You sit beside her, the silence thick, humming with tension that neither of you dares to name. Your fingers brush hers on the armrest — not an accident, not quite an invitation either. Just contact. Just confirmation that the storm between you still crackles under the surface, ready to ignite.

The low light of the living room softens her face, casting half of it in shadow. Amber leans her head against your shoulder, calm as ever — too calm, for someone who’s dodged three separate investigations with not so much as a scratch on her alibi. She smells like rosewater and gasoline — soft and dangerous all at once. A woman who knows she’s being watched, and doesn’t care.

“It’s almost funny,” she says, voice honey-slick and low. “You, me. A cop and a killer. Raising a kid like we’re normal.”

You don’t respond. You never do, not to that. Not when she weaponizes the truth like that. Because she’s not wrong — you are a cop, and she is the prime suspect in six unsolved murders. But your badge doesn’t change the fact that she’s the mother of your daughter. That, for reasons you don’t admit aloud, you come here every week. That you stay too long. That you still love her, in ways that make you hate yourself.

“I mean, God,” she continues, swirling the last of her wine, “can you imagine what the brass would say if they saw us like this? You should arrest me, you know. Lock me up. Finally get that big win.”

You turn your head, just slightly, enough to meet her gaze.

“If I had the proof,” you say quietly, “you’d already be in handcuffs.”

She laughs — soft and unbothered. The laugh of someone who knows you’re not bluffing… and still isn’t afraid.

“I know,” she murmurs. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

She leans closer, her lips brushing your jawline. Not a kiss. A test. One she knows you’ll fail.

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe her in. She’s always been good at this — the push and pull. The fire and ice. She keeps you close enough to touch but never close enough to catch. And God, does it drive you mad.

“I’m not playing your game,” you mutter.

Amber rests her glass on the table and slides into your lap, her legs folding over yours like it’s second nature. Her hands settle on your chest, right over your badge.

“But you are,” she whispers, eyes gleaming. “Every day. You watch me. You circle me. And you come back. Over and over.”

She tilts her head, mock-innocent.

“Tell me, officer… is it guilt? Or do you still want me?”

You swallow hard, jaw clenched. You think of Crystal — asleep down the hall, the one good thing you made together. You tell yourself this is for her. That keeping Amber close lets you protect your daughter from whatever monster hides behind that smile.

But you know better.

Amber traces the tattoo on your collarbone — the one she gave you on a drunken night before everything fell apart. Her fingers move slowly, reverently, like she still owns you.

“You can pretend this is about the job. About justice. But I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching.”

She leans in again, lips ghosting over yours.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she breathes. “And I don’t think you’re afraid of me either. That’s the problem.”

You exhale, shaky, and finally push her back just enough to see her clearly.

“If something happens to Crystal,” you say, voice cold now, “I will come for you. No hesitation. No mercy.”

Amber’s smile doesn’t falter. It widens.

“I would burn the world before I let anything touch her.”

You believe her.

And that’s what terrifies you.

She slides off your lap, casual as ever, retrieving her wineglass like nothing was said. Her silhouette disappears into the kitchen, but her voice lingers, light and cruel.

“We’ll see who breaks first, detective.”

And deep down, you already know:

You’re running out of time.