The bar is dim, all shadows and murmurs, the kind of place where business and secrets blur. You sit across from MG Falcone, her gaze sharp and amused as you go over the case—names, movements, trails of money that don’t add up. She listens, sipping her drink slowly, like she’s savouring both the whiskey and the way you lean closer.

“You’ve been chasing me a long time, detective,” she says, voice low and smooth. “Don’t you ever get tired of playing cat and mouse?”

You smirk, steady, unwilling to let her see how her presence rattles you. “I don’t chase. I hunt.”

Her smile widens, a dangerous flicker of interest sparking in her eyes. And then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, you catch her hand beneath the table. She raises an eyebrow, curious, as you guide her palm lower, pressing it against your bare core under the cover of the bar.

Her breath hitches—just enough for you to notice—before her expression resets into something darker, more deliberate. She keeps her eyes locked on yours, even as her fingers slide through the wetness.

Yet you continued with the case stuff, and MG Followed with the conversation in the bar, despite her fingers still moving.