helping my sudden wave of panic. It’s four in the goddamn morning. Of course I woke her up.

“Hazal? Are you there?”

“Yeah, uh… I’m here.” My voice came out thin, shaky, nothing like the detective who interrogated killers by day. “Did I wake you?”

“No, no.” Rustling on her end—sheets, maybe. A faint exhale. “What’s up?”

She was humoring me, I could tell. Her voice had that soft, rasped edge of someone who was asleep, but I didn’t call her out on it. Couldn’t. My chest tightened with guilt, and I rubbed the back of my neck, staring at the crime board like it might rescue me.

“It’s nothing. I just… never mind. Go back to sleep—”

“Are you drunk…?”

The question hit like a dart. I almost laughed, but it came out as a humorless breath. Of course I’m drunk. There’s no universe where I’d be calling her otherwise.

“No,” I lied, the word sharp and too quick. “No, I’m working.”

A pause. Then the faint creak of a mattress on her end.

“At four AM?”

“The wheels of justice are constantly in motion,” I muttered, half joking.

To my surprise, it earned a soft chuckle—low and tired, but genuine. The sound warmed something in my chest I didn’t have the energy to fight.

“You need a break? We can go for a walk.”

God, yes. I wanted to say yes immediately. But I bit down on my tongue, fingers gripping the armrest of my chair until my knuckles whitened.

“No, no. I just… I don’t know what I need. I don’t know why I called.” The admission was quiet, slipping out like I didn’t mean for it to.

The silence stretched. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, louder than the clock ticking in the corner. I should hang up. Let her sleep. Pretend this never happened in the morning.

But then I heard movement. A door closing. The faint sound of her shifting, like she wasn’t settling back into bed but doing the opposite.

“I can come over,” Cass said finally, her tone even but not hesitant. “Keep you company. Talk things out.”

My stomach twisted. Come over? No one comes over unless they’re family—or close enough to be. And Cass is… neither. Barely even a friend.

I should say no. I know I should say no.

“Sure,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

“Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

The line went dead, and I stared at my phone like it might combust. My hand trembled, and I had to set it down before I dropped it entirely.

What the hell did I just agree to? Why did I let her in like this?

I scrubbed my palms down my face, dragging them through my tangled hair. This had to be some dream brought on by exhaustion and cheap whiskey, but the call log didn’t lie. Cass’s name glared at me from the top of the list, undeniable and real.

I texted her my address anyway, my stomach twisting tighter with every word I typed.

When Tala finds out about this, she’s going to murder me.

And, honestly?

She might not be wrong to.

Chapter Text

By the time I heard the knock at my door, I was halfway to regretting ever dialing her number. My head throbbed with every heartbeat, the alcohol buzzing just enough to make me restless but not enough to quiet my thoughts.

I dragged myself out of my office, stepping over the stacks of case files littering the floor, and opened the door.

Cass stood there, every inch of her sharp, statuesque frame framed by the hall light. Jeans, coat, hair neat despite the ungodly hour. She looked like she had walked off the cover of some noir magazine while I looked like I’d been pulled through a crime scene dumpster.

“Detective.” Her voice was low, measured. Not cold, but steady in a way I didn’t realize I needed.

“I… shouldn’t have called you,” I muttered, stepping aside to let her in. “Sorry.”

She arched a brow but said nothing as she stepped past me, her perfume soft and faintly floral—a stark contrast to the smoke and whiskey clinging to my shirt.

The living room was a mess. I didn’t bother to apologize for that either. I just collapsed onto the couch, burying my face in my hands.

Cass’s footsteps were quiet, unhurried. She didn’t sit right away, just lingered near the edge of the coffee table.

“Rough night?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Rough year.” I scrubbed my palms over my eyes before dropping them to my lap. “I don’t even know why I called you. You don’t… You don’t need to hear me complain about shit you don’t care about.”

Cass tilted her head slightly. “Who says I don’t care?”

The way she said it—flat, but not dismissive—made my chest tighten. I glanced up at her, meeting those unreadable silver eyes, and for a split second, the world felt quieter.

“I’m just… stuck. With the case. With everything.” My voice dropped, softer now. “Feels like I’m drowning in it.”

Cass finally sat, lowering herself onto the coffee table across from me so we were eye level. “Then stop treading water for five minutes,” she murmured. “Breathe. I’ll keep watch.”

The words shouldn’t have settled me as much as they did, but my shoulders eased, the tension bleeding out just a little.

When I didn’t answer, she leaned back slightly, her lips curving faintly. “You’re a terrible drunk, you know. You brood, you apologize, and you call people at ungodly hours.”

Despite myself, a laugh slipped out—a quiet, hoarse thing. “Guess you’ve seen worse?”

Her eyes flickered with something I couldn’t place. “Much worse. But none of them were nearly as endearing.”

The heat that crept up my neck was immediate. I ducked my head, pretending to inspect my faded henna, anything to not let her see me flustered.

The rest of the night blurred. At some point, Cass coaxed me to drink water, dragged a blanket over my shoulders, and murmured something about not dying on her watch. I don’t remember much after that—just her presence, steady and quiet.

When I woke up hours later, sunlight bleeding through the curtains, Cass was gone. But a note sat on the coffee table in neat, precise handwriting:

Lock your door. Drink water. Call me if you actually want company next time.

I stared at it for a long time, unsure whether to burn it or tuck it away somewhere I could find later.

When I knocked on Tala and Sunwoo’s apartment door that afternoon, I was fairly certain my body had stopped producing blood and was now just 90% whiskey and regret.

The pounding in my skull matched the pounding of my knuckles against the wood. My sunglasses felt too heavy on my nose, my coat too suffocating despite the morning chill. I wanted to evaporate and never come back.

The door swung open to reveal Tala, still in pajama shorts and one of Sunwoo’s hoodies. Her bright blue hair was pulled into a messy bun, her expression a mix of surprise and exasperation.

“Ate? You look like death. Literal, actual death.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, brushing past her and toeing my boots off. “Is Sun here?”

“Kitchen.” Tala shut the door and trailed after me as I all but collapsed onto their couch. “What happened? You sound like someone ran you over and then reversed for fun.”

Before I could answer, Sunwoo appeared from the kitchen, spatula in one hand, mug of tea in the other. Her brows furrowed when she saw me. “Hazal, what the hell? You sick?”

“Not sick,” I mumbled, tugging the sunglasses off and rubbing my face. “Just… hungover. And confused. And… probably stupid.”

Tala dropped onto the couch beside me, knees pulled up. “Stupid how? What happened? You’re not usually the show-up-unannounced type unless someone’s bleeding.”

“Exactly,” Sunwoo said, settling into the armchair with her tea. “So, what gives?”

I exhaled hard, my head sinking back against the couch. “I called Cass. At four in the morning. Drunk. She came over.”

That got both of their attention instantly. Tala’s mouth dropped open. Sunwoo arched a brow.

“And?” Tala prompted, voice rising. “Did she, like… stay? Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened,” I said quickly, lifting my head to glare at her. “She came over. I… complained about the case, I think. She made me drink water, threw a blanket on me, then left. She left a note telling me to call her if I actually wanted company next time.”

Sunwoo tilted her head. “That’s… considerate.”

“It’s humiliating,” I corrected, pressing my hands to my face. “I don’t call people. Ever. And now she probably thinks I’m some pathetic drunk who cries to strangers because I can’t handle my job.”

Tala snorted softly, reaching over to tug my hands away. “Hazal, if she was upset or thought you were weird, she wouldn’t have come over. And she definitely wouldn’t have left a note. She’d just ghost you.”

Sunwoo nodded. “Exactly. Most people wouldn’t even show up at that hour, let alone bother to make sure you’re okay.”

I sank deeper into the couch, staring at the ceiling. “I haven’t felt like this about anyone in years. I don’t… know how to do this anymore. It’s like my brain short-circuits every time she’s around.”

Tala’s voice softened, her usual teasing gone for once. “That’s normal. You’re relearning. Doesn’t mean you’re screwing it up.”

“Feels like I am,” I muttered. “Feels like I’m just… waiting to do something wrong and drive her away.”

Sunwoo set her mug down and leaned forward, her expression calm but firm. “Then don’t overthink it. Take it slow. You don’t need to decide anything right now. Just… see where it goes.”

“Maybe,” I said, though my stomach twisted at the thought. I didn’t like not having control, not knowing how this would end.

But the note was still in my coat pocket, folded neatly, almost like proof that last night actually happened. That Cass hadn’t just tolerated me, but chose to be there.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep me from crawling into a hole and dying.

Chapter Text

The rest of the week passed like a haze—coffee-fueled mornings bleeding into cigarette-stained nights, case files piling higher on my desk, and every new lead turning into another dead end. By now I couldn’t tell if I was running on spite, caffeine, or whatever scraps of determination were still rattling around in my chest.

And yet, even with the city’s body count rising and the case gnawing at my every waking hour, my thoughts kept circling back to her.

My phone had buzzed four times tonight—two texts from Tala asking if I’d eaten, a missed call from Zyanya probably wanting gossip, and a notification from a food delivery app I forgot to uninstall months ago. Every time, my pulse stuttered like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t, and every time my stupid brain whispered the same thing.

What if it’s Cass?

But it never was.

Not since that night. That humiliating, whiskey-soaked night when I cracked open just enough to let someone see the mess inside. I hadn’t heard a word from her since—not a text, not a call, not even one of our usual late-night “accidental” run-ins.

It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots.

She probably thought I was just another burnt-out cop drinking her way through the night shift, or worse, someone who couldn’t keep herself together long enough to function. Maybe she’s not wrong. Maybe I am that person now.

My hand hovered over the pack of cigarettes on my desk, considering lighting one just to break the silence. But then my phone buzzed again, vibrating against the wood.

I didn’t want to look—didn’t want to see another pointless notification and feel that stupid twist in my gut—but I did anyway.

And there it was. Her name.

Cass [3:24 AM] — You up?

For a second, I just stared at it, my thumb frozen above the screen. A mix of relief, nerves, and something warmer—something I didn’t want to name—washed over me all at once.

Hazal [3:24 AM] — Yeah, why?

The typing bubbles appeared, flickered out, then reappeared. Three times. By the time the message finally came through, my pulse was already picking up, my thoughts tripping over each other like they were sprinting to some finish line I couldn’t even see.

Cass [3:27 AM] — Walk?

I exhaled slowly, my free hand curling into a fist on the desk.

Part of me wanted to throw my jacket on without thinking—just say yes, like always. Another part reminded me how raw I’d felt last time, how badly I wanted to dig a hole in Tala and Sunwoo’s couch and never resurface the morning after.

Did I really want to risk looking like a fool again?

But then I pictured the way the city felt different with Cass beside me—quieter, somehow, even if we didn’t speak. And I knew I wouldn’t sleep anyway, not with my mind racing like this.

So I caved. Again.

I grabbed my jacket, shoved my phone into my pocket, and stepped out into the cool LA night, letting the door click shut behind me.

For now, the case could wait. The migraine could wait. My pride too.

I just needed to see her.

We must’ve walked the entire perimeter of the park twice by now. Maybe three times. Neither of us said much—just the occasional hum, the faint sound of Cass sipping from the coffees she picked up on her way here. Mine was still warm in my hands, the steam curling in the pre-dawn chill. I couldn’t tell if the warmth in my chest was from the drink or… her.

Probably both.

I hate that I can’t tell the difference anymore.

Still, I couldn’t deny it—being here, next to her, dulled the constant churn of my thoughts in a way nothing else had all week. No red strings or evidence boards, no phantom screams of the latest victim replaying in my head. Just quiet.

I was somewhere between replaying case files in my mind—House ranks, names, connections, bodies—and trying not to enjoy the way her arm would occasionally brush mine when her voice cut through the silence.

“What are you thinking about?” Cass asked, her brow raised, her lips quirked in something between amusement and curiosity. She’d stopped walking, so I turned to face her, caught like a kid sneaking candy.

“Oh, uh… just the case.”

“Your brain never turns off, does it?”

“Unfortunately, no,” I muttered, forcing a weak smirk to pass for humor. Somehow, it worked—she chuckled, low and tired, and for a moment I let myself memorize the sound.

We fell quiet again, but this time I leaned back against the thick trunk of a massive oak tree, letting my eyes fall shut and my head tip back. The air was crisp, the faint hum of the city softened by the early hour, and despite myself, I relaxed.

Except… I could feel her watching me.

Normally, being stared at would make me bristle—years of shadowing suspects and dodging tails left me allergic to being on the receiving end. But Cass? Somehow, her gaze didn’t feel invasive. It felt… grounding.

Without opening my eyes, I murmured, “You’re staring.”

“How’d you know?”

I cracked one eye open to find her smirking around the rim of her coffee cup, feigning innocence. I shook my head, a soft laugh escaping before I closed my eyes again. “You always stare. Not that I mind.”

Her boots crunched softly over the blanket of fallen leaves as she stepped closer. When I opened my eyes again, she was right in front of me. My breath stuttered—quiet, almost imperceptible, but her gaze flickered knowingly to my lips, and I knew she heard it.

She raised her hand and brushed a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. It was nothing—a fleeting touch—but my heart thudded like she’d done something far more intimate. My neck felt hot. My ears, hotter.

Get it together. She just touched your hair, not your soul.

Cass took a sip of her coffee, but I caught it—the way her eyes darted to my mouth for a fraction of a second before shifting away. It made my pulse trip all over again. She was close enough to kiss, but…

I barely know her. She’s teasing, she’s gorgeous, she’s clearly not straight—but that doesn’t mean she wants me. Me, with my obsessive habits, my mess of a life, my inability to open up without booze in my bloodstream.

And I am not making a fool of myself twice.

By the time my pulse calmed, she’d taken a small step back, just enough space to make breathing easier. She was looking east now, toward the horizon, where soft streaks of blue and pink painted the skyline. The early light gave her this unearthly glow, like the city itself bent to make her stand out.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to focus, and before I could overthink it into oblivion, I said, “Are you… free on Saturday?”

She turned to me, her brows ticking up slightly, her expression unreadable. “What?”

“Tala’s having an engagement party,” I explained, already wanting to backpedal, my hand twitching toward my pocket like I could just bury the words there. “She asked if you were coming with me. I know it’s weird to assume, so you can say no, but I thought—”

“Yes, I’ll go with you,” she cut in smoothly.

I blinked at her, thrown off balance by how easy she made it sound.

“It’ll be nice to see your friend again,” she added with a slight nudge to my side, like she could feel how close I was to bolting.

The tension in my chest loosened just enough to let me breathe again. If she’d said no, I probably would’ve dug myself a grave under this oak tree and stayed there forever.

“Do I make you nervous, detective?” she teased, her voice rich with something I couldn’t name.

I scoffed, aiming for unimpressed, but the warmth creeping up my ears betrayed me.

“Thought so,” she murmured, her smirk softening into something more playful as she took the empty cup from my hands, tossed both of ours in a nearby trash bin, and brushed her hand against the small of my back. Just for a second—barely there. But it sent a shiver down my spine all the same.

“It’s cute, really,” she added, before resuming our slow walk along the path.

I fell in step beside her, my tongue useless, my heart pounding hard enough that I wondered if she could hear it. We didn’t hold hands. We didn’t need to. Just existing in that little bubble of soft touches and quiet was enough.

Almost.

Because underneath it all, one thought gnawed at the back of my mind.

If I keep this up, I won’t just like her anymore. And when that happens, I’m screwed.

Chapter Text

Saturday came faster than I wanted it to.

Two hours gone, just to look like someone who didn’t roll out of bed and throw on the first thing in reach. Two hours of fighting with my curling iron, coaxing it to make half-decent waves before it inevitably sputtered out again. Two hours standing in front of the mirror, cycling through outfits until I landed on something that felt right—something that wouldn’t make Hazal second-guess inviting me, but wouldn’t stand out enough to pull focus from Tala’s engagement.

In the end, I settled on a lavender mermaid-cut dress, halter neckline, fitted through the hips but modest enough to keep eyes elsewhere. Paired it with a thin belt and heels that wouldn’t kill me by the end of the night. Jewelry, too—actual jewelry. Nothing gaudy, but clean pieces I’d either collected or had gifted to me over the years.

Most of the gifts came from Vincent, whether as tokens for a job well done or just to keep me looking the part when mingling with the elite. While I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tuned out his lectures on taste and presentation, I can’t deny he knows how to pick pieces that make people look twice.

