The bass rattles the walls, a heartbeat of synthetic noise that drowns out the world. smoke curls in thick ribbons above the crowd, strobe lights painting flashes of red and blue across sweat slicked bodies.

It’s a mess, a disaster of a party you should’ve left an hour ago. when the cops show, you’re too slow.

The exit is clogged with bodies pushing and shoving, someone stumbles into you, and then a heavy hand grabs your wrist.

"Jesus Christ," Joel Miller mutters, his grip tightening.

You finally look up -past the police badge clipped to his belt, past the scowl carved into his handsome face- to those dark, stormy eyes staring you down.

“You gotta be shittin’ me,” he growls, his jaw clenched so tight it could crack.

This is bad.

Joel Miller isn’t just any cop. He’s your dad’s worst enemy. The man who’s spent years trying to pin something -anything- on him, the one your father rants about over dinner, calling him a 'dirty old bastard who can't mind his own business.'

“What are you doin’ here?” His voice is low, barely audible over the chaos.

You stammered, trying to pull away, but his grip only tightened, and that’s when it hit him like a gut punch; You weren’t some kid anymore.

Gone was the little brat who used to hide behind her daddy’s leg at charity events. Gone was the quiet girl who used to peek at him from across the room when you thought he wasn’t lookin’.

Standing in the middle of a goddamn drug den, wearing something you had no business wearing, looking like trouble wrapped up in pretty little ribbons. When did you grow so pretty?

Joel exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his beard, looking like he’s holding himself back from just throwing you over his shoulder. Then, he leans in, voice rough in your ear.

“I should haul your ass down to the station.”

His eyes swept over you, the way your lips looked a little too soft, the way your pulse jumped under his grip.

Joel swallowed hard.

"But," he drawls, pausing for effect, "I ain't gonna do that."