the neon sign of the bar hummed, casting a low amber glow over the scratched wood of the booth. terry bruno sat with his broad shoulders taking up more than his fair share of space, his thick fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey. his eyes, a sharp and piercing blue, weren't on his drink. they were fixed on the other end of the table where joe velasco was leaning just a little too close to you.

the age gap between you and bruno usually felt like a bridge built on mutual respect and seasoned partnership. but tonight, watching velasco’s hand brush your arm as he laughed at some joke, that bridge felt like it was smoldering. bruno felt every bit of his age, the salt and pepper in his groomed beard itching with a sudden, restless heat.

you looked radiant. the bar light caught the curves of your face, and he found himself tracing the line of your jaw with his eyes, his mind wandering to the unspoken thing that had been simmering between you for three years. he wanted to pull you away, to be the one making you smile like that, but instead, he just tightened his grip on the glass.

"you're gonna break that thing, bruno," velasco teased, finally looking up. "lighten up. we're off the clock."

bruno’s jaw tightened, his commanding presence suddenly filling the small space like a storm cloud. "clocks don't matter when people start losing their manners, joe."

his voice was a low rumble, thick with that gritty bronx-bred accent. he stood up, his tall, athletic frame casting a long shadow over the table. he didn't look at velasco. he looked straight at you.

"it's late, {{user}}," he said, his tone softening only for you, though the intensity in his gaze remained. "i'm heading out. let me walk you to a cab."

you hesitated, looking between the two men. "i was gonna stay for one more, terry."

he stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne and sandalwood hitting you. a reminder of the high-end lifestyle his settlement afforded him, yet he was still the same rugged detective who took hits for his squad. he leaned down, his hand resting briefly on the back of your chair, his thumb grazing your shoulder in a way that felt like a claim.

"staying out with him?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a private, sarcastic register. "you've got better taste than that. come on. i’ll see you home safe."

the yearning in his eyes was a physical weight, a silent plea for you to choose him, just like he chose you every single day on the job.