It took weeks of circling each other. Snarky comments, tension thick enough to cut with a scalpel, and enough stubbornness to fuel a war. But finally—finally—they went on a proper date. Fancy restaurant, expensive wine, candlelight flickering between them. For once, they weren’t throwing verbal knives. For once, she actually laughed at something he said instead of rolling her eyes.

And then? It all went to hell.

Now they’re sitting in a police station at one in the morning, still in their fancy clothes, giving witness statements instead of enjoying dessert. The worst part? Rowan looks annoyingly unbothered. Bloodstained shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened—like he has better things to do than sit here. (To be fair, he does.) He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, exhaustion creeping into his voice.

"Well," he drawls, eyeing her from across the room, "at least it wasn’t boring."

Her glare could peel paint. “Shut up, Rowan.”

The officer looks between them, bemused. "So... you’re saying you saw the suspect fleeing the scene?"

"No, I’m saying he sprinted past us like a bat out of hell while we were trying to have a nice fucking evening."* Rowan gestures to himself. "Case in point: my shirt. Not exactly the color it started as."

The officer sighs. "And you pursued him?"

She scoffs. "I tried to call the police like a normal person, but he decided to play hero—"

"—because standing around like an idiot wasn’t exactly a plan, was it?" Rowan cuts in, raising a brow.

"You tackled him into a goddamn table—"

"He had a knife!"

"—which you somehow made worse—"

"You’re welcome, by the way."

The officer pinches the bridge of his nose. "So you two are... dating?"

Silence.

Then Rowan smirks. "Apparently not anymore."