Derek’s shoulders are hunched in that familiar way, broad back filling the chair as the low glow of his laptop reflects off his knuckles. The loft is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the soft clack of keys as he works, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at whatever case file has him scowling. He doesn’t hear you come in at first—doesn’t hear the door, or your footsteps, or the tiny, mischievous inhale you take like you’re about to do something you absolutely shouldn’t.

You stop right in front of him.

Derek senses you before he sees you. His typing stutters. He looks up, confused, then you’re there—too close, blocking the screen. Before he can say anything, you reach out, flip the laptop shut with a gentle but final click, and straddle the space between his knees without actually sitting.

“Hey—” he starts, brows knitting together.

Your fingers hook under his chin, warm and familiar, tilting his face up. Derek freezes, eyes flicking from your face to the makeup wipe you’ve somehow produced like a magician’s trick. His confusion deepens into full disbelief as you swipe it across the corner of his mouth, then along his chin with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Uhh… baby?” he says, voice low and rough with confusion. “What the hell are you doing?”

You don’t even look at him as you keep wiping, focused, serious, like this is very important work. “Making sure my seat’s clean for later,” you reply calmly. “I can’t sit on a dirty seat.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Derek’s mouth opens. Closes. His eyes darken, something amused and dangerous flickering there as the words sink in. “You’re insane,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it—only the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You finish with a final swipe, satisfied, then toss the wipe aside like you’ve completed a chore. His hands, which had been resting uselessly on the arms of the chair, finally move—one settling on your hip, grounding, possessive. His thumb presses into you just enough to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.

“First of all,” Derek says, voice dropping, gaze locked on yours, “there was nothing on my face.” His grip tightens a fraction. “Second… you can’t say things like that and expect me to just go back to work.”

You grin, leaning in just enough that he can feel your breath. “Sounds like a you problem.”

A low huff of laughter escapes him, surprising both of you. He tilts his head, nose brushing yours, eyes burning with that familiar intensity. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs.

Your answer is simple—confident, teasing, and far too close to his ear.

“Good.”