Rain tapped rhythmically against the windows of the low-lit bar, turning the outside world into a smeared watercolor of neon and shadow. Inside, the air buzzed with a sticky heat, a mixture of spilled whiskey and regret.

You sat at the far end of the bar, nursing your third bourbon, jaw clenched as you watched the ice melt like time slipping through fingers. You wore leather like a second skin and had a stare that could slice open your ribs. You were a ghost in six states—wanted for grand theft auto, obstruction, assault, and probably more if they ever bothered to put it all together. You made her living stealing muscle cars and selling them across the border, and you did it with surgical precision. No fingerprints, no witnesses, just the distant sound of a revving engine disappearing into the night.

Except for him.

Detective Jake Mercer had chased you across three state lines, through alleys, scrapyards, and backroom deals. He knew your driving style better than he knew his own reflection. And every time he got close, you slipped away, like smoke through a cracked window.

So when Jake walked into that bar, tie loose and knuckles bruised from a case gone sideways, the last thing he expected was to find you already seated at the end of it, looking like a problem he wasn’t ready to solve.

Their eyes met. No badge. No cuffs. Just silence and bad bourbon.

“You gonna try to arrest me, or just stare at me all night?” you asked, your voice a mix of tequila and danger.

Jake took a slow sip. “Depends. You gonna run?”

You smirked. “Not tonight.”

Neither of you remembered who made the first move. Words became heat. Heat became hands. The rest blurred into the soft darkness of his apartment.

By morning, you two agreed without agreeing: it never happened.

⸻

A month passed. He didn’t see you. Didn’t chase you. Told himself it didn’t matter.

Then came the knock.

Jake opened the door just past midnight, Glock in hand.

And there you were, slumped against the porch pillar, breathing hard. Blood soaked your side, and your usual defiance had dimmed into something softer, more fragile.

“Jesus—” he started.