Most were diamond or amethyst set in steel or white gold. My favorite, though, was the first one he ever gave me—a thin stainless steel chain, a small diamond-studded V dangling at the center.

People in the House talk, of course. They all think the V stands for Vincent. That I’ve been climbing the ladder by keeping his bed warm. They whisper it like they’re the first to think of it. They’re wrong.

The V is for Vyse. My old callsign. The name I built from blood, tears, and precision, long before I was Vincent’s Ace. V for vengeance, for violence.

Hazal doesn’t know that part yet. She can’t.

And just as her name crept into my thoughts, the soft ring of the doorbell echoed through the flat.

When I opened the door, time snagged on its own axis.

Hazal stood there, hands tucked casually into the pockets of her black slacks, her blouse—dark red satin—catching the soft daylight. The first two buttons undone, offering just enough of a view to spark a thought I quickly buried. Her ombré waves fell loose around her shoulders, makeup clean and minimal but sharp enough to frame those mismatched eyes.

She’d opted for heels—plain black stilettos. Without mine, we’d finally stand eye to eye. With them, I still had a slight edge, and I filed away a mental note to tease her for it when I found my voice again.

I didn’t even realize how long I was staring until I noticed the subtle smirk tugging at her lips.

“See something you like?” she asked, brow arched.

“Maybe,” I said, smooth enough to mask the heat creeping up my neck. “Jury’s still out.”

We walked side by side to her car, the quiet only broken when our fingers brushed—just once. Light, fleeting, but intentional. And she started it.

She’s been doing that a lot more lately. Meeting me halfway. Returning the subtle glances, leaning into the teasing, even flipping it on me sometimes so I’m the one scrambling for composure.

I hadn’t noticed until that night—the call, her voice low and frayed, whiskey still on her breath. Since then, it’s like she’s been trying to tell me something without actually saying it. Testing the waters. Seeing how far she can lean before one of us tips over.

Maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m just projecting. There’s no way she’s actually interested in me. And even if she is…

She won’t be when she learns the truth.

I kept those thoughts to myself, locked them behind my ribs where they couldn’t ruin the evening. Instead, I chose to focus on the small things—the brush of her hand, the way her smirk lingered a beat too long, the rare moments when her eyes softened just enough to let me see past the badge.

Because for all I know, these moments won’t last. And I’m not ready to let go of them yet.

Chapter Text

The garden café near Sunset had always caught my eye in passing, but I’d never set foot inside before tonight. From the street, it looked beautiful enough, all warm lighting and lush greenery. Up close, under the soft wash of string lights and the glow of candles lining the stone paths, it felt… different. Like stepping into another world—one far quieter and softer than the one I was used to.

I never used to notice things like this. Never cared. Beauty was a luxury I didn’t have time for, and sentimentality was a weakness that could get you killed. But ever since Hazal, I’ve started noticing the little things—the warmth in the air, the softness in a gesture, the way someone’s laugh can make the whole world fade out for a second.

It’s pathetic. She’s making me soft.

I pushed the thought aside as we stepped into the café, slipping into the hum of quiet conversation and clinking glasses. Hazal walked a half-step ahead, close enough that our fingers brushed every so often. Each time, she hesitated—didn’t quite pull away, but didn’t linger either. Like she’s testing the idea of reaching for me, but not ready to risk it.

Truthfully? I wanted to take her hand. Just hold it as we walk. But she’s still guarded, and I’m not about to push her. I can’t, anyway. Even if I wanted this—wanted her—I couldn’t afford to forget who I am and what I do.

Before I could spiral further, a blur of blue hair cut through the crowd and launched into Hazal with a hug that nearly knocked her off her heels. Hazal didn’t complain, didn’t even flinch, just wrapped her arms around Tala and kissed the crown of her head like she’s used to this kind of thing. There was a fondness in her expression that caught me off guard—soft, warm, genuine.

When they separated, Tala spinned toward me with a wave and an easy smile. “Cass! You made it!”

“Of course,” I said, managing a genuine smile of my own. “Your big day deserves to be celebrated.”

She didn’t hesitate before stepping in for a hug. It wasn’t crushing, like the one she gave Hazal, but it was warm. Familiar. I froze for a moment—contact like this wasn’t something I’m used to, not outside the transactional kind—but I forced myself to relax and return it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Hazal watching us, a small, proud smile tugging at her lips. For a second, I could feel the unspoken warmth between them, that big-sister protectiveness radiating from her.

Tala pulled away, dabbing at the corner of her eye before laughing softly. “Let’s sit before I ruin my makeup.”

She led us deeper into the garden, toward a cluster of tables filled with Hazal’s people. The moment we get close, a low whistle cut through the chatter.

“Damn, Eyletmez. You clean up nice,” said a British man leaning casually against his chair.

Hazal flipped him off without missing a beat. “Watch it, Adeyemi.”

He chuckled, unbothered, and nodded toward me. “And who’s your friend?”

Every set of eyes shifted to me. And despite the fact I’ve stood in interrogation rooms with feds breathing down my neck, this felt worse. Maybe because—for once—I actually cared about the impression I made.

Hazal’s fingers brushed mine, so subtly that no one else noticed. It was the smallest touch, but it was grounding, a quiet reassurance I didn’t know I needed.

“This is Cass,” she said evenly. “Cass, this is the crew. That pain in the ass is Jamie.” She motioned to the Brit, then to the man with the blue streak in his hair. “And that’s his boyfriend, Ryo. Over there’s Sunwoo, Tala’s fiancée. Purple hair’s Zyanya, black hair’s Ling Ying.”

I nodded, memorizing faces and names as quickly as I could. But as I glanced around, it becomes obvious that Hazal was the outlier here. Everyone else was paired off, anchored to someone who softens their edges. She’s the only one who’s not. And for a flicker of a second, I felt… bad.

I almost bailed this morning, told myself I was getting too close, letting this get too easy. But now, watching her slip into this crowd with practiced ease while still standing just a little apart, I’m glad I didn’t. Even if we’re just pretending to be friends tonight, at least she wouldn’t be standing here alone.

“So, how’d you meet Hazal?” Ryo asked, leaning back in his chair. His gaze sharpened as it landed on me, like he’s weighing every syllable.

Yep. He’s definitely law enforcement.

Before I could answer, Hazal pulled out a chair for me. The simple gesture earned a glance between Ryo and Jamie, but we both ignored it as we sat.

“She literally walked into me,” I said, offering a small smile. “Outside a café. Coffee was everywhere.”

Hazal scoffed, but I can see the flush creeping up her neck. “I was distracted—”

“Like always,” Ryo cut in. He didn’t even get a chance to smirk before Hazal stomped on his foot under the table. His sharp hiss was loud enough to earn a few stares.

“Anyway,” she said smoothly, as if nothing happened, “I apologized, offered to buy her another cup, and here we are.”

“You would meet someone by being clumsy,” Jamie muttered with a grin.

Before Hazal could fire back, Ling Ying drifted over and planted her hands on Jamie’s shoulders. “Stop terrorizing Hazal,” she said, her tone amused but firm. “She’s not your chew toy.”

“I haven’t even started,” Jamie protested, hands raised.

“Don’t.” She flicked his temple, then glanced at me with a soft smile. “You must be Cass.”

Hazal and I exchanged a look before Ling Ying continued, “Tala’s been telling everyone about you. So… brace yourself for the welcome party.”

With a polite wave, she headed back to her table, leaving the boys to resume their chatter. Hazal stood, brushing past me, and leaned down just enough to murmur in my ear.

“By ‘welcome party,’ she means endless questions and protective glares.”

She was close. Too close. Her lips hovered just an inch from my skin, her voice low and warm. I caught the faint scent of jasmine and leather, smoke curling beneath it—probably from a cigarette she smoked earlier. It shouldn’t have made my stomach knot, but it did. Heat creeped up my neck before I could stop it.

She noticed, of course. There was a teasing smirk tugging at her lips as she straightened and headed toward the bar.

Jamie caught me watching her leave and grinned. “Earth to Cass. You good?”

I blinked, forcing my gaze back to him. “Hm? Yeah. Fine.”

“How long you two been together?”

“Oh, we’re not,” I said quickly. “Just friends.”

Ryo leaned forward, smiling faintly. “You look at all your friends like that?”

I opened my mouth to argue, but shut it again. No point. He was sharp—too sharp—and he wasn’t not wrong.

Before the interrogation could deepen, Hazal returned with a beer in one hand and a hard seltzer in the other. She set the can in front of me without a word, just a faint glance that said she remembers our offhand conversation about drinks from weeks ago.

The small gesture, like so many of hers, hit harder than it should.

I nodded in thanks, took a sip, and silently prayed I could get through this night without broadcasting just how deep I was sinking. Or how badly I wanted to keep sinking anyway.

As the evening stretched on, I’d endured interrogation after interrogation from Hazal’s friends—each of them taking their turn to size me up like I was sitting in an unofficial lineup. Every time, before the conversation could turn into a cross-examination, Hazal would swoop in. Sometimes she’d stand behind me with her arms folded and that sharp detective’s glare, a silent warning to back off. Other times she’d simply slip into the seat beside me, lean in close, and change the subject with a smooth ease that made me forget anyone else was there.

She didn’t have to say it, but I could tell—she was looking out for me.

Eventually, the tables cleared as couples drifted toward the DJ’s corner of the garden. The air was warmer near the twinkling lights, the soft hum of music filling the space as people swayed and spun. I found Hazal by the bar, her shoulder propped against the counter as she nursed her second beer.

I crossed the cobblestone path, the faint click of my heels catching her attention. She glanced up at me, the corner of her mouth tugging upward in the faintest smile as I nudged her arm lightly.

“Not much of a dancer?” I asked, playful but soft.

She shook her head, eyes drifting toward the couples in the center of the garden. “Haven’t danced in years.”

“Why not?”

Her mismatched gaze flicked back to mine, and for a moment, something unreadable passed between us. “Haven’t found the right partner,” she said, voice low.

The words hung between us, heavier than I expected. Her tone wasn’t flippant—there was a sincerity in it, laced with something that felt almost… like a challenge. Or a confession.

I tilted my head, studying her, letting the smallest smile tug at my lips. “And what does the ‘right partner’ look like for you?”

Hazal didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on me just a second too long, her expression unreadable except for the faintest softening at the edges. My chest tightened, heat rising beneath my skin.

Before she could answer, someone called her name from across the garden—Jamie, holding up two shot glasses with a grin. “Oi, Eyletmez! You owe me from the last round!”

Hazal groaned under her breath, muttering something in Turkish that I couldn’t quite catch. She glanced back at me, clearly torn between indulging her friend and staying here.

I waved a hand lightly. “Go. I’ll be right here.”

She hesitated, like she didn’t want to leave, then finally pushed off the bar. “Don’t let anyone try to interrogate you again,” she said with a faint smirk before disappearing into the crowd.

I watched her go, my gaze following the subtle sway of her blouse and the confident line of her shoulders. For someone so guarded, she had a way of holding herself that demanded attention—even when she wasn’t trying.

A few minutes later, she returned, sliding back into place beside me with a faint flush on her cheeks—whether from the shot or Jamie’s antics, I couldn’t tell. She was close. Close enough that her arm brushed mine as she leaned against the counter, her cologne lingering in the air between us.

We didn’t talk for a moment, just stood there, side by side, watching the couples sway under the lights.

Finally, I murmured, “You know they’re all staring at us, right?”

Hazal’s brow arched, though her eyes stayed forward. “Who?”

I tilted my head subtly toward her table. Ryo, Jamie, and Zyanya were all glancing over between drinks, not even trying to be subtle.

Hazal’s lips quirked into a small, sly smile. “Let them stare.”

There was something in her voice that made my pulse skip. A subtle weight, a quiet admission she wasn’t saying out loud.

For a moment, I almost reached for her hand. Almost leaned in closer, just to see how far we could push this line we kept dancing around.

But before I could, Tala came bounding over, laughing breathlessly as she waved at us. “You two look like you’re about to kiss or kill each other,” she teased, eyes flicking between us. “Which one is it?”

Hazal rolled her eyes, taking a slow sip from her beer as if Tala wasn’t standing right there. “Neither,” she said smoothly. “We’re just watching.”

“Mmhm.” Tala gave me a knowing look before someone called her name from across the garden, and she scampered off again.

Hazal and I shared a glance, both of us suppressing faint smiles.

Her hand brushed mine again, deliberately this time. Just for a second.

And for the rest of the evening, we didn’t need to say much. We stayed close, shoulders brushing, drinks in hand, quietly orbiting each other as the party wound down. We didn’t dance. Didn’t kiss. But every brush of her fingers, every shared look, every quiet moment made it harder and harder to ignore the pull between us.

And I had the sinking suspicion that if this kept up, one of us was going to break.

Chapter Text

The drive back to my apartment was spent in an almost oppressive kind of silence—not the awkward kind, but the kind where every brush of air and every faint strum of music felt magnified. The soft hum of the radio filled the space, the DJ murmuring between songs while dusk painted the city in a bruised wash of purple and orange.

My heart was still thrumming from the party. From her friends’ prying eyes, their knowing smirks, their not-so-subtle questions. From Hazal’s quiet voice beside me, the way she said, Let them stare like she wasn’t afraid of any of it.

The words had been echoing in my head ever since. How could she be so calm, so steady, when just a week ago she could barely string a full sentence together asking me to come? How was she this confident now, sitting beside me like she belonged in my orbit—as though she had every right to?

I didn’t even realize we’d reached my building until the engine cut, a faint hum tapering into silence, and the click of the passenger door broke through my thoughts. Hazal was standing there, one hand resting casually on the roof of the car, the other extended toward me. Her expression was easy, almost nonchalant, lips curved in that dark-painted, barely-there smile that somehow still made my pulse spike.

I hesitated—just long enough for her brow to lift—but then slipped my hand into hers and let her guide me out of the car.

Her palm was warm. Softer than I expected, considering the callouses that spoke of hours at the range, hands wrapped around cold metal and hot triggers. I turned her hand over before I could stop myself, my thumb tracing the faint ridges of her knuckles. Beneath the henna, there were small cuts, faded scars etched into skin that told quiet, brutal stories.

These weren’t accidents. These weren’t the marks of someone whose work left scratches. These were from fights. Close ones. Ones she’d walked away from—but not without cost.

Something in my chest tightened. I didn’t know if it was worry or something heavier, something I didn’t want to name.

She must’ve felt my eyes lingering because she gave me a soft, almost disarming smile, then gently eased her hand from mine. She didn’t pull away completely, though; instead, she used it to brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers ghosting over the curve of my jaw. “Let’s get you inside, yeah?”

Her voice was softer than I’d ever heard it—no dry humor, no sharp edge to mask whatever she was really feeling. Just warm, low, coaxing in a way that made something coil tight in my stomach.

I could get used to her speaking to me like that. Too used to it.

I only nodded, afraid my voice might betray something I wasn’t ready to admit.

The walk through the lobby was wordless, the faint click of my heels against the polished floor our only soundtrack. The elevator ride felt suspended, like time itself slowed as we stood close, her shoulder occasionally brushing mine. Not accidental. Not deliberate, either. Just enough to keep the air charged, heavy with something neither of us dared to break.

When the doors slid open, we stepped out in sync, stopping in front of my door. I turned, my hand fidgeting with the keys as I forced a smile. “Thank you for today,” I said, quiet but sincere.

Hazal’s brow quirked, her hands slipping into her pockets. She shrugged like this didn’t matter, like she hadn’t gone out of her way to keep me comfortable all evening. “Hopefully my friends didn’t give you too much of a hard time.”

“They were just looking out for you,” I said, voice a little steadier than I felt. “I respect it.”

The words lingered, heavier than I intended. I wanted to say more. I like you. I want to keep doing this. Even if I shouldn’t.

I wanted to tell her how much she’d gotten under my skin in such a short time, how every touch and glance left me rattled, how it scared me because I don’t do this. I don’t get attached. I don’t blur lines. Not anymore.

But her gaze was locked on mine—steady, patient, like she could feel the war inside my head—and the words stayed lodged in my throat.

I finally exhaled, breaking the tension with the simplest thing I could manage. “I’ll see you later?”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, the kind that said she knew I was dodging something bigger. “See you later,” she murmured.

But neither of us moved.

We stood there, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her mismatched eyes, close enough that I caught the faint scent of her cologne again. Her gaze flicked to my lips—brief, but unmistakable—and my breath caught.

