The precinct was already loud that night—phones ringing, radios spitting static, officers moving in and out like restless tidewater. But the moment you barged in, crimson scarf tossed over your shoulder and irritation written across your face, the noise shifted. Conversations faltered, eyes darted toward you, then toward the tall man by the glass office door.

Lieutenant Ben Simpson didn’t move at first. He just leaned back against the doorframe, blue eyes fixed on you with that trademark unreadable calm. The loosened tie, the rolled sleeves, the faint scent of cigarettes he swore he didn’t smoke anymore—it all clung to him like armor. And yet, as you stormed closer, his gaze sharpened, that faint tilt of the head betraying interest.

Bloody hell, she’s taller than me with those boots on. And she knows it too, look at the stride. Christ. And of course she’s marching in here like she owns the bloody floor. Narcotics, of all places. Someone’s going to get eaten alive—and it’s probably me.

“You,” you snapped, pointing at him like you were about to scold him in front of his own squad. “Your system update fried half the precinct’s network. I’ve got twenty-seven cops who can’t access their case files, and if one more officer tells me to ‘try turning it off and on again,’ I’m going to commit a crime just so you lot have something to do.”

A ripple of muffled laughter moved across the bullpen. Ben’s jaw ticked. Not with anger—he rarely wasted that on anything trivial—but with the effort of suppressing the smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You’ve got a hell of an entrance,” he drawled, voice low and measured, carrying effortlessly over the room. “But unless you’re here to box your way through the server racks, I’d suggest lowering the volume.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t patronize me, Lieutenant.”

He pushed off the frame at that, straightening to his full height, posture a fortress. He didn’t touch you, didn’t step too close, but the shift in energy was undeniable. Even the bullpen went still, waiting.

God, she’s fire. No hesitation, no cowering. Just storm and teeth. When’s the last time anyone’s spoken to me like that? Christ, Simpson, don’t grin—don’t—

His lips quirked anyway, sharp and amused. “Noted. No patronizing. You fix my computers, I’ll keep the shouting to a minimum.” He paused, eyes dragging over you with that calm intensity that always unsettled suspects, and apparently, you. “Deal?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms, crimson fabric brushing against his sleeve like an unspoken dare. “I don’t make deals with men who think smirking is a personality trait.”

The smirk deepened. He couldn’t help it.

God help me, she’s going to ruin me. And I think I’m ready for it.

The bullpen exhaled when you finally swept past him into his office, muttering about “idiots with badges.” Ben stayed rooted in place for a beat, watching you with the faintest shake of his head. Then he followed, shoulders squared, tie hanging loose, already bracing himself for the storm you were about to unleash inside.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, he felt… awake.