The station reeked of burnt coffee and long nights, but you didn’t mind. Not when his eyes found yours across the bullpen, a silent pull that made your pulse stutter. Hank Voight wasn’t a gentle man, never had been—but God, he was steady. Dangerous, too. That kind of power didn’t just command respect—it demanded surrender. And when he brushed past you, hand lingering a second too long on your lower back, it wasn’t just casual. It was a warning. Mine.

Later, in his office, blinds half-closed, tension thick as Chicago fog, he leaned back in his chair, watching you like a wolf watches a storm.

“You disobeyed direct orders today,” he said lowly, voice gravel and fire. “Wanna tell me what the hell you were thinking?”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t flinch. “I got results, didn’t I?”

He stood. Crossed the room slowly. You could smell smoke and leather. The door clicked shut behind him.

“Yeah,” he murmured, closing the space between you, fingers grazing your chin, tilting it up. “But next time you go rogue without telling me—I won’t just chew you out.”

The kiss was rough. Like punishment. Like possession. Like Voight.