I thought about leaning in. Just an inch. Just to see.

Her hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing mine. The touch lingered, longer than casual, her thumb tracing a slow, almost hesitant line over my knuckles.

The tension was so thick it was suffocating, every second stretching into something sharp and unbearable. My pulse was loud in my ears.

But neither of us closed that last inch.

I finally forced myself to pull back, retreating a step toward the safety of my door. Hazal’s expression didn’t change, but her hands slid back into her pockets like armor being refitted.

I offered the smallest, softest smile, because it was all I could manage. Then I turned, unlocking my door and slipping inside.

As it shut behind me, the faint click of the latch felt like a verdict.

I couldn’t keep doing this.

It wasn’t just about the job anymore—not about keeping my cover, not about feeding Vincent information or staying three steps ahead of Hazal’s investigation. It was about her. About the way she makes me feel like I can breathe and unravel at the same time. About how badly I want something I can’t have.

And I know I have to stop.

Because if I don’t, one of us is going to get burned.

And I can’t let it be her.

Chapter Text

By the time I got to the precinct, my head was still a mess.

I told myself the drive in would clear it—that the cold morning air and bitter coffee would shake off whatever fog was still hanging over me from last night. But even with the dull thrum of work waiting for me, my mind kept drifting back.

Back to her.

Cass had slipped into my makeshift family like she’d always been there. Tala liked her instantly—hugged her, smiled at her like she’d known her for years. Even Jamie, who usually treats anyone new like a suspect, hadn’t given her too much hell after the first drink. And me…

I couldn’t stop watching her.

The way she smiled through Tala’s interrogation. How her hand would find mine under the table when no one was looking—brief, careful, but lingering. The way her gaze found me across the garden, warm and steady, like she knew exactly when I needed a moment of quiet to breathe.

And the tension… Christ, the tension.

It had been building for days now—little glances, brushes of skin, her fingers ghosting against my back, her breath on my cheek when she leaned close to whisper. Last night it felt like it was pressing in on every inch of space between us.

There were at least three moments where I thought I might actually kiss her. Just to see. Just to know. My heart had been in my throat every damn time, and every time I hesitated. Too scared to move, too scared to find out if she’d even want me like that.

Now it was morning, and the yearning I tried to keep on a leash has gone from a quiet level two to a roaring level eight in less than a week. It’s uncomfortable. Dangerous. And I hate it.

I dragged a hand down my face and forced my eyes back to the folder in front of me. Crime scene photos, suspect notes, a timeline we still couldn’t lock down. There was an interrogation scheduled in less than an hour, one I needed to be sharp for.

But every time I tried to focus, my mind drifted back to the night before. To her hand brushing mine as I walked her to her door. To the faint look in her eyes when we stood there, not saying the things clawing up our throats. To how badly I wanted to close that last inch between us and didn’t.

I’m losing focus. I’m losing my grip.

And that can’t happen—not now. Not with this case. Not with her.

I forced my attention back to the folder, scanning the pages for what felt like the fifth or sixth time, hunting for anything I might’ve missed. Names, dates, numbers—any thread to pull that wouldn’t snap in my hands.

Then one name snagged my focus like a hook: Vincent Fabron.

High-end weapons designer. Philanthropist. Gala regular. The kind of man who had just enough charm to make his money smell clean, even if it wasn’t. He’d been floating near the top of my suspect list since day one, mostly because Captain Callas had shoved him there.

She’d been circling him for years, convinced he was connected to the House of Cards—or worse, running some kind of operation parallel to it. But every lead turned to smoke before she could get a match lit. Every witness recanted. Every shred of proof was circumstantial. And now, with these murders stacking up, Fabron somehow kept showing up in the background… just never close enough to tie a string to his name.

And always, always, with an airtight alibi.

He was photographed at charity galas, on panels, in interviews, sitting on boards. Every time someone wound up dead, Vincent Fabron was smiling for a camera somewhere. The brass won’t let us touch his records without a court order, and the DA doesn’t want to rattle someone with that much money and influence unless we’re sure.

But every instinct I have said he’s not clean. There’s something wrong with him—something too smooth, too curated.

And then, as my eyes trailed over his name again, it hit me.

It wasn’t just that Fabron had been flagged on Callas’s radar. The name felt familiar for another reason entirely.

Cass.

She’d said it once, offhand, when we were walking after one of my late nights at the office. She’d been telling a story—one of those casual, distracting tangents she likes to spin when I’m too deep in my head. She called him Vince. Said he was a client. Some rich, nitpicky perfectionist who paid her to keep him “satisfied.” She’d rolled her eyes when she said it, like he was just another pompous asshole she had to tolerate.

But Vince, Vincent…

Fabron.

My stomach twisted.

Could she…?

No. No, Hazal. It’s nothing. Vincent is a common name. Too common. She probably wasn’t even talking about this Vincent. People like him collect a thousand different “fixers” and “handlers.” Cass probably deals with half a dozen assholes like that every month.

And yet, the thought wouldn’t settle. It just sat there, gnawing at the back of my skull.

Cass is… Cass. Whatever she is, whoever she is, she’s not the kind of person I should be questioning. And yet here I am, questioning her anyway. The same way I question every name in this file.

With a sharp exhale, I shoved the thought as far down as it would go, slammed the folder shut, and pushed to my feet.

I need to get this interrogation over with. Get my head back in the case. Find something—anything—to tie this all together before another body dropped.

Because the longer this dragged out, the harder it was to tell which thoughts in my head are about the case…

…and which ones were about her.

The girl was already pacing when I got to the observation room. Long, dark hair. Glasses so oversized they slid down her nose every time she muttered something under her breath. She looked like a grad student, not someone entangled in the kind of organization we’d been chasing for months.

But the beat cop stationed outside said she’d been unraveling for the last hour. Started calm, collected even. Then her mask started to crack. Now, she was pacing like a cornered rabbit, whispering in rapid-fire German I couldn’t catch through the mic.

Sweat dampened her collar, and the faint tremor in her hands made her look like she might jump out of her skin if the air vent hummed too loud.

I could use that.

I pressed the button on the mic. “Open the door.”

The lock clicked, and I stepped inside. The girl froze mid-step. Her wide eyes cut to me like I was walking in with a death warrant. She swallowed hard, her throat working, and slowly lowered herself into the metal chair at the table.

I didn’t sit right away. I perched on the edge of the table beside her, flipping open my folder like I had all the time in the world.

“Klara Böhringer,” I said without looking at her. “Twenty-five. Came to the U.S. at six. Graduated MIT at nineteen. Moved to California three years ago. Brief stint working intel for local government, and then…” I flicked my gaze to her, expression blank. “…you vanished.”

Her jaw tightened. Her fingers twitched once against the table, but she didn’t speak. Just stared at the scratched metal surface like she thought it might save her.

I sighed, pushed off the table, and sat across from her. I slid a photo from the folder across the table. A single, crisp playing card, face-up on a bloodstained floor.

“Do you recognize this?”

Klara’s eyes flicked down, and her whole body went rigid. Her breathing hitched, so faint most people wouldn’t have noticed.

“This card,” I continued, voice flat, “was found at six different scenes. All high-end victims. All tied to the House of Cards. You’re going to tell me what it means.”

“Nothing,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair. Her voice was steady, but her shoulders weren’t.

“Klara,” I said, keeping my tone even, measured, “you can work with me, or you can take your chances in court and with whoever the hell the House sends after you when you’re back on the street. Cooperate, and I’ll tell the DA you played ball.”

She let out a bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it. “You think a judge scares me?” She slammed her palm down on the table, the sound sharp in the tiny room. “Prison doesn’t scare me. Court doesn’t scare me. But the Aces—” Her voice cracked, just barely. “—the Aces will kill me if I talk. They’ll find me before I even make bail.”

She was trying to wear defiance like armor, but the fear leaked through every crack. Her hands shook. Her eyes darted to the corners of the room, like she half-expected a rifle barrel to slide out of the vent.

I leaned forward slightly, folding my hands together on the table. My tone softened, but only just. “Then let me help you. Give me a name, a location, something to put between you and them. You’re an engineer, a Dealer, not an Ace. You don’t need to go down with them.”

For a long moment, Klara just stared at me. Her eyes glossed over but didn’t spill. The muscles in her jaw flexed like she was chewing glass.

I pulled another photo from the file and slid it across the table. A grainy still frame from a street cam: Klara, walking hand-in-hand with a woman, both of them smiling. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up, and her breath stuttered. A single tear slid down her cheek, unnoticed.

“Help me,” I said quietly. “So I can get you back to her.”

Klara closed her eyes for a beat, exhaled shakily, and set the photo back down. When she looked at me again, her fear was still there, but resignation had settled in with it.

“That card,” she said finally, voice low, “is the Ace of Spades.” The words left her like she’d just signed her own death warrant.

I pulled the card photo back out, inspecting it closely this time. Sure enough, there was a faint mark in the bottom corner. A spade, barely visible unless you knew where to look.

“How many Aces?” I asked, still studying the photo.

“Four,” she whispered. “Spades. Hearts. Diamonds. Clubs. One for each suit.”

I nodded once, tucked the card back into the folder, and rose from my seat. “That’s all for now.”

Klara didn’t look at me as I left. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the photo of her girlfriend, like the paper might anchor her in place.

I let her keep it. Whatever else she was, she wasn’t a killer. Just a genius who made the wrong deals with the wrong people.

And now I had four Aces to find before they found me first.

Chapter Text

The next three days bled together in a fog of caffeine, cheap whiskey, and cigarette smoke that clung to my clothes and hair like a second skin. I barely left the precinct except to shower and change, pulling longer hours than anyone else just to avoid my apartment—and the quiet that came with it.

Every time I closed my eyes, Cass was there. The way her fingers lingered against mine at the party, the way her laugh carried over the hum of conversation, how easily she fit into my ragtag little family as if she’d been part of it for years. Every flash of memory brought with it the same damn ache in my chest.

It was too much. Too fast. I’ve been through firefights, knife fights, botched stings—things that would make most people lock their doors and never sleep again. But this? This unrelenting pull toward her, the weight of wanting, the quiet fear I might have scared her off… I didn’t know how to sit with it.

So I buried myself in the case.

Klara, for all her trembling nerves, had been useful. With her intel, the puzzle pieces of the House were finally starting to click into place.

The Aces—four assassins, one for each suit. No witnesses. No evidence. Each kill marked by a card, a silent signature. More Spades and Diamonds in the stack than anything, but I’d only ever seen three cards total.

The Dealers, like Klara, were brokers. Arms shipments, prototypes, high-risk trades—the first sacrificial lambs when the deck started collapsing.

The Jokers? The real nightmare. Hackers, saboteurs, and spies whose job was to erase evidence, muddy trails, and make sure people like me ran in circles. They were the reason my leads kept vanishing, why every trail ended in a dead end.

And above them all, the Kings and Queens. Ghosts with immaculate reputations. All linked to Vincent Fabron but untouchable in the public eye. The kind of people who could smile for the cameras at a charity gala while ordering a hit three counties over.

The deeper I dug, the more the case coiled around my ribs, tightening until I could barely breathe. And in the back of my head, Cass lingered, making the pressure worse.

So when Sunwoo called this morning, asking if I could tag along while she did some last-minute wedding shopping, I said yes before I could think twice. She was marrying my best friend; I’d do anything for her. But more than that, I needed the excuse to shut my brain off before it burned itself out.

Now I was slouched in the world’s stiffest chair, watching Sunwoo model her tenth outfit in as many hours—a navy suit with lace accents and silver embroidery, tailored so perfectly it looked like it had been grown around her frame. Elegant. Regal. Tala was going to lose it when she saw her.

I let out a low whistle. “You look… wow.”

Sunwoo turned toward me, fingers combing nervously through her unruly white hair. “Do you like it? Like actually like it? Or are you just saying that so I’ll stop changing?”

“Yes, canım,” I said, getting to my feet to smooth the lapel of her jacket. I turned her toward the mirror, catching her hesitant reflection. “Blue suits you. You look like yourself. That’s what matters.”

Her lips curved into a faint, shy smile as she smoothed her hands down the sides of the jacket. “I just… want to do this right, you know?” she whispered.

“You will,” I murmured, resting my hands briefly on her shoulders. “You and Tala are the real deal. Everyone can see it. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

She didn’t answer right away, just stared at herself in the mirror like she was trying to convince herself to believe me. When her ocean-blue eyes finally flicked up to meet mine, there was a glint of mischief replacing her nerves.

“Enough about me and my panicky wedding shit,” she said, starting to unbutton the jacket. “What’s going on with you and Cass? Because she definitely seemed into you at the party.”

I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck as I sank back into the chair. “Yeah… she did. Haven’t heard from her since, though.”

Sunwoo froze mid-change. “Wait, what? Why? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, voice quieter than I intended. I forced a shrug, though the dull ache under my sternum betrayed me. “I dropped her off after the party. We talked. And maybe it was the drinks, or maybe it was just the moment, but…” My words trailed as I pressed my fingers to my temple, the memory sharp and frustrating all at once.

“I think she wanted to kiss me. And I think I wanted that, too.”

Sunwoo’s head popped around the dressing curtain, brows raised. “So why didn’t you?”

I spread my hands helplessly. “We both… froze, I guess. Neither of us wanted to be the first one to screw up. We’ve only known each other a month, Sun. For all I know, I read it wrong.”

She snorted. “Yeah, sure. Because people just agree to go to engagement parties full of strangers for casual acquaintances all the time.”

I gave her a flat look, but she only grinned wider as she sat down beside me, one hand landing lightly on my arm.

“She likes you, girl. A lot. Everyone saw it. And you—” she tilted her head, smirking “—were practically her shadow all night. Answering questions for her, glaring at Jamie when he pushed too hard. You might as well have staked a claim on her without realizing it.”

My face heated despite myself, and I looked away. “Yeah, yeah…” I muttered.

Sunwoo laughed softly, leaning back in her chair with the casual smugness of someone whose love life was already settled. She grabbed the suit from the rack. “I’m buying this one. Tala’s going to cry when she sees it.”

I smiled faintly, brushing my knuckles against her shoulder. “She’ll cry, but not as much as you will at the altar.”

“Probably true,” Sun admitted with a shrug. But her grin lingered, warm and certain, even as I felt my chest tighten again.

Because as much as I wanted to believe her, a part of me couldn’t shake the thought that maybe I had scared Cass off. Or maybe wanting her at all was already a mistake I couldn’t afford to make.

After two malls, at least a dozen shops, and one painfully drawn-out quest for a specific plush fox Sunwoo swore Tala had to have, I finally stepped through my apartment door.

The sound of it closing behind me felt like someone had cut a taut wire from my chest, a fraction of the tension easing as I exhaled. My shoulders slumped, heavy from the constant whirl of errands and small talk, and for one blissful moment, I thought I might actually get a quiet evening.

I toed off my boots, tugged my hair loose from the tie that had been digging into my scalp all day, and went through the motions—soft pajama pants, a loose tank top, bare feet padding over cool hardwood toward the kitchen.

But peace, apparently, wasn’t in the cards tonight.

Because as soon as the quiet set in, my mind betrayed me.

Cass’s laugh. The weight of her hand brushing mine at the party, fleeting but deliberate. The way she’d looked at me in that garden light—like maybe she wanted me just as much as I wanted her. The words she hadn’t said, the kiss we didn’t share.

Stop it, Hazal.

I grabbed a cutting board and a knife, setting them down harder than necessary on the counter. If I didn’t focus on something—anything—I’d drown in it.

It’s been three days. No text, no call. Maybe she needed space. Maybe I’d overstepped. Maybe the whole damn night was a mistake.

I yanked open the fridge, pulling out whatever I could find—vegetables, some leftover chicken breast, the last of a bottle of white wine I’d been meaning to finish. My knife sliced through a red bell pepper with a satisfying thunk, rhythmic and grounding.

But still, her face lingered in every pause between cuts. The faint warmth of her fingers on my skin. The way her voice softened when she thanked me at her door.

God, I’m acting like some teenager with a crush. And I can’t afford this—not with the case, not with who she might really be. Not when I’m already stretched too thin and one wrong step could unravel everything.

I poured a splash of wine into the pan, letting the hiss of the liquid hitting heat drown out my thoughts for a beat.

But no matter how much I tried to drown it out, the ache in my chest didn’t budge.

And I hated how much I didn’t want it to.

Chapter Text

The first thing I noticed was the music.

