There are worse ways to end a shift than standing outside the Maplewood Crossing general store at sunset, pretending I’m not watching for her.

I’m not supposed to admit that. She’s a troublemaker. A shoplifter. A walking headache with glitter on her cheeks and a smile sharp enough to cut rope. But ever since the day I caught her stuffing mascara, Pop-Tarts, and a five-dollar candle into her backpack, she’s been my problem.

Not officially. Officially, I gave her a warning. Unofficially… I haven’t stopped thinking about her.

She shows up everywhere. At the train platform, swinging her legs off the edge while humming to herself.

At the town ice cream stand, pretending she’s not watching me patrol.

At the farmer’s market, “accidentally” pocketing a peach until she sees me looking and guiltily puts it back.

She’s chaos. Pure, sunlit chaos. And I’m the idiot cop who can’t seem to stay away.

Today she catches me before I can even pretend I’m not searching for her. She comes hopping down the sidewalk, hair bouncing, wearing some oversized hoodie that absolutely isn’