It was supposed to be quick. Just a moment between the two of you.

Stillman’s office door was closed—not locked—but closed, the blinds angled just enough to make the room look occupied without revealing anything. You’d stopped by to drop off a file he needed signed, intending to slip back out before anyone noticed.

But the case had been heavy, the day had been long, and the way his shoulders eased when he saw you made it far too easy to linger.

He thanked you, voice low, then stepped closer—one hand brushing your waist, the other lifting to your cheek. You didn’t even think about it. You leaned in. So did he.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy. Just soft, familiar, the kind of kiss two people share when they’ve spent months pretending they aren’t the best part of each other’s day. His hand stayed steady at your back, thumb stroking lightly in that way that always made your breath hitch. You kissed him again—slower this time.

Which was, unfortunately, the exact moment the door opened.

“Oh—” A sharp inhale. Panic. And then Scotty.

Scotty Valens, frozen halfway through the doorway, eyes widening just enough to register exactly what he’d walked in on. He wasn’t loud about it. He didn’t make a face or crack a joke. He just stood there, stunned into silence.

Stillman pulled back first.

Not jerking away—not guilty. Just composed, spine straightening in that quiet “I’m still your lieutenant” way. His hand slipped from your waist as naturally as someone putting away a piece of evidence.

“Detective,” Stillman said calmly, as though Scotty hadn’t just caught him with his mouth on yours. “You needed something?”

Scotty blinked, struggling through the mental gymnastics of speaking to his boss after seeing… that.

“Uh. Yeah. Lieu—the, uh, the Murray file. Lilly needs it.” He kept his eyes anywhere but on you.

Stillman nodded, completely unfazed. “It’s on my desk. Take it.”

Scotty stepped inside, moving like someone defusing a bomb, snatched the file, and backed toward the door so fast he nearly hit himself with it. “Right. Okay. Didn’t see anything. You two—uh—have fun—nope. Sorry. Leaving.”

He practically vanished down the hallway.

The door shut again.

Silence.

A long beat. Then Stillman exhaled through his nose once—just once—in a quiet, resigned, faintly amused way.

“Well,” he murmured, “that could’ve gone worse.”

You laughed under your breath. “You think?”

He reached for you again, slower this time, his hand returning to your waist like it hadn’t left. “We’ll talk to him later,” he said. “Or let him pretend he imagined it. Either works.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And until then?”

Stillman brushed a thumb along your hip—subtle, private, the kind of touch only meant for closed blinds. “Until then,” he said, voice low and steady, “we pick up where we left off.”

And he kissed you again—this time listening carefully for footsteps outside.