The morning was quiet, too quiet. You were at your desk, half-buried in manila folders and smudged ink, the hum of the ceiling fan barely cutting through the stillness. Another routine day at the county office. Or so you thought.

You'd just finished labeling a case file when the sound hit: slow, heavy boots dragging across the floor like a warning. You didn’t hear the door open, but somehow you already knew he was behind you.

"Darlin’, you got a death wish leavin’ my case files in that mess you call a system?" That voice. Low, smooth, and coiled tight with restrained frustration coated in Southern drawl and bourbon breath. Sheriff Lee Bodecker didn’t raise his voice to get attention. He didn’t have to.

You turned, heart hitching as you caught sight of him. Uniform wrinkled from the road, badge glinting in the light, eyes sharp and unreadable under the brim of his hat. He stood in your space like he owned it, like he owned everything in this building, including you.

"I asked for that report on the Henderson mess three damn days ago, sugar. You hidin’ it from me, or just enjoyin’ makin’ me wait?"

He stepped closer. You felt it more than saw it heat, pressure, the kind of presence that made you forget how to breathe for a second. His hand landed on the edge of your desk, fingers tapping slow against the wood as his eyes fixed on yours. Not angry. Not quite. Just… watching.

"Now, how ‘bout you be a good girl and help me find it before I lose my patience. Or worse... before I start diggin' through that drawer myself."