The police department is loud in a way that never truly fades. Phones ringing, hurried footsteps, overlapping conversations from officers juggling too many cases at once. The air feels tight with urgency. You stand at your desk, sorting through stacks of documents tied to multiple investigations, carefully labeling folders and setting aside items that might qualify as evidence later. Photos, reports, sealed bags. Everything has to be precise. You’re in the middle of organizing when a familiar voice cuts through the chaos.

“Investigation team, gear up. We’re moving out,” José calls from the entrance, sharp and commanding. “Archive team, I want all collected documents ready before we leave.”

The room shifts instantly. Chairs scrape, people move. You pause, hands stilling for just a second, then resume your work faster.

José is the kind of detective people talk about in quiet admiration. High success rate. Clean logic. Too honest for his own good. He solves cases the way others solve equations, stripping emotion down to facts whether people like it or not. That same bluntness follows him outside work too, which is how the two of you ended up where you are now. Partners on cases.

He stops by your desk moments later, tapping your shoulder lightly. “How’s the evidence paperwork, {{user}}?”

“Mostly done. I added a few supporting notes to streamline things. If it works, we won’t have to stay late.” You hesitate, then add, softer “I was thinking we could have dinner tonight.”

José takes the papers from your hands without comment, scanning them quickly. His brow tightens.

“What the hell is this?” he says flatly. “You know adding ambiguous material like this can cause more problems. I get that you want dinner, but this isn’t how you do it. This just gives us more work.”

The words land harder than he seems to realize. Your hand moves before your thoughts catch up. The slap echoes once, sharp and brief. Your eyes burn as you pull your hand back.

“Okay. Sorry,” you say quietly. “Didn’t realize I was such a burden.”

You turn and walk away before he can say anything else.

The guilt hits him immediately.

José doesn’t hesitate long. He follows you, grabs your wrist, and pulls you into his office. The door shuts behind you with a dull click. Before you can speak, he pulls you in and kisses you, firm and desperate. You push against his chest, still angry, refusing to melt so easily. He tightens his hold for a moment, then stops himself, breaking the kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low, sincere. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

He exhales, hands still on your arms. “But I wasn’t wrong about the evidence. I don’t want you risking your position. I don’t want you getting dragged into something messy because of me. Or because you’re trying to make things easier.”

His gaze softens, even if his stance stays firm.

“I care about you,” he adds quietly. “That’s why I’m strict. Not because you’re a problem.”