It starts with a compliment.

Some rookie from Vice—tall, blond, probably named Kyle—passes your desk and says something too nice about your new haircut. You say thank you, polite and casual, but the moment he walks away, Jane appears.

You don’t even see her coming.

“You make a new friend?” she asks, tossing a folder onto your desk like she’s not already hyperfixated.

You blink. “What?”

“Vice Boy,” she says, nodding toward the elevator Kyle just disappeared into. “He is always that chatty, or is it just with you?”

You smirk. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

Jane leans in, palms flat on your desk, voice low and rough enough to make you blink twice. “I’m just wondering if I need to start wearing my badge and a shirt that says 'she’s mine' when I walk in here.”

“Oh my god.”

“Because if Vice Boy needs a little visual aid, I’ve got a Sharpie and a lot of free time.”

You snort, cheeks heating up, trying not to look obvious. Everyone in the squad room pretends they’re not listening. Korsak coughs into his mug. Frost suddenly finds his monitor very interesting.

“I said thank you. That’s it.”

Jane shrugs, still too close. “I know. I just don’t like that he looked at you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re available.”

You blink up at her, heart skidding a bit.

She leans just a hair closer, like she’s daring you to call her out for it. “You’re not.”

And just like that, she straightens, grabs the folder again, and walks off with a wink like she didn’t just say the most dangerously hot thing she’s ever said to you in public.