Low and pulsing, the bass thrumming faintly through the hallway as I stood at Hazal’s door, my knuckles hovering, frozen.

I shouldn’t be here.

Every instinct I’d sharpened over years—the rules Vincent drilled into my head, the warnings Zhao spat at me like gospel, even the survival sense in my gut—all told me this was a mistake. Hazal is a cop. The cop. The one digging so close to the House’s walls she was making people twitch. I knew better than to come to her like this—jittering from adrenaline, blood still sticky beneath my sleeve, heart hammering too loud in my ears.

And yet, I knocked anyway.

The music turned off. Soft, measured footsteps approached, and then the door opened—and there she was. Hazal, in pajama pants and a loose tank, hair pulled back, barefoot. Flour dusted her wrist like she’d been cooking to quiet her head. Her mismatched eyes flicked over me, widening just slightly, and then she leaned against the doorframe, wary as ever.

“Cass?” Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it. “What are you doing here?”

Say you got lost. Make an excuse. Walk away.

But the words that came out were, “Didn’t know where else to go.”

She didn't move at first. Just studied me with that detective’s gaze, scanning for blood, for lies, for the trouble she knew I dragged behind me. I kept my right arm tucked close, fingers pressed to where the fence caught me during the chase. The bleeding stopped, but the sting was still sharp. I was careful not to flinch.

Her brow furrowed. “Come in,” she said finally, and stepped aside. “You look like hell.”

The smell of garlic and butter hit me as I stepped in. The lights were low, a glass of wine sat half-empty on the counter beside a half-prepped meal. It felt normal in here. Warm. The kind of space I don’t belong in, but can’t help wanting to sink into anyway.

She closed the door and turned to face me. “What happened?”

A hundred lies came to mind. I picked none of them. I just… looked at her. Really looked. At the steady way she stood there, arms loose at her sides, waiting for me to give her something. At the way her hair came loose from its tie, falling around her face. At the other soft smear of flour she must not have known was on her cheek.

And then I moved.

One step. Two. And I kissed her before I could think twice.

Her breath caught against my mouth, but she didn’t pull away. That’s what unraveled me. She tasted faintly of wine and something warm from the oven, and when she kissed me back, it was like she’d been holding her breath for weeks. My hand found the curve of her jaw, the other curled at her waist. Her fingers clutched my shirt, hovering like she couldn't decide whether to drag me closer or shove me away.

“This is a bad idea,” I whispered against her lips, even as I pulled her closer, deepening the kiss like I couldn't stop myself.

She made a low sound, almost a hum, and my pulse spiked. She felt like a hit I couldn't quit—the more distance I tried to put between us, the more I came back. The job, the House, the blood drying on my arm—all of it fell away under the heat of her mouth.

She shifted closer, and the back of my legs hit the couch. Her hands slid up, fingers brushing my neck, nails barely grazing my skin. For a second, it felt inevitable, like the world narrowed to nothing but the soft drag of her breath and the heat pooling low in my stomach.

Then Hazal stilled. Pulled back, just enough to break the spell. Her eyes searched mine—those mismatched irises catching the dim kitchen light, full of something I can’t name. Want, yes, but something steadier than that. Something dangerous.

She exhaled slowly and cupped my cheek instead. Her thumb brushed near my lip, lingering there. “Not like this,” she murmured, voice low but firm.

It wasn't rejection. It was restraint. A tether yanking me back from the edge I was ready to fall over.

I nodded because I couldn't do anything else. My pulse was still wild, my body screaming to close the gap, to drown in her. But I let her guide me down to sit on the couch, her hand still warm on mine like an anchor.

Even with the heat cooling between us, I couldn't stop looking at her lips. Couldn't stop feeling the phantom burn of the kiss. The crash of adrenaline left me hollow and shaking, my arm throbbed, but all I could think about was her—her steadiness, her warmth, the quiet rasp of her voice when she spoke.

And I knew then, with a clarity that terrified me, that I was already in too deep.

Hazal didn't press me for answers. She just studied me—her gaze flicked to where I kept my right arm tucked close, her brow pinched like she knew something was off but wasn't about to call me on it. Instead, she reached for my hand, gently, and murmured, “Stay.”

I nodded again. The adrenaline hadn't completely burned out yet, but my limbs felt heavy, my pulse slowing into something sluggish and uneven. When she knelt in front of me with her first aid kit, I almost protested, but one look at her expression—calm, steady, but edged with worry—killed the words in my throat.

“Let me see it,” she said softly. It wasn't a request.

Reluctantly, I rolled my sleeve back. The cut was shallow, just a clean slice across the side of my arm. It was nothing compared to what I’m used to, but she inhaled sharply when she saw it, her jaw tightening like she was imagining worse.

She didn't ask how it happened. Didn't comment on the way I flinched when the antiseptic hit. Just worked in silence—precise, methodical. Her fingers were warm and careful, her touch almost reverent despite the clinical motions. By the time she taped the bandage in place, my body finally started to unwind, the crash creeping in hard and fast.

“There,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over the fresh wrap before letting my arm go. Her eyes lingered on me, unreadable. “You should sleep.”

But I couldn't—not yet. The thought of being alone, even on the other side of this apartment, made something ugly twist in my chest. So I reached for her, fingers curling around her wrist before I even knew what I was doing.

Hazal didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned down, her free hand cupping my jaw, and kissed me again. Softer this time. Slower. The heat from earlier was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but now it was layered with something gentler, more dangerous. Need, yes—but also comfort. The kind I don’t let myself have.

Her lips parted slightly, and my hands found her again—her waist, her hip, the slope of her back beneath the soft cotton of her tank. She made a low sound, not quite a moan, and slid her hand into my hair, nails grazing my scalp in a way that made me shiver. It wasn't sex, not even close, but it was enough to make my head swim, enough to make me want to forget everything outside these walls.

Eventually, she slowed us down. Her hands framed my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones as she pressed one last lingering kiss to my lips before pulling back. Her mismatched eyes held mine, steady and grounding. “Stay,” she said again, and this time it felt less like a question, more like a promise that I wouldn't wake up alone if I let myself breathe.

I couldn't even form words, so I just gave her a small, but genuine, smile.

We didn’t talk much after that. Just one last brush of her hand against mine, one last brief kiss, before she disappeared down the hall. A moment later, she came back with a blanket, draping it over me where I sat slouched on the couch. She lingered—fingers brushing my arm, the faintest trace of her touch like she knew I was strung too tight to just fall asleep. When she finally retreated to her room, she left her door cracked, the dim light spilling into the living room like some kind of tether.

In the dark, I lay awake, staring at her ceiling.

You can’t have both, I told myself. The syndicate or her. You’ll have to choose.

But when dawn bled through the blinds, pale and cold, I didn’t wait for her to wake. I slipped out silently—no note, no text, just the faint scent of garlic and her still clinging to my jacket, the ghost of her kiss lingering on my lips.

I knew what the right choice was.
I knew what I had to do.

So why did I already want to turn back?

Chapter Text

I barely slept last night. Not that I usually did—insomnia and I have been close friends for years. But last night… last night was different.

I could still feel her. The ghost of Cass’s lips on mine. The way her hands grabbed at me like I was the only thing tethering her to earth. The taste of sweat and her lip balm, lingering like a bruise I couldn't scrub away. I laid awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second, trying to figure out what the hell just happened and what it meant.

Not that I minded the kiss. Or the way she touched me, hesitant and desperate all at once. But I knew she didn’t come here just for that. She was shaken, rattled in a way I’d never seen her before, and she wouldn’t tell me why.

Why didn’t she tell me?
And why did it matter so much that she didn’t?

How about you stop guessing and just ask her, salak.

I shook my head and shoved that thought aside as I threw the covers off. The morning light felt too harsh, too cold. My head was pounding from too much thinking and not enough rest, but I forced myself down the hall on quiet feet, not wanting to wake her if she was still sleeping.

Only, when I reached the living room, the couch was empty.

The blanket I gave her was folded neatly over the armrest. The pillows were perfectly straight, like no one ever touched them. There was no sound of running water, no movement anywhere. The apartment felt… still.

Like she was never here.

My chest tightened, sharp and sudden. I turned back to my room, grabbed my phone off the nightstand, and checked my messages, half-expecting to see some explanation waiting for me.

Nothing.

No text. No missed call. No note left by the door. Just silence.

She left.

I told myself she probably had work, or an early meeting, or something important that couldn’t wait. That she didn’t just… vanish because she regretted last night.

But even as I thought it, the lie tasted bitter.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, opened her contact, and typed a quick text before I could overthink it.

Hazal [9:34 AM] — Hey. You okay?

I stared at the screen, waiting for the typing bubble, but nothing came. After a minute, I tossed the phone back on the bed and scrubbed my hands over my face. I wasn't going to lose my mind over this. I couldn't.

I didn't fall for people. Not easily, not ever. I’d spent years keeping my walls high, keeping everything and everyone at arm’s length because it was safer that way—for me and for them. But then Cass walked in, all guarded smiles and sharp edges, and I… let her in.

And now she was gone... Just like that.

With a frustrated exhale, I headed for the shower, letting the water beat against my skin until my fingers wrinkled. It didn't help. The knot in my chest stayed, tightening with every second. By the time I got dressed, I had checked my phone fifteen times. Still nothing. Not even a read receipt.

Fine. Whatever. I had more important things to do. Criminals to catch. A syndicate to shut down. I couldn't afford to spiral over a woman who clearly doesn’t want to be here when I wake up.

I was halfway to convincing myself of that when my phone buzzed in my hand.

Capt. Callas [10:23 AM] — Two victims in BH at Lakeview Condos. Gold card in the back alley. Need you here.

Two victims?

My stomach dropped. The House of Cards didn't double up. Not unless something’s gone very wrong. Either we’re looking at a copycat… or the Aces are getting sloppy.

And either way, it was my mess to untangle—whether my head was in the game or not.

Chapter Text

Thirty days.

Thirty days of crime scenes at dawn and evidence boards that look more like art installations than leads. Thirty days of clawing through dead-end tips, reading files until my eyes burned, and running on nothing but nicotine and break-room coffee so bitter it could strip paint. Even in sleep—on the rare nights I found it—the case bled into my dreams, twisting every quiet moment into another lead I’d never catch.

But what haunted me most wasn’t the bodies. Or the endless files.

It was the silence.

Thirty days without Cass.

No texts. No calls. No late-night meetups under the pretense of “just needing to get out of the apartment.” No shared cigarettes on my balcony or mornings where she’d appear, like clockwork, with some excuse for running into me. Our rhythm—the strange, fragile routine we’d built—was gone. Shattered overnight.

And I couldn’t help but wonder if it was my fault.

Something I said.
Or maybe something I didn’t.

I told myself, over and over, that I was being ridiculous. That Cass wasn’t really a friend, not in the way that mattered. We barely knew each other. She didn’t owe me anything, and I didn’t owe her. And yeah, we kissed—but that was a one-off. Heat-of-the-moment. A bad idea from the start, and she was smart enough to realize it before I did.

Clearly, I’d just… read it wrong.

But every time I tried to settle into that version of the story, the lie curdled in my chest. Bitterness coated it like ash, and still, my mind drifted back to that night. Her hands on me. The soft press of her lips. The dizzy, consuming pull of her until I could barely remember how to breathe, let alone think.

She’d told me it was a bad idea. At the time, I didn’t understand. Now… now I agree.

Because despite how she still lingers in my thoughts like cigarette smoke, my head hasn’t been this clear in months. My walls are twice as high now, barbed and reinforced. I can focus again, finally. Work feels sharper, cleaner. Colleagues whisper that I’ve “snapped back,” that the case has my full attention again.

The truth? I’m not sharper. Just numb.

Done opening myself up only to be left hollow.

Of course, my friends noticed. Tala and Sunwoo dropped by uninvited when I stopped answering calls, hovering like I was some fragile thing they could fix with tea and gossip. I told them I was just busy, and they believed me—mostly. Ryo stopped by the office too, offering to help with the case, probably hoping to force me out of whatever hole I’d buried myself in. I told him I didn’t need him. Even Ling Ying, in between brutal residency shifts, called just to check in.

I appreciated it all, in theory. But what I really needed was for everyone to leave me the fuck alone.

Naturally, the universe didn’t care.

I was sitting on the floor of my home office, staring at the crime board like I could will it to make sense, when the doorbell rang. A sharp, unwelcome sound. I exhaled slowly, irritation simmering under my ribs, and pushed myself to my feet.

When I opened the door, Zyanya stood there like she had all the time in the world—six-pack in one hand, a fresh carton of cigarettes in the other.

I stared at her for a long moment, then snatched the carton without a word, fishing my lighter out of the pocket of my sweatpants. The flame stuttered when I sparked it, barely catching as I lit the cigarette.

“What is it, Zy?” I muttered around the filter, my voice low and rough.

The model didn’t bother waiting for an invitation. She brushed past me like she’d lived here her whole life, setting the beer on the kitchen island before cracking one open with a practiced flick of her wrist.

“I heard you were having a crisis,” she said, her tone casual but her sharp eyes cutting through the room like knives. She tipped the bottle back, took a long sip, and then leaned her hip against the counter. “You’re going to tell me what it’s about.”

I arched a brow, taking a long drag of my cigarette. “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

“Nope,” Zyanya said easily, popping the ‘p.’ She took another sip, then gestured with the bottle like a judge passing sentence. “Start talking.”

I rolled my eyes and blew smoke through my nose, the cigarette burning low between my fingers. I didn’t have the energy for this—not tonight—but Zyanya wasn’t going to leave until she pried whatever was left of me open.

So I told her.

Everything.

The late-night walks and coffee runs. The teasing, the looks that lingered too long. My drunk 4 AM call where I didn’t even bother to hide how badly I wanted to hear her voice. The way she looked at me outside her apartment after Sunwoo and Tala’s party, like we were both one breath away from doing something reckless. And finally, the kiss. The one that still lived behind my eyelids every time I closed them, no matter how hard I tried to bury it.

By the time I finished, I was halfway through my third cigarette. Zyanya was draining the last of her second beer, watching me like she wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or proud—or both.

“I didn’t think you could want someone like this,” she said finally, tone soft but not mocking. “Honestly… I didn’t think you thought you could.”

“Neither did I,” I muttered.

Because it was true. I’ve never been the dating type, never been the type to let someone close just for the sake of warmth. I’ve had maybe two relationships in my entire twenty-eight years—both brief, both back when I was young enough to think that heartbreak was just something you grew out of. Both ended without much ceremony.

But Cass? She was… different. Terrifying. Infuriating. And somehow, despite all that, she felt real.

Or at least I thought she did.

Zyanya finished her beer and took my cigarette from me long enough to stub it out in the ashtray, then tugged me toward the couch. We sank down into the cushions, her long legs draping over my lap like it was second nature. She set her empty bottle on the table with a soft clink before turning those sharp brown eyes on me.

“None of this is your fault, hermosa,” she said, voice even. “Obviously you liked each other. But maybe she couldn’t handle it.”

I scoffed, dragging both hands down my face. “Couldn’t handle what? Being with an insomniac, nicotine-addicted cop with a job that eats her alive?” My fingers raked through my hair, tugging at the strands streaked half-gray from stress. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame her, but—”

“No but.” Zyanya sat up a little straighter, pointing a finger at me like she was calling me to order. “If she runs, that’s on her. Not you. You gave her space, you gave her time, and when she showed up at your door looking like she’d been chewed up and spit out, you didn’t ask questions. You patched her up. You gave her somewhere safe to breathe. And she left. That’s not on you. That’s her loss, Hazal.”

I nodded slowly. Logically, I knew she was right. Cass had left, not me. I hadn’t pushed her out or told her to go. But none of this—this ache, this heaviness in my ribs, the way I kept checking my phone even though I knew there’d be nothing—none of it felt logical.

That’s why I hated feelings. They made no goddamn sense.

My fingers traced idle patterns across Zyanya’s leg, not really thinking about it, just giving my hands something to do while my thoughts turned themselves inside out. Zyanya didn’t push, didn’t say anything else. She just sat there and watched me, letting the silence settle until the air felt too heavy to breathe.

Eventually, I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. I slid her legs off my lap and stood, already grabbing for my jacket and sneakers.

“Where are you going?” she asked, brow arched.

“I need to think,” I said quietly, knotting my hair back with rough fingers.

When I came back a few minutes later, bag slung over my shoulder, she was still sitting on the couch, watching me like she wanted to argue but knew it wouldn’t matter.

