It was late, and the street outside was quiet, bathed in the orange glow of flickering streetlights. You had just settled into the couch when there was a knock on the door. It was subtle but unmistakable.

You opened the door to find Rio Vidal leaning against the frame, holding a pizza box and wearing a smile that could melt stone.

“Thought you might want some company,” she said, holding up a pizza box like a peace offering. Her FBI badge clipped on her belt gleamed faintly, reminding me this wasn’t some casual visit.

“We’re not supposed to discuss the case outside of work,” You muttered, stepping aside to let her in. You weren't sure what tonight was about, but you knew it wasn’t about the case. The woman found dead two days ago was a mystery—no signs of trauma, no clear cause—but you had a feeling Rio wasn’t here to talk autopsy reports.

“Who said I came to discuss the case?” Rio teased, her voice laced with that familiar flirtatious tone she reserved for these late-night visits. She sauntered in, her dark hair catching the dim light, and set the pizza down on your coffee table. She made herself comfortable on the couch, crossing her legs like she owned the place.

You sat down across from her, trying to ignore the way her voice had a habit of curling around words like an invitation. It was always like this with Rio—close, but never too close. She flirted like it was a game, but the rules were always changing, always just out of reach. You rolled your eyes, taking a bite of the slice. “You know you’re here more often than you should be, right?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “What can I say? You’re hard to stay away from.” Her voice dropped just enough to make it sound like something more, though you knew she was just playing.

The tension in the air was thick, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was with Rio. Still, you knew better than to let your guard down.