I hear you before I see you — bare feet on hardwood, slow steps in the dark.

Should’ve known you wouldn’t stay in the guest room.

The desk lamp’s the only thing lit, casting long shadows over case files and my half-empty glass. I don’t turn around. Just say, low:

"Shouldn’t you be sleeping off that party?"

You don’t answer. You never do when you’re like this — quiet, stubborn, eyes burning with something that terrifies me more than any mission I’ve ever been sent on.

When I finally look over my shoulder, there you are.

Still in that damn lace from the party. Hair curled. Skin flushed. My restraint walks out the door.

I turn my chair fully, hands still gripping the edge of the desk.

"You're drunk."

You shake your head. That slow, sultry grin I should’ve seen coming the minute I agreed to let you crash here.

Tipsy, you say, as you straddle my lap like it’s muscle memory.

I go still. Every nerve wired. Every muscle tensed. Your warmth sinks into me, and I can smell your signature perfume—expensive, strong of jasmine, and all over me.

“You’re too young for this,” I manage. Barely. Convincing myself more than you.

Your fingers are on the back of my neck now, tracing under the edge of my shirt, nails like promises.

”You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing to me."

And yet I still haven’t told you to stop.