“I’ll be back,” I muttered, already heading for the door. “Don’t break anything.”

I left before she could respond, the slam of the door cutting off whatever she might’ve said. The cool night air hit my face as I stalked toward my car, fishing another cigarette out of my jacket pocket.

Because Zy was right. This wasn’t on me.

Cass made her choice.

So why did it still feel like the weight of it was pressing down on my chest?

I lit the cigarette and shoved the thought away, forcing my focus back to the only thing I could control: work.

Because if there’s one thing I can count on in this city, it’s that the House of Cards never sleeps.

Chapter Text

I didn’t even remember the drive. One minute I was sitting in my car, cigarette burning down between my fingers; the next I was going through the metal detectors at the Bureau, flashing my badge so the guards wouldn’t give me grief.

Technically, I wasn’t supposed to be here. Local PD and feds rarely mixed unless the case demanded it, and I sure as hell hadn’t filed the mountain of paperwork to make this “official.” But if the last month taught me anything, it’s that pride doesn’t catch killers.

I could feel the stares as I crossed the bullpen. The agents in their tailored suits and perfectly shined shoes, glancing at me like I’d tracked dirt in from the street.

Damn feds. Too polished. Too proud. Too afraid to get their hands dirty unless there’s a camera to prove it.

I ignored them and made a straight line for Ryo’s office. Knocked once before pushing the door open. He didn’t look surprised to see me—just gestured to the chair across from his desk like he’d been expecting me all day.

“Show me what you’ve got,” he said, his voice calm, steady. There was a faint smile tugging at his mouth, one of those rare ones he saved for the people closest to him.

I didn’t bother with pleasantries. I dumped my case files onto his desk, the stack so high it spilled onto the floor. Photos of the crime board. Autopsy reports. Evidence bags. Locations and times for every known House member. Vincent Fabron’s meticulously documented alibis. Everything I’d been living and breathing for weeks.

“I’ve realized the victims themselves don’t matter,” I said as I dropped down to the floor, spreading out the files like cards on a table. “Not really. They’re just collateral. Our priority is the Aces.”

Ryo sat on the floor beside me, arching a brow. “Aces?”

“They’re the House’s assassins,” I explained, sliding three laminated photos toward him. “One for each suit. Four total, but only three have been active. Diamonds, Spades, Clubs. Hearts is a ghost—I haven’t seen the calling card yet, but one of the Dealers confirmed they exist.”

He picked up the Spades photo, turning it over in his hand as if he might coax a secret from the cardstock. “Any prints?”

I shook my head. “Clean. No prints, no casings, no witnesses. Every job’s at night, suppressed rifles, heavy caliber. One shot, head or heart. Fast. Surgical.”

Ryo hummed under his breath, that quiet sound he made when his mind started working ten steps ahead. He stood, moving back to his desk, and powered on his computer. The glow from the monitor painted the room in cool blues as his fingers flew across the keyboard.

I watched him for a minute, the steady rhythm of his typing filling the silence. My shoulders ached from being hunched over case files for so long, but I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“What are you doing?” I asked eventually, leaning back on my palms.

“These guys sound like ex-military or law enforcement,” he said without looking up. “So I’m checking databases. Which card was left with the heart-shot victims?”

“Spades. But I’ve checked the databases, Ryo. The House wipes their people clean before we even know where to look.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t try again. Plus,” he paused to glance at the card, eyes narrowing slightly, “your ‘Spades’ reads like a woman. The pattern fits.”

A woman.

It finally clicked. The precision, the symbolism, the emotional brutality of it. Diamonds and Clubs had left cards with headshot victims, more detached kills. But Spades… Spades hit where it hurt.

How the hell did I miss that?

Before I could spiral, something bounced off my forehead. I blinked and looked up to see the eraser he’d lobbed at me lying in my lap.

“Go home,” Ryo said, smirking faintly when I shot him the finger.

“I can stay,” I started, already reaching for another file, but he gave me that look—the one that had shut down grown men twice his size in interrogation rooms. The one I’d seen in the mirror more times than I could count.

I exhaled slowly and nodded. “Thank you,” I muttered, rising to my feet. I circled the desk and pulled him into a quick hug—brief but genuine—before heading for the door.

He’d find something. I had to believe that. Even if the paperwork was going to make me want to throw myself in front of traffic, if it led to the House crumbling, it’d be worth it. Maybe then I’d finally get some sleep.

Assuming my thoughts about Cass ever let me.

Chapter Text

It’s been a month.

One fucking month since the job went sideways. Since I bled all over Hazal’s doorstep and clung to her like she was the last real thing in the world. Since I kissed her like I was trying to carve the shape of her into my memory, and held her like I’d never get to again.

One month since I left without a goddamn word.

And I’ve regretted it every day since.

No matter how many contracts I took. How many nameless bodies I dropped. How many cheap bottles or cheaper beds I used to fill the void. None of it worked. I couldn’t scrub her out of my mind. I couldn’t sleep without dreaming of her voice. I couldn’t even close my eyes without seeing the look on her face when she opened the door.

I used to be better than this. Sharper. Colder. Cleaner. But she made me soft. She cracked something open and let all the poison spill out, and now I’m just drowning in it.

I pulled myself from the field after week two. Couldn’t trust my aim. Couldn’t trust my judgment. Vince noticed, but he didn’t press—probably figured I’d burnt myself out. So I passed the work off to Zhao. Let him handle the hits while I played strategist. Sat behind a desk and let the guilt rot me from the inside out.

Now I sat the bathtub, knees drawn to my chest, water lukewarm and skin pruned from how long I’d been sitting in it. I hadn’t moved in hours. Didn’t even remember getting in, if I’m honest. My phone was somewhere on the floor powered off. I couldn’t take looking at it anymore. Every notification that wasn’t from her felt like a bullet to the chest.

I wanted to call her. I wanted to show up on her doorstep again and beg like a fucking child. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I was scared. Tell her I didn’t mean to leave—just didn’t know how to stay.

Because the truth is, I want her. I want her in my life, in my bed, in my goddamn future. She let me in, and I blew it. She gave me a taste of something good and real and warm, and I ran like a fucking coward.

All over a kiss.

Not a proposal. Not a confession. Just a kiss. One perfect, fragile kiss that I hadn’t stopped thinking about. Her hands in my hair. The way she asked me to stay like it hurt her to say it. The weight of her touch. The heat. God, the heat.

I miss her. Every part of her.

The door creaked open. I didn’t bother turning around.

Zhao’s steps were heavy. I heard him before I saw him, felt the quiet weight of him moving down the hall. Then a rustle as he sunk onto the edge of the tub, jeans creaking faintly against porcelain.

“Still sulking about your girlfriend?” he said dryly.

“She’s not…” I started, but the words died before they left my lips. I closed my eyes. Pressed my forehead against my knees. “What do you want?”

“I want my partner back,” Zhao said. His voice was softer than I expected. “You and me, Merc. Diamonds and Spades. You’re the one who always said emotions get you killed. So what the hell happened?”

I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know. Or maybe I did and I was just too chickenshit to say it out loud.

When I finally lifted my head, he was already watching me. His expression wasn’t judgmental—it was concerned. Steady. Not pitying, just waiting.

“She makes things easier,” I said finally. “When I’m with her, everything feels… lighter. Like I can breathe again. Like I’m not buried in this shit up to my neck.” I gave a bitter, breathless laugh. “I forget about the blood. The House. All of it.”

Zhao nodded slowly. Didn’t interrupt. Just let me speak.

“I told myself I had to choose,” I murmured. “The syndicate or her. I chose the House. I chose you and Vince. I did what I always do—I played it safe.” I drew in a shaking breath, my voice breaking. “And I regret it.”

His silence was heavy, but not cruel. It gave me space. Permission to fall apart.

“There’s only one way out of the House,” he said finally. “And it ain’t with a promotion.”

“I know,” I whispered. I hated how it sounds. Like surrender. Like grief. Like everything I never wanted to admit.

I’d hand Zhao the gun myself if it meant I could have her back. Just one more coffee date. One more early morning walk. One more night wrapped in silence and smoke and the comfort of knowing someone sees me and doesn’t flinch.

A tear slid down my cheek before I could stop it. I didn’t wipe it away. Zhao’s seen worse—seen me tortured, torn open, barely breathing. What’s one more scar?

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do,” he said, voice gruff. “But don’t try to run. Don’t be that kind of idiot. Just talk to her.”

“And say what, Zhao? ‘I’m a fucking coward. Sorry I kissed you and bolted like a teenager with commitment issues?’”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Say that. Say every pathetic thing in your gut and maybe she’ll believe you. Maybe you’ll get your head screwed back on.”

I glanced down at the water again. Lukewarm and murky. It didn’t have any answers, but I kept looking, like the reflection might show me someone worth saving.

Maybe Zhao was right. Maybe I needed to do something. Anything. Because I couldn’t keep rotting in this apartment with ghosts and regret as my only company. I needed to see her. I needed to try.

Even if it killed me.

Because I couldn’t let her slip away again.

Not this time.

Chapter Text

The next morning, it took everything in me just to get out of bed. I lay there for a long while, staring at the ceiling, hollowed out by nerves and guilt. Every excuse not to see her today echoed through my head, louder than the last—but none of them felt good enough.

Dragging myself to the shower felt like hauling dead weight. My limbs were heavy, my chest heavier. I scrubbed my skin raw like it might cleanse the memories, the shame, the need. But it didn’t.

It never does.

Getting dressed was just as hard—choosing jeans and a jacket that looked casual enough to seem unassuming, but nice enough to not look like I’d been rotting in a bottle for the last thirty days. I even put on makeup. Not for vanity. Not for her, even. Just to feel like a human again. To convince myself I could hold it together long enough to face her without completely falling apart.

The truth is, I’ve slept less in the past month because of Hazal than I have in the last seven years because of the House. And that says a lot. I’ve been hunted, chased, shot at, nearly tortured. But nothing’s haunted me like the look she gave me when I left her in the dark.

I got to her favorite café by 7:30. Rustic, quiet. A place that smells like cinnamon and fresh coffee grounds and always has some indie folk song playing too low in the background. I’d scoped it once, early on, just in case. She comes here every morning before work—rain or shine, case or no case, even when she’s late. I used to think it was ritual. Now I wonder if it’s the only peace she gets.

I chose a seat near the window, one with a perfect view of the front door, and ordered a black coffee to keep my hands busy. The burn on my tongue grounded me. Kept me from bolting.

Minutes crawled by like hours. I felt like a stranger in my own body, hands too stiff, breath too shallow, paranoia curling at the edge of my vision. And then—

She walked in.

Her hands were tucked in the pockets of her coat, earbuds still in, head slightly down like she didn’t want to be noticed. A faint smile played on her lips—the kind you give strangers when you’re trying not to be rude. But even through the haze of nerves and longing, I saw it.

That smile didn’t touch her eyes.

The circles under them were darker than I remembered. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks—haunted, brittle at the edges, like she was barely holding herself upright. She moved like someone who knew the exact weight of exhaustion and was tired of carrying it.

I felt something twist in my gut.

God, please let it be the case. Or Tala’s wedding. Or anything—anything but me.

I waited until the barista called her name. She didn’t look up. Didn’t notice me. So I got to it first—picked up her cup, and stepped toward her like I wasn’t walking toward a ledge.

“Hi,” I said softly, placing the cup down on the table in front of her.

She blinked. Her eyes widened like she’d seen a ghost. For a split second, I saw something warm flicker behind them—recognition, relief, maybe.

But it was gone just as fast.

Replaced by ice. Absolute fucking ice.

“What are you doing here?”

Her voice was sharp, low, but cold enough to cut.

“I wanted to see you—”

“After a month?” she snapped, loud enough that people turned. Her glare sliced through me.

She took a breath—clearly trying to rein herself in—then slid out of the chair, grabbed her coffee with a hand that trembled just slightly, and started toward the door.

My heart lurched, slammed against my ribs like it wanted to chase her. I stood there, frozen for a second too long.

Fuck.

She looked thinner. Tired. Hurt.

I did that. I did all of that. And I can’t—won’t—let her walk away again.

God, please let it not be too late.

I turned to follow her, half-jogging to catch up, panic making my chest feel tight and shallow. I managed to beat her to her car and blocked the door with my body, hands up like I was facing down a threat. Maybe I was.

“Hazal, please—”

“Please what, Cass?” she snapped, her voice sharp but trembling. My name on her lips sounded like a wound—raw, painful, a thing she didn’t want to touch but couldn’t avoid. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“I want you,” I said, the words punching out of me before I could think them through. “I know I don’t deserve you. I know I hurt you, and there’s no excuse for what I did. But every second I spent trying to convince myself that I didn’t care about you only made it worse. It only made me realize how much I do. How much I need you.”

I saw the way her breath caught. Her whole body stiffened for a second—like a thread pulled taut inside her. Her fingers tightened around the paper coffee cup until the sides started to buckle. I reached out slowly and took it from her, set it on the roof of her car. Tried to close the space between us without overwhelming her.

She didn’t step back. But she didn’t reach for me either.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Every day I’ve spent apart from you felt like I was peeling off my own skin. I kept thinking if I just stayed away long enough, maybe the feelings would go away. Maybe you’d forget me. Maybe it’d hurt less. But it never did. And I don’t think it ever will.”

Her eyes shimmered—not quite tears, not yet—but I could see the exhaustion weighing down her expression. She didn’t just look tired. She looked worn. Like she’d been holding herself together with threadbare resolve and coffee alone.

“Why did you leave?” she asked, finally.

“Because I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of this.” I gestured between us, helpless. “Of how I felt. Of how real it was. I didn’t know how to handle it. And instead of being honest… I did what I always do. I ran.”

Her jaw clenched. She looked at me like she wanted to believe me, but didn’t trust herself enough to. And I couldn’t blame her for that.

“I’m not good at this,” I whispered. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to feel nothing. But then you came along with your questions and your stupid coffee orders and your sarcasm and your soft hands and…” I trailed off, throat tight. “You make me weak, Hazal.”

Her brows furrowed. I stepped closer and cupped her face, brushing my thumbs gently against her cheeks, even as my fingers shook. “Even before that night, you occupied half my thoughts. Since then, it’s been all of them. I fucked up. I know that. I betrayed your trust, and I’m sorry. Please… let me fix it. Let me try.”

We stood there for a long time. Neither of us moved. The parking lot blurred behind her—the people, the street noise, the biting morning air. None of it registered. Just her. Just this. Just us.

She finally exhaled—shaky, like she’d been holding her breath since the moment I showed up. Then she reached for my hands, gently prying them from her face. I thought she was going to let go. I thought that was it—her quiet way of telling me no without creating a scene. My stomach dropped. I felt the heartbreak coming like a wave.

But then… she stepped forward.

Slow. Cautious. Like someone testing the ice.

She wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her face in my shoulder. The motion was so gentle, so tentative, that for a moment I didn’t react. Couldn’t react. I don’t do hugs. I don’t get hugs. But this—

This felt like a lifeline.

I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her closer, felt her entire body press into mine. Her breath hitched against my neck. My tears spilled over without warning, hot and humiliating—but honest. Real.

Let her see me like this, I thought. Let her see every soft, broken part of me she’s already carved open.

“Promise me…” she whispered, barely audible. “Promise me you won’t do that shit again.”

She pulled back enough to look at me. Her hands moved to my face, brushing the tears off my cheeks, and I saw the way something cracked in her when she realized they were real. Her thumbs lingered, soft and warm.

“If you ever decide to leave,” she continued, “just tell me. Don’t make me guess. Don’t make me stay up at night wondering if I did something wrong. Let me move on without carrying that guilt.”

And there it was—confirmation of everything I feared. She had lost sleep over this. She blamed herself. She wondered if she’d done something to drive me away. I’d left her with questions and silence and a month of uncertainty, and she still stood here asking me for honesty instead of payback.

This wasn’t her fault. It never was. It was my bullshit. My fear. My inability to face the one thing I wanted most.

“I promise,” I whispered. The words felt strange in my mouth, but they were real. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She stared at me a moment longer, then stepped back and grabbed her coffee. Took a long sip. Handed it to me with a lopsided little smile that made my heart feel too big for my chest.

“You need it more than I do,” she said.

I laughed softly, breath shaky, and stepped aside so she could get in the car. But before she shut the door, I caught it with my hand.

“How about we go on a real date?” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “You know… as an apology. For everything.”

