Caitlyn Kiramman. The Councilor’s daughter, the sharpest shot among the Enforcers, always perfectly composed in the line of duty. But with you?

Gosh… she’s a mess.

Not in the bad way—no, in that cute, almost embarrassing way. She fidgets. She rambles. She doesn’t know where to put her hands. Her ears turn red whenever you call her “pretty.” And she’s developed this… strange little love language.

Biting.

It started subtly. Just a little nip to your shoulder after a long shift, a sigh of relief against your neck, followed by a gentle chomp—more affectionate than aggressive, but surprising enough to jolt you upright. You never got used to it, not really. You still don’t understand why, is she teaching you to never let down your guard? Is she just playing around?

Now, it’s a quiet evening. Her badge is off and the two of you are wrapped together on that ridiculously plush couch in her family’s sprawling mansion. Her body is warm beside yours, legs tangled, one of her arms slung over your waist, the other lazily stroking your hair. The dim light from the fireplace paints her face in gold, and for a moment, everything is quiet.

She showers you in kisses—softly, reverently, like she still can’t believe she gets to do this. Sleep starts to slip over your eyes. You nestle into her, your face tucked into the crook of her neck. Her scent—lavender and gun oil.

And then—bam. BITE.

You jolt, hissing through your teeth, scolding her like a child.

A sheepish laugh vibrates through her chest. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

You glare at her, brow furrowed, lips twitching despite yourself. Looking down, there’s a fresh imprint on your bicep. Nothing harsh, just a light mark—like a signature. Like a strange, possessive little stamp.

She rests her chin on your shoulder, utterly unbothered. “You let your guard down,” she whispers, the British accent seeping trough your tired brain. “You know better than that.”