She gave me another smile—this one smaller, more real—and nodded. “Okay.”

Just one word. One soft, quiet syllable.

But it was enough to lift the weight crushing my lungs. It was more than I deserved.

“Okay,” I echoed, stepping back to let her close the door.

I took a sip of the coffee and nearly choked when she waved as she pulled out of the lot. It was such a small, ordinary thing. But it felt monumental.

She gave me another chance. Somehow. Somehow, despite everything—I still have her.

And now I have to do everything in my power not to ruin it.

Again.

Chapter Text

A week passed, and Saturday came faster than I expected. One minute I was sitting in my office—numb, shaking, trying to process Cass’s apology—and the next I was in my bedroom surrounded by Tala, Sunwoo, Ryo, and Jamie, all of whom had decided to stage an impromptu intervention.

“Wait, so she just showed up, kissed you, and left?” Tala asked, sprawled out across my bed like she owned it, her voice sharp with disbelief. “In the middle of the night?!”

“Then ghosted you for a month?” Jamie added, arms crossed as he leaned against my dresser, one brow raised in quiet judgment.

“And she had the balls to corner you in public like that?” Sun scoffed from where she lay with her head resting in Tala’s lap. “What, was she hoping your detective instincts would forget she dropped off the face of the Earth?”

“Unbelievable,” Ryo muttered from my vanity chair, absently tapping his finger against the wooden armrest.

“Yep,” I replied, my back to them all as I rifled through my closet, trying not to let my hands shake.

They kept going—muttering, venting, dissecting the absurdity of the situation like it was a case file spread out across a table. I heard them, but I wasn’t really listening. Because none of it was new. I knew it was reckless. Knew it was probably a terrible idea to let her back in, to even entertain the possibility of giving her another chance.

But knowing didn’t make it easier.

Because the truth was—I liked her. More than I ever should have. I’d fallen hard. Harder than I could admit without choking on it. And it had wrecked me when she left. I hadn’t been the same since. Still wasn’t.

But something in me had shifted when she looked at me with those wide, glassy eyes and meant it. When she’d admitted that she was scared. When she’d said she needed me. Not wanted—needed. She didn’t beg. She didn’t manipulate. She just… stood there, raw and vulnerable and terrified of how much she cared.

I had to believe this time would be different.

Because if I didn’t, the hurt—the anger, the grief—it would rot me from the inside out. And I didn’t have the energy for that. Not anymore.

If Cass wanted to fuck up her second chance, that was on her. But I was going to give her the opportunity.

I finally settled on a navy blue slip dress—simple, ankle-length, not overly tight but still shaped to my curves. The neckline was just low enough to tease without begging for attention. It was the kind of dress I rarely wore, tucked in the back of my closet for when I needed to feel something again.

Apparently it was the right choice, because the room went dead silent the moment I turned around.

“Damn, girl,” Sunwoo said, voice low with surprise.

Jamie let out a slow whistle. “You’re not playing around.”

I rolled my eyes and ran a hand through my hair—washed, moisturized, and left in its natural loose waves because I couldn’t bear to do more. Even that much had felt exhausting. I hadn’t dressed up for myself in weeks, hadn’t felt like someone worth presenting to the world. But tonight wasn’t about the world.

It was about me. And her.

I bent to grab my heels, but before I could even shoo Ryo from his perch at my vanity, he silently reached for them and knelt to help me put them on. The quiet care of it made something squeeze in my chest. Even after all this time, I was still getting used to how my friends showed up—not loudly, not dramatically, but in all the small, unspoken ways that mattered most.

Just as the last buckle was secured, the doorbell rang. The entire room froze.

Tala was the first on her feet, practically sprinting to the door like she’d been waiting for this moment. I followed her with my heart in my throat, the others trailing close behind.

And there she was.

Cass stood in the doorway, hands tucked in her pockets, posture casual but eyes locked on mine. She didn’t even glance at the others at first—like I was the only one she saw.

Her suit was a tailored charcoal grey, the vest snug against her frame, the white shirt beneath crisp and freshly pressed. Her tie was perfectly straight. Her heels clicked faintly as she shifted her weight, catching the dim hallway light. She looked devastatingly good. And she knew it.

My stomach twisted.

But then she broke the spell—her gaze flicking past me to assess the battalion of protective friends at my back.

Tala stepped forward, arms folded, eyes narrowing in that way that meant don’t test me. “Where you goin’, all dressed up?”

“I had a meeting this morning,” Cass replied, voice calm, leaning just slightly against the doorframe.

“What kind of meeting?”

“Client. Rich, egotistical. Had to dress the part.”

They stared each other down—Tala, all fire and fury and loyalty, and Cass, composed but cautious. The silence stretched thin, ready to snap. Then Jamie stepped in and gently pulled Tala back by the shoulders.

“Alright,” he said, voice low, attempting diplomacy. “You two have fun. Call us later, yeah?”

I nodded once, grateful for the save, then turned to Cass.

She already had her hand outstretched. Waiting. Open.

For a split second, I hesitated. But then I remembered—she was trying. This wasn’t the cocky woman I first met. She was someone who had cracked herself open for me in the middle of a parking lot. And I owed it to myself to see where that might lead.

So I reached out and laced my fingers through hers, then stepped into the corridor with her.

My heart pounded so hard it ached. I felt sick—lightheaded from the nerves, from how tightly my body coiled at her proximity. Cass always made me feel that way. Not just nervous. Seen. Like she could strip everything away with a glance.

But I wasn’t going to run from that. Not tonight.

She was trying.

And for now… that was enough.

She’s worth the risk.

She’s worth all of it.

Chapter Text

The drive downtown was quiet—peaceful, almost—but not in a way that calmed my nerves. The soft hum of the radio filled the silence, some ambient indie track I couldn’t name, and outside the window, the world blurred into late-afternoon haze. I leaned into the door, letting the breeze thread through my hair, but my attention kept drifting back to her.

Cass had one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed on the gearshift, knuckles brushing the edge of my seat every now and then. She looked so at ease, almost disarmingly so—like she belonged in this moment. I wasn’t sure if it comforted me or made me want to bolt. She always had that effect on me. The closer we got to whatever she had planned, the more my heart thudded in my chest, traitorous and fast.

At a red light, she leaned her elbow against the center console, and I became painfully aware of how close she was. Close enough to smell her perfume—floral and cold, like roses dipped in metal. Like blood and beauty. Something that shouldn’t be soft but somehow still is.

Her fingers inched near my thigh, resting there innocently, but I was already burning. I could feel her watching me. When I glanced sideways, she had a barely-there smile tugging at her lips, but thankfully she said nothing. That restraint alone made me flustered.

We parked on the street a few minutes later. She stepped out first, rounded the car, and opened my door like it was instinct. I stared at her hand for a beat too long before placing mine in it.

“Thanks,” I said softly, letting her help me out.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she murmured, a faint smile in her voice.

We walked side by side, hand in hand, slipping into that comfortable rhythm we used to have—quiet, intimate, unsaid. She led us to a small corner shop nestled between two office buildings, its faded awning and window displays crammed with books I could already tell were well-loved.

The soft chime of the door gave way to the scent of old pages, roasted coffee, and something floral wafting from the little café near the front. Jazz spilled gently through hidden speakers, smooth and smoky. It was quiet but not empty—just the kind of place that made time feel like it slowed.

I let go of her hand and drifted toward the shelves like muscle memory, fingertips grazing cracked spines, my mind already swimming in imagined worlds. I didn’t know how long I spent there, flipping through pages, pretending to read, but I didn’t need to turn around to know she was still watching me.

When I finally did glance over, she was holding two paper cups in one hand and leaning against a support beam, eyes fixed on me like I was something out of fiction. I accepted the coffee she offered, grateful for something to hold between my shaking hands.

“Find anything interesting?” she asked, stepping up beside me.

“Mhm. A few actually,” I said, nodding toward a small stack I’d pulled onto the floor.

I reached for another one just above eye level, but it was too far back. Before I could grab a chair or climb the shelf like I usually did, Cass was already there, reaching easily over me. Her arm brushed mine as she passed me the book, and I barely managed to keep my breath even.

I glared at her half-heartedly over my shoulder. “I almost had it.”

“Almost,” she teased. “That’s why I’m here. To help you reach the top shelf.”

I turned and pressed the book to my chest, lifting a brow. “You’ve got, what, four inches on me? Maybe.”

“Exactly. Which is why you wore heels,” she said, entirely too smug. “So you can almost be eye-level.”

I opened my mouth to fire back but went still when she tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Her fingers were warm. Gentle. Familiar in a way I hadn’t let myself remember until now.

Her eyes dropped to my lips, then to the book I was still holding. She took it from me, read the cover—The Emigrants—then added it to the small stack I’d made.

I turned away quickly and busied myself with organizing the rest, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my neck. I didn’t do well with attention, especially not like this. Soft. Focused. Real. Most people didn’t even notice when I wore new clothes, much less bothered to remember what kinds of books I liked. I’d learned to be my own company, to protect what was mine and give little else away.

But she noticed. Every time.

I tried to narrow it down to two books—just enough to justify the splurge—but before I could pick, Cass reached out, grabbed all six, and headed to the counter.

“What are you—?”

“I’m paying for them,” she said like it was obvious.

“That’s at least fifty dollars’ worth of pages and ink. Cass, I can’t—”

“It’s fine,” she said, not slowing her stride.

I followed her, flustered, clutching both of our coffee cups. She swiped her card before I could stop her, totally unfazed by the amount. I snagged the receipt anyway and my eyes widened.

“Cass… that’s seventy dollars. On me.”

“Don’t.” She took the receipt, folded it, and slipped it into her purse. “I wouldn’t have asked you out if I wasn’t willing to spend a little.”

“A little?” I mumbled, still stunned. “That’s not a little.”

She shrugged, completely unbothered. “I’ll gladly spend more. Don’t even think about paying me back.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the look she gave me was firm. That subtle, steely kind of stubbornness that didn’t raise its voice, just waited for you to understand. So I gave up. Took the coffee to my lips and chugged what was left just to keep from speaking.

“Fine,” I muttered.

She smiled, satisfied, and held the door open for me like she hadn’t just shattered every boundary I’d carefully built over the last decade.

And maybe that was the part that scared me most—not the spending, not the attention, not even the heat I couldn’t shake every time she looked at me. It was the way I was starting to like it. Starting to want it. Starting to wonder what it might feel like to let someone else take care of me, even if just for a day.

We stepped out onto the sidewalk again, the city buzzing around us. She brushed her hand against mine, waiting for me to take it. I did, this time without hesitation.

We stopped to put the bags in her car, then kept walking, slow and aimless, as if neither of us wanted the day to end. Around us, the city thrummed with its usual chaos—people weaving between crosswalks, buses rumbling down cracked roads, the scent of grilled meat and sweet bread drifting from food stalls. But none of it really registered. Not when she kept stealing glances. Not when the space between us felt charged, magnetic.

We ended up in a small park a few blocks over, tucked between old apartment buildings and a closed-down theater. There was a fountain in the center, bubbling over with mossy water, and trees that rustled softly above us. Birds chirped. Children shrieked and laughed in the distance.

And for a while, we just talked.

Not about the case. Not about her work. Just… life. Her life, my life. Before all the grief and betrayal. Before duty and consequence stole every ounce of softness from us.

She told me about growing up in Seattle—how she used to sneak out during summer storms just to dance in the rain, how she and her best friend would ride the ferry pretending they were spies, how her freckles made her a target in middle school until her mom taught her how to love the things that made her different.

I hadn’t even realized she had freckles. Every time I’d seen her before, it was dark, or she wore makeup. But now, in the warm light and quiet, I saw them. Dusting her nose and cheeks. Subtle. Pretty.

She told me she once studied fashion design here in LA, just for a semester, before she dropped out and took the job she has now. But sometimes she still pulls out her old sketchbook. She even made the suit she was wearing. I should’ve known—it fit too perfectly to be off-the-rack.

I told her about my parents, about growing up in Istanbul. About how furious they were when I moved here alone at eighteen, and how my brother was the only one who encouraged me to go anyway. I told her about Tala, Zyanya, Ling Ying—my girls. My family. I told her how we almost got arrested at a frat party when Zyanya threatened a guy who hit on Ling, and again when I punched some creep in the throat for making a comment about Tala.

“Seems like the brilliant detective’s got a bit of a violent streak,” she teased, pausing beside a tall oak and leaning against the trunk.

“What can I say,” I shrugged, “I protect the people I care about.”

Her smile flickered—genuine, reverent. Something about the way she looked at me made it hard to breathe.

She reached for my hands, fingers warm against mine, and tugged me closer. Not rough, not urgent. Just… steady. Intentional. She looked at me like I was the only person in the world.

And maybe, in that moment, I was.

I knew I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I should’ve still been angry. Should’ve been cautious. Distant. But something had shifted between us. That current, that gravity—it hadn’t faded. If anything, it’d grown stronger. More demanding. More impossible to ignore.

Her hands squeezed mine.

“I know I’ve already said it,” she murmured, “but I’m sorry. For everything.” She lifted my fingers to her lips, brushing slow, delicate kisses across my knuckles. I inhaled sharply—it was quiet, but she heard it. I knew she did.

“A thousand apologies can’t make up for how much time I wasted. Or how much I hurt you. But… maybe this is a decent start.”

My chest tightened. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t tell her what that meant to me. So I didn’t try. I just reached up and cradled her face, thumb brushing over one cheekbone, and leaned in.

This time, the kiss wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t hesitant. It was slow and deep and deliberate. It said everything I couldn’t—how much I’d missed her, how much I wanted her. How badly I still wanted more.

She kissed me back just as slowly, lips soft, fingers slipping around my waist, tugging me into her. I could feel the strength in her arms, the tension in her grip, the low hum that vibrated in her throat. Like she’d been holding her breath for weeks.

Maybe she had.

Maybe I had too.

When we finally pulled apart, her forehead rested against mine. I didn’t want to let go. She didn’t either. Her touch was firmer now, her fingers splayed across the curve of my spine, the warmth of her body bleeding through my dress. I swear I could feel her heartbeat. Or maybe it was mine. It didn’t matter.

All I could think about was her. The press of her lips. The curve of her mouth. The look in her eyes, like she saw every piece of me and wanted all of it.

Even the parts I never showed anyone.

Even the parts I didn’t show myself.

I wanted to kiss her again. Needed to. But before I could lean in, something wet hit my arm. Then my temple. Then my hand.

We both looked up. The sky was rolling with clouds, thick and grey.

“Come on,” Cass said, voice rough and low, like the aftermath of a confession. It shouldn’t have been sexy, but God, it was.

She kissed my forehead—soft, lingering—then pulled me by the hand. We jogged through the grass, laughing as the sky opened above us. Rain splashed against the pavement. The wind howled down the alleyways. We reached her car just in time, shivering, breathless.

Inside, we looked at each other. Just looked. For a long moment neither of us spoke. Then we laughed again, a little giddy, a little drunk on the way it all felt like a dream.

When the quiet came back, I glanced at her. And every part of me ached to kiss her again.

Instead, I leaned in, reached across the console, and took her seatbelt in hand. I pulled it slowly, dragging it across her chest, then buckled it gently.

“We should head back before the storm gets too bad,” I whispered, not bothering to hide the glint in my eye.

She swallowed hard, cheeks tinged red. “Yeah. We should.”

But her hands stayed clenched on the wheel for a few seconds too long. And she didn’t look away from me right away either.

Neither of us said what we were thinking.

But we both knew.

We wanted more. So much more.

And this time, we weren’t pretending otherwise.

Chapter Text

By the time we got back to Hazal’s apartment, the air between us had settled into something quieter—but not calmer. The tension was still there, curled up in the silence like smoke. Every glance she shot me at a red light, every brush of her fingertips as I leaned against the console or reached for the gearshift, added fuel to the slow burn already unraveling inside me.

She didn’t reach for my hand when we walked inside. Just turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped into the dark. I followed without a word, the door clicking softly shut behind me—and then she grabbed me.

No hesitation.

Fingers curled in the knot of my tie, she yanked me down into a kiss that hit like a goddamn lightning strike.

Her other hand braced above my shoulder, caging me in against the door with a confidence that knocked the breath from my chest. She kissed like she knew exactly what she was doing—like she knew what I wanted before I did. And maybe she did. I wasn’t sure who had their eyes on who first this evening, but there was no question who had the upper hand now.

My hands moved before I could think—one finding the dip of her waist, the other cradling her jaw as I kissed her back, deeply, fully. Every press of her lips sent a rush through me that settled low and deep in my stomach. I sighed into it when she tilted her head and dragged her mouth against mine a little slower, a little more deliberate.

This wasn’t like earlier. This wasn’t sweet or tentative or romantic.

This was her choosing me. Tasting the moment. Letting herself want.

When we pulled apart, her lipstick was slightly smeared, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering with something unreadable. She kicked off her heels like they were an afterthought, shrugged off my blazer, then caught my hand and tugged me toward the couch with purpose. My pulse quickened.

I sat down as she guided me, legs spreading slightly.

She stepped between them, and I had no choice but to look up at her. She tilted my chin with her fingers, holding me there, searching my face like she was still deciding how much she wanted to give me.

If this was a game, she had every card in the deck.

And I—I was already on my knees in more ways than one.

God, she was beautiful. Strong jaw, storm-dark eyes, the faintest smirk still curling at the corner of her mouth. The top of her dress had shifted just enough to show a little more skin, the thin strap slipping off her shoulder. I ached to see more. To touch more.

But I wasn’t about to push. I knew better than to cross that line with someone like her. Someone whose boundaries were steel-reinforced. Someone who gave herself in pieces, not all at once.

Still, I couldn’t help myself. I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the flat of her stomach, lips grazing the smooth satin. A reverent, almost desperate gesture—one that made her inhale, just a little. Not much. But enough that I noticed. She wasn’t immune. Not even close.

Her hips shifted under my hands, and I swore she pressed in closer than before. My thumbs traced slow arcs across the sides of her dress, and I whispered her name—“Hazal…”—because I needed something. I wasn’t sure what. Permission? Patience? Salvation?

She didn’t answer.

She just smirked.

And climbed into my lap like she’d been planning it all along.

Her dress rode up, bunching around her thighs as she settled on top of me. My breath hitched at the warmth of her, the weight, the confidence in the way she moved—her hand skimming down my neck, nails just scratching my skin before she hooked a finger in my tie again.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

Her mouth was so close. Her voice rough velvet, thick with control.

I swallowed and licked my lips. Goddamn her. “Hazal,” I said, softer now. “Please.”

Her smile deepened. She liked that. Too much.

She closed the final inch between us and kissed me again, hard enough to bruise. My grip on her hips tightened. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. She moved slowly, deliberately, rolling her hips once—then again. My body rocked in response. A sound broke in my throat before I could choke it back, and she caught it, devoured it, smiled against it.

It was maddening. The teasing. The heat. The weight of her hands as they traveled up my body, over my shirt and tie and chest, never under. Never quite touching bare skin. Like she was learning me by feel alone.

My hands itched to do the same.

But this was her game, and I was losing spectacularly.

She moved her mouth down my jaw, then to my neck, lips slow and hot. Her breath fanned over my pulse. Her teeth grazed, but didn’t bite. Not yet. She knew what she was doing—testing reactions, tracking every shift in my breath, every tremble of muscle. Every weakness.

It wasn’t just arousal anymore. Not for me.

It was something deeper. Stupid, maybe. Dangerous, definitely.

I wanted more than her mouth on me.

I wanted her trust. Her time. Her—

My phone rang.

Loud. Sharp. Violent in the silence.

Her lips paused against my throat.

And just like that, the spell cracked.

“You’re fucking kidding…” I muttered, dragging my phone from the pocket of my slacks. The screen was still lit up when I answered, not even pretending to hide how out of breath I was. “Mercer.”

“Need you at the penthouse,” Zhao said, crisp as ever. “We have a problem.”

I bit back a curse. “Can it wait?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Of course not.

I tipped my head back with a groan, eyes squeezed shut for a second longer than they needed to be. I wanted to scream. Or throw my phone across the room. Or rip the goddamn signal towers out of the ground myself.

But I didn’t. Because Hazal was still in my lap.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She didn’t scold me or try to guilt-trip me into staying. She just stayed right where she was—one leg folded neatly on either side of my thighs, her body warm and grounded against mine. Calm. Unbothered. Like she’d already expected the moment would come.

She smoothed my tie. Adjusted the rumpled collar of my shirt with quiet focus. Her thumb traced the lipstick smudge on my neck. She wasn’t fussing, really—just... keeping her hands busy. Like she needed something to do while I made my excuses. Like she was giving me time, even if I didn’t deserve it.

I sighed out through my nose and hung up the call. Then I gently hooked my finger beneath her chin, coaxing her to meet my eyes again.

“I understand,” she said softly before I could even speak. Her voice held no edge, no judgment—just a calm, matter-of-fact acceptance that somehow made it worse.

God, that hurt more than any accusation ever could. Like she was already making peace with the pattern I’d drag her into. And maybe she was. Maybe this was the cost of being with someone like me—someone who couldn’t promise her stability, couldn’t give her peace. Not even for a night.

Something inside me twisted. She should’ve been angry. She should’ve demanded to know who was calling or why I always had to go. She should’ve pushed back—but instead, she made it easier. And I hated how much I wanted that kind of grace from her, how selfish it made me.

Because when she finally learns why I keep leaving—when she learns what kind of blood is actually on my hands—she won’t be looking at me like this anymore.

“I’ll text you tonight,” I told her, forcing myself to stay steady under her gaze. “I promise. But if you need me before that—for anything—just call.”

She shook her head with a quiet breath of a laugh, trying to wave it off like it was nothing. “I’ll probably be at Tala’s,” she murmured. “I’ll be fine.”

But I leaned in a little, not letting her dodge the point. “Hazal, I mean it. Call me. Doesn’t matter where I am.”

Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe. Disbelief. As if no one had ever said that to her and meant it. But after a beat, she gave me a small, reluctant nod and slowly slid off my lap, the lack of her warmth leaving me colder than I expected. She settled beside me on the couch, her fingers brushing my thigh once before letting go.

I bent down to kiss her—just a gentle press to her lips, then a slower one to her forehead. Like I could make up for everything in a few seconds. I couldn’t. But it felt like a way to say I’m sorry without making her hear it again.

Then I stood.

My purse felt heavy as I slung it over my shoulder. My steps echoed a little too sharply across the floor. I took one last glance back at her, still sitting on the couch in that rumpled dress, legs curled up beneath her, watching me with those dark eyes full of all the things she wasn’t saying.

Every step toward the door made my chest ache.

I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay in that goddamn apartment—curl up on that couch with her pressed against me, kissing slow and stupid and aimless until we passed out. I wanted a night off from pretending, from plotting, from bleeding. I wanted a morning without orders or guilt or the weight of the mask I wore like a second skin.

I just wanted her.

Hazal. The one person who looked at me and didn’t flinch.

But that wasn’t my life.

So I walked out the door and didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

I don’t know how long I sat there, staring at the door after she left. My body still hummed—from the kiss, from her hands, from her. From her voice rasping my name like a prayer and a warning. My whole body ached, not just between my thighs, but in my chest too. And now I was left alone, with nothing but the echo of her and an ache I didn’t know how to soothe.

Not that I would’ve done anything tonight. Even if she hadn’t ghosted me. Even if I didn’t still have a thousand questions and a dozen warning bells going off in my head.

But I wanted her. God, I wanted her. I wanted to taste her again. To take her apart piece by piece and feel what it was like to be unraveled right alongside her. That month she disappeared felt like withdrawal—and now that I’ve had her again, I just wanted more.

I flopped onto the couch, one arm flung over my eyes, the other hanging off the cushion. I didn’t even know what I was doing anymore. Cassandra Mercer was fucking ruining me.

Not even nicotine cravings hit me like this. It’s like every time she leaves, someone lights my whole pack on fire and dares me to quit cold turkey.

Eventually I peeled myself off the couch and shuffled to the bathroom. I stripped down slowly, each piece of clothing another layer of tension peeled off my skin. The steam fogged the mirror as I stepped into the shower, but it couldn’t cloud the thoughts running laps in my head.

I scrubbed hard, hoping the sting of hot water would shake me loose. But it didn’t. All I could think about was her. Her hands on my hips. The rasp of her voice when she said please. The weight of her beneath me, the sound she made when I kissed her throat.

Worse, I found myself wanting her here. Pinning me against the tile. Kissing me so hard I forgot my own name. I wasn’t even thinking about sex in the conventional sense—it was about closeness. It was about letting her see all of me, touch all the places no one else had ever been invited to. Letting her learn me.

And maybe—maybe—I’d learn her too.

Get a grip, Hazal.

The water turned cold before I got out. I dried off and padded to the bedroom, throwing on a worn pair of sweats and an old LAPD hoodie. Then I collapsed into bed and reached for my cigarettes.

As I lit one, her voice floated back to me—low, serious, sincere.

Call if you need me. I mean it.

I did need her. Not just in the way my body was screaming for, but in the quieter, scarier way. The way that makes you reach for someone in the dark just to feel less alone.

But she couldn’t have meant it. She was still at work, charming clients or running deals. I’d sound needy. Desperate. Pathetic.

I could go to Tala’s. Or crash with the boys or Ling Ying. But I didn’t want to be asked how the date went, or why I looked like I was somewhere between fucked-out and heartbroken.

And I didn’t want to think about the case. Not yet.

I stubbed out the cigarette halfway, rolled onto my side, and closed my eyes. Tried to convince myself that sleep was the thing I needed.

But an hour passed. Then another. And I was still staring at the ceiling.

Fuck it.

I reached for my phone and pulled up her contact. Just hovered there. Staring. Thumb twitching over the call button.

She’s busy. Don’t be ridiculous—

I hit the button anyway.

She answered on the third ring.

“Hey.” Her voice was rough around the edges—low, tired. Annoyed? Maybe. God, I probably interrupted something.

“Hey,” I said carefully, trying to sound normal. “Are you busy?”

“For you? No. Never.”

That shouldn’t have hit me the way it did. But it did. A quiet ache bloomed in my chest. For me?

Did she really mean that? Or was that just the kind of thing a woman like her said when she was trying to ease the landing?

Before I could spiral any further, she spoke again.

“Hazal?”

“Yeah. Sorry… I couldn’t sleep and I… I don’t know, actually. Never mind.”

There was silence on the other end. Then the scrape of a chair. Keys jingling. Voices muffled in the background.

Someone called her name—asked where she was going.

She didn’t answer them. She answered me.

“I’ll be there in ten, okay?” Her voice was softer now, warm enough to make my pulse jump.

“Cass, you’re working. It’s fine—”

“I wouldn’t have told you to call if I wasn’t going to show up.”

I went quiet. I didn’t know what to say to that. No one had ever said that to me and meant it.

She filled the silence before I could ruin it.

“I’ll take your silence as agreement,” she said, with just the hint of a smirk.

And then I heard the growl of her engine, low and steady.

The line went dead.

And I just stared at my phone, blinking, wondering if this was what it felt like to be wanted. Not in the way that burns out after a kiss. But in the way that says I’m showing up. I’m not running.

Even for the little things.
Even for me.

I let the phone drop beside me and scrubbed my hands down my face, silently berating myself for calling in the first place.

What were you expecting, Hazal? That she wouldn’t come? That she’d make excuses?

Was this really about checking if she meant it—or were you just scared she actually does?

I got up with a sigh, bare feet dragging as I crossed to the kitchen. The beer I pulled from the fridge was cold in my hand, sharp against the skin of my palm. I popped the tab and took a long drink, trying to convince myself this was fine. I was fine. That I hadn’t just exposed some hidden, aching part of myself on a whim.

But before I could descend fully into that spiral, the doorbell rang.

I blinked at the clock.

Ten minutes had passed. Exactly.

My chest tightened.

I opened the door to find her leaned casually against the opposite wall—no longer in the sharp suit she’d worn earlier, but in that same matte leather outfit from the night she kissed me a month ago. It clung to her like it had been made just for her, sculpted over every curve and line of muscle. A helmet was tucked under one arm, and a small backpack slung over her shoulder.

I didn’t realize I was staring until I caught the crooked smirk on her lips and the knowing lift of her brow.

She didn’t say anything. Just pushed off the wall and stepped inside. I closed the door behind her like I was in a daze.

“I didn’t know you had a bike,” I said at last, voice thinner than I’d meant it to be.

“Mhm. Had it for about six years now.”

She set her helmet and bag on the couch, then walked over, brushing a silver strand of hair from my face. Her gaze searched mine.

“You okay?”

I swallowed. Even hours later, the warmth coiled low in my belly hadn’t faded, like her touch had left something smoldering in its wake.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Just tried to go to bed early and couldn’t fall asleep.”

She hummed in understanding, took the beer gently from my hands and sipped, then returned it with a soft smile.

“Sounds like you missed me.”

I did. More than I wanted to admit.

But I rolled my eyes anyway, deflecting out of habit.

Cass didn’t buy it.

“It’s okay, Hazal,” she said, her voice dropping into that velvet register again. Her hands found my waist and tugged me a fraction closer. “I missed you too.”

I wanted to believe it. Every rational bone in my body screamed not to—warned me that something about this woman didn’t quite add up—but in that moment, I didn’t care. Because something deeper than reason told me she meant it. That she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.

So I cupped her jaw and kissed her—slow, tentative, like I was trying to memorize the shape of something I still didn’t understand. She pulled me in with a quiet exhale against my mouth, like she’d been waiting for me to make the first move.

I pulled back to finish the beer, tossed the bottle into the recycling, then turned back to her. My fingers hovered at the zipper of her jacket, half-curious, half-daring.

She caught my hand, eyes glinting with amusement.

“While I’d love for you to do the honors,” she said, “there’s nothing under here but a bra.”

“Oh.” The word slipped out, feather-light. My face flushed immediately.

Of course there’s nothing under there. The damn thing fits like a second skin.

I took a step back, running a hand through my hair, utterly mortified.

But Cass didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. She just leaned forward and kissed the top of my head, reassuring and warm, before grabbing her backpack off the couch.

“I’m going to change,” she said gently, “then we’ll figure out how to get you some sleep, okay?”

Sleep? As if that was remotely possible. This whole encounter was already burned into my brain like some fever dream I wouldn’t recover from for weeks.

But I nodded, silently watching her disappear down the hallway.

A few minutes later, she returned—sweats low on her hips, a loose t-shirt hanging soft against her frame. I couldn’t even tell where she got the clothes from. They didn’t look like hers, but somehow, she still made them look unfairly good.

God, I’ve got it so bad.

Without a word, I led her into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and gently pulled me between her knees. Her hands settled on my hips, thumbs slipping under my hoodie, tracing slow arcs into my bare skin. Each pass of her fingers sent tiny shivers crawling up my spine. And she knew. I could tell by the subtle curve of her lips.

When I looked down at her, everything in me stilled. Her silver eyes caught mine, shimmering like moonlight and storm clouds, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

She was beautiful like this. Quiet. Steady. Not pushing, not rushing—just here. Real. Present. Like she’d show up every time, no matter how late or inconvenient, just because I needed her.

It terrified me.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “Lay down. Nothing has to happen. I can hold you, or just be here. It’s up to you. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Something cracked open in me.

She wasn’t trying to impress me. Wasn’t trying to make herself larger than life. She was just here. And I suddenly, painfully realized how badly I wanted her to stay. How safe she made me feel. How right it felt to be near her—even when it shouldn’t.

So I nodded, climbed under the covers, and let her slip in beside me. She didn’t touch me at first—just laid close, her warmth pulsing in the space between us.

But I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and held her cheek as I kissed her again. “Thank you,” I whispered.

She smiled against my mouth and wrapped her arms around me. “Any time,” she murmured, pulling me close.

And I knew—I knew—that this wasn’t casual for her either.

She hadn’t said it. I hadn’t said it. But we both felt it. That she was either going to be the one who shattered me… or the one I’d grow old with.

There would be no in between.

But for now, I pressed into her warmth, tucked my face into the crook of her neck, and let her hold me as sleep finally pulled me under.

And for the first time in a while—probably ever—I felt safe. Wanted.

Maybe even loved.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I stirred to the pale light streaming in through the half-closed curtains—soft and golden, like a secret the day was trying to keep. I blinked slowly, groggy and heavy-limbed, the kind of stillness that only follows deep, dreamless sleep.

I tried to shift onto my side, but there was a weight anchoring me in place. Soft, warm pressure across my stomach. Something brushing my shoulder. A thigh draped lazily over my legs.

It took a second for my brain to catch up.

And then I turned my head—expecting Zhao, maybe, or the edge of my own blanket—only to see her. Hazal. Her cheek pressed to my sternum, lips parted in sleep, one hand fisted loosely in the fabric of my shirt. Her hair was a dark halo against the sheets, tousled and wild, one curl sticking adorably to the corner of her mouth.

My chest clenched tight.

So it wasn’t a dream.

Yesterday actually happened. She forgave me. We kissed—God, we kissed—and it still wasn’t enough. Not nearly. We came dangerously close to losing control. But she didn’t shut down. She didn’t vanish. She looked me in the eye, listened when I told her to call me, and actually called.

And now we were here.

She looked peaceful. Breathing deep and steady. Her body tangled with mine like it was natural, like it had always been this way. Like she belonged here.

I let my head fall back against the pillow, exhaling slowly through my nose, overwhelmed by something thick and unspoken in my throat. Then I turned to her again—carefully this time—and brushed a strand of hair from her face. My fingers ghosted across her temple, lingered just a second longer than they needed to.

She didn’t stir. She just breathed, soft and slow, one eyelash fluttering against her cheek.

My hand found her hip. I couldn’t help it. The line of it fit perfectly in my palm, warm and alive, grounding me to this moment.

God, she’s beautiful like this. Not the sharp, formidable woman who walks like she’s got ghosts on her heels and a badge in her pocket. But the one underneath. The one few people ever get to see. Unarmored. Undemanding. Just Hazal.

And she let me see her.

My gaze flicked to the scar that cut across her cheek, all the way to the bridge of her nose, and I found myself wondering—just briefly—how she got it. I didn’t dare ask. Not yet. I didn’t want to ruin this moment by chasing the past.

Instead I let myself feel it. The weight of her against me. The trust it implied. The way my body relaxed around hers like it had been waiting for this for years.

She murmured something in Turkish then, barely audible as she stirred. Her brow furrowed, hands rising to rub at her eyes like a kid resisting wakefulness.

“Siktir et saat kaç…” she grumbled groggily.

I chuckled softly, voice still rough with sleep. “Good morning to you too.”

She stilled, then turned toward me, eyes squinting as she tried to focus. Her brows furrowed like she was trying to figure out if I was real.

“Cass…?” she rasped.

I nodded, a smile tugging at my lips. “Hey.”

I leaned down and kissed her forehead. Her face softened immediately, a smile ghosting over her lips.

“Hey,” she whispered back, and just like that, she looked wide awake. Her gaze flicked to my mouth, and I saw it—that glimmer of hunger. Not urgent. Not demanding. But undeniable.

And who the hell was I to deny her?

I shifted onto my side, propping myself up with one arm. My other hand rose slowly to her jaw, thumb grazing her cheek as our eyes met. Her breath caught—just a little—but she didn’t pull away.

So I leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first. Barely there. Just the press of lips against lips, lingering. But then she sighed into me, her hand sliding to the back of my neck, fingertips tracing slow lines into my skin. My body responded instinctively—pressing closer, chasing more.

I deepened the kiss, slow and molten, coaxing her lips open with a tenderness that bordered on reverence. Her nails scratched gently at the base of my skull and a shiver ran down my spine. It took everything I had not to climb on top of her, not to give in to the ache pulsing low in my stomach.

My hand slid down, found the curve of her thigh, and squeezed gently. She arched toward me, just enough for our bodies to align. And fuck, I felt it—the tension, the temptation, the quiet surrender humming between us.

We pulled apart eventually, both of us breathless, dazed. Her pupils were blown wide, her lips parted and kiss-bitten. I could barely think, let alone speak.

The blanket had slid down around our waists, forgotten, and her hoodie had ridden up far enough to expose the lean muscle of her stomach. The soft line of her abs, the slight curve of her waist—everything about her was unfair. Perfect without trying.

She didn’t move to cover up. Didn’t flinch. She just let me look.

And I did.

I looked at her like I might never get the chance again.

Like I already knew that whatever this was—whatever we were becoming—I was already too far gone to turn back.

She reached for my hand and slowly guided it up until my palm rested against the warm curve of her waist. Bare skin. Velvet-soft under my cool fingers. It made something inside me ache in a way I didn’t have words for. I paused, searching her face for any flicker of hesitation. But there was none—just those dark, steady eyes locked on mine, full of quiet trust. When she gave a faint nod, I leaned in and kissed her again.

This time it was deeper. Hungrier.

My fingers curled into her side as she pulled me in by the front of my shirt, drawing me flush against her. I shifted above her, careful but aching to be closer, my forearm bracing beside her head as her thighs framed me in. The kiss stretched, lingering and thick with everything we weren’t quite saying. There was heat in it now—more than the sleepy haze from earlier. Her hand anchored to my bicep, holding me in place, while the other slid up to cup my cheek with such tenderness it almost undid me.

I kissed her like I’d been starving for it.

And maybe I had. Maybe I still was.

My mouth moved along her jaw, slow and deliberate, then down to the soft skin just beneath her ear. Her breath caught—sharp, quiet—and I felt her fingers twitch against my arm. I smiled into her neck and kissed the spot again, slower this time. I wanted to mark her. Wanted to leave something behind that said she was mine, even if only for a few hours.

But I didn’t.

It took an almost inhuman amount of restraint to stop before I did something we couldn’t take back. She was a cop. A detective. And she’d have to walk into work tomorrow with her badge clipped to her belt and her collar up to her throat. She didn’t need bruises—no matter how much I wanted to leave them.

I lifted my head, still hovering over her, and let myself take her in. Her cheeks were flushed, lips kiss-bitten and swollen. Her eyes—half-lidded and smoldering—dragged across my face like she was memorizing every part of me. I couldn’t help the quiet smile that tugged at my mouth.

“You’re gonna ruin me, you know,” I murmured, brushing my knuckles down her side.

Her smirk was sleepy but wicked. “Good.”

For a second, we just stared at each other. Our chests rose and fell in sync. Her fingers were still curled around my arm like she hadn’t decided if she was done with me yet.

Then she shifted us, smooth and easy, until she was straddling my hips. My hands slid naturally to her thighs—holding, anchoring, worshipping. She didn’t move to kiss me again right away. Instead, she tugged her hoodie back into place with slow, practiced ease, and I realized she was pulling away. Getting up. My disappointment must’ve shown on my face, because she chuckled under her breath and ran a hand through her hair.

“You’re cute when you pout,” she teased, voice soft and teasing.

I tilted my head and smirked. “Oh, you think I’m cute?”

The faintest blush rose to her cheeks. She rolled her eyes, but the smile betrayed her. I caught her wrist gently and pulled her down for one more kiss—just a quick one, lips brushing, stealing the sound she made when I pressed into it just enough to make her breath hitch.

Music. That sound was music.

She pulled back slowly, dragging her gaze over my face like she was afraid she’d forget it if she didn’t look hard enough. Her hand raked back through her sleep-mussed hair.

“We should probably get up,” she said, voice still husky. “Before I don’t let you leave the bed.”

“Not that I’d complain.”

She muttered something under her breath as she climbed off me and padded barefoot toward the hallway. I sat up on my elbows, watching the curve of her back disappear around the corner.

“Beni mahvedeceksin,” she’d said. Her voice had been half a sigh, like the words were more for herself than for me.

I raised a brow, smirking after her. “You know I don’t speak Turkish, right?”

“I’m well aware,” she called over her shoulder, just sweet enough to make me want her all over again.

I flopped back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. My chest was still tight. My blood still warm. She’d ruined me already, whether she realized it or not.

And I didn’t want to be fixed.

Eventually I found the willpower to get out of bed and follow her.

By the time I made it to the kitchen, the front of the apartment was bathed in early morning light and filled with the warm, savory scent of spices. Hazal stood at the stove—hair tied up, sleeves pushed to her elbows, humming something soft and half-familiar while she warmed up two foil-wrapped burritos over the skillet.

I stopped in the doorway, leaning against the edge of the island with my arms folded across my chest. And for a second, I just watched.

She looked so at home. So at ease in her space. The faint curl of her lips as she hummed, the subtle sway of her hips as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. It wasn’t something she was doing for me, either. She just moved like that. Comfortable. Fluid. Like this had always been this way.

You read about shit like this in books. See it in movies. Some war-weary killer sees their crush making eggs and suddenly starts dreaming of domesticity. I used to think it was a load of crap. But now, standing in her kitchen with the scent of cumin and chili powder in the air and her back turned to me like this was normal—I get it.

I get it, and I want it. Which is the most dangerous part.

Because I don’t get to want things like this. Not with my past. Not with my future. Not with the blood I’ve spilled and the people who might be coming for me next.

But just for today… I let myself pretend. I let myself want. I let myself be.

I didn’t even realize I’d zoned out until something cool pressed against the back of my hand. I blinked and looked down. Hazal was handing me a plate.

“Thanks,” I murmured, wrapping my fingers around the ceramic edge and taking the burrito from the foil.

She laughed lightly under her breath, that low, early morning kind of laugh. “I’m not gonna hold you hostage all night and just let you starve.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She arched a brow as we moved to the couch. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

I didn’t answer—just smirked around my bite.

We settled onto the couch, side by side, plates balanced on our knees. She passed me the remote, and I put on some ridiculous, low-effort American sitcom. Something with too much laugh track and zero emotional stakes. We ate in comfortable silence, the kind that feels earned instead of awkward. Every so often she’d nudge me when something stupid happened onscreen or sneak a glance when she thought I wouldn’t notice. I was doing the same thing.

At one point, just as I was lifting the burrito to my mouth, she leaned in and brushed a crumb off my bottom lip. Her thumb lingered a little too long—like she wanted to feel my mouth under it—and then she pulled back without a word. Like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

Meanwhile I was sitting there trying to pretend my ears weren’t on fire.

When we finished eating, I took the plates and headed back to the kitchen. Washed them slowly, partly out of habit, partly just to give my racing pulse a second to calm down. Hazal followed after me and started a fresh pot of coffee like we’d done this a hundred times. Like this was just… us.

When the mugs were ready, we returned to the couch—each cradling our coffee like some shared ritual. We didn’t talk. Didn’t need to. She curled up beside me, head resting against my shoulder, and for once the world outside didn’t feel like it was waiting to burn us both alive.

Eventually, we melted into one another again. I turned to stretch out across the cushions, one arm tucked behind my head, the other sliding naturally around her waist. She climbed on top without hesitation, settling against my chest like she belonged there. Her hand slipped just beneath my shirt, warm fingers resting against my ribcage. The contact made me shiver, but she seemed completely at peace.

Almost like the feel of my skin under her hand grounded her, even though it sent my thoughts spinning.

I kept my touch featherlight, fingertips brushing the curve of her spine. Trying to keep it casual. Safe. But she gave my side a soft squeeze and let out a quiet laugh.

God, that laugh. I could drown in it.

“What is it?” I asked, pretending not to smile.

She lifted her head just enough to look at me, eyes warm, smile curling. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not.”

“Please,” she said, resting her chin on my sternum. “You’re a terrible liar, canım.”

Oh, Hazal… if only you knew just how much I’ve lied.

But I didn’t say it. I just rolled my eyes and played along. “You’d be nervous too if a pretty girl was laying on your chest.”

“Maybe,” she murmured, her voice suddenly lower, a little silkier. Then she shifted up until she was hovering above me again, knees bracketing my hips.

“But right now,” she said, eyes flicking from my mouth to my eyes, “there’s a pretty girl under me… and getting her all flustered might be my new favorite thing.”

That mischievous glint in her eye made my stomach flip. My mouth went dry.

And the worst part?

I didn’t even try to deny it.

But just as her lips met mine, the sound of heavy footsteps and the jangle of keys at the door made us both freeze. She sat up slowly, still straddling me, and leaned forward without a word. From the cubby in the coffee table, she eased out a small blade—one I hadn’t noticed until now. My brows shot up.

Under any other circumstance, I might’ve found that hot. Okay, I definitely found it hot. But at the moment, all I could think about was how fast my heart was slamming against my ribs.

The door swung open.

And in walked two of her friends—Sunwoo and Jamie—like they owned the place. They stopped short when they saw us, took one long look at our positions, and then turned to each other with twin shit-eating grins.

Hazal exhaled hard through her nose and shook her head, slipping the blade back into its hiding place with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times before. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Jamie said, voice smug with victory.

Sunwoo, completely unfazed, strolled into the kitchen and grabbed a mug from the cabinet like this was her place. “We wanted to know how your date went. Since, you know, you didn’t call like you promised.”

She poured herself some coffee, walked over, and dropped into the armchair beside the couch with the comfort of someone who’d been there countless times. “But judging from the vibes… I’d say it went great.”

Hazal rolled her eyes and leaned back against the cushions like this was all just another Tuesday. But me?

I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

I’m not used to being this close to someone, not in ways that matter. I don’t do affection. I don’t do soft mornings or sleepy cuddles or domestic routines that involve TV remotes and forehead kisses. And I definitely don’t do it in front of other people.

The three of them were chatting now, teasing and joking and throwing around accusations about who forgot to text whom, but it all turned into white noise. My pulse thundered in my ears. My palms felt clammy. I kept scrubbing my hands over my face, trying to think of a reason to step out—to catch my breath, to reassemble my walls, to remember who the hell I was.

Then I felt it.

A warm hand cupping my cheek.

I leaned into it instinctively, like a plant chasing sunlight, and blinked up at Hazal. She was watching me with that small, steady smile of hers—the kind that made my chest ache.

She turned back to her friends like she hadn’t just completely disarmed me with a single touch.

“If I promise to call you later, will you please leave us alone?”

Sunwoo took a long, deliberate sip of her coffee. “Nah, girl. You gotta come over. Tala’s gonna wanna hear about this in detail.”

Jamie nodded. “Ry, too.”

Hazal groaned, rubbed her temple, then stood and yanked the mug out of her friend’s hand. “Fine,” she muttered, setting it down with a soft clink. “But if you two don’t leave in the next ten seconds, I’m cuffing you both and throwing you in holding.”

“For what?” Jamie grinned.

“For annoying me.”

With that, she herded them toward the door like an irritated cat mom. They left with no urgency, throwing over-the-shoulder winks and whispered commentary like middle schoolers. Hazal locked the door behind them with a sharp click, exhaled, and returned to me.

She straddled my hips again like it was her rightful place—like she belonged there. And maybe she did. My hands found her thighs on instinct, thumbs brushing lightly over the cotton of her sweats.

“Sorry about them,” she said, fiddling with the edge of her hoodie.

I shook my head, still trying to shake off the shock. “It’s fine. They just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She rolled her eyes again, but the edge had dulled. It was fond, not irritated. She was used to this. Used to them.

We just looked at each other for a moment, the quiet stretching between us like a silk thread. I sat up a little more, one arm curling around her waist. She grabbed the front of my collar and pulled me in.

The kiss she gave me was slow—unrushed and unguarded, deep in a way that told me she didn’t want to think about anything else. I made a small sound in the back of my throat and felt her fingers tighten in my shirt. There was a flicker of heat under it all, but also something else—hesitation.

She wanted more. I could feel it in the way her body shifted, in the way her mouth lingered against mine. But she was holding back. Not out of fear, but consideration. Like she was trying to decide how much of herself she could give me without unraveling. Testing the line.

I pulled away, just enough to search her face. “I meant what I said, Hazal,” I murmured, voice rough with everything I wasn’t saying. “Nothing has to happen. Not unless you want it to.”

There was that look again—grateful, but uncertain. Like I was speaking a language she didn’t quite know how to translate. And still, she leaned in. Pressed a kiss to my cheek, soft and lingering, then rested her forehead against my shoulder.

I held her tighter. One hand found the small of her back, slipping just beneath the hem of her hoodie. I didn’t press. Just let my thumb brush over warm skin.

And I realized—I didn’t just want her. I wanted this. All of it.

The sleepy mornings. The smell of cheap coffee and toasted burritos. Her chaotic, nosy friends. Long walks at dusk. Laughing at stupid sitcoms. Her hand in mine in public. Her body curled against me in private.

Hazal wasn’t just a distraction or a high. She was something steady. Something I didn’t even know I was starving for until now.

So I just held her. Let my eyes fall shut. Turned my head and kissed her temple.

The sitcom played on, muffled and forgotten. It felt like the whole world had faded into soft light and quiet warmth. Just the two of us, breathing in sync.

Then I murmured, barely above a whisper, “Wanna go for a walk?”

She shifted, smiled, and eased out of my arms. “Yeah. Let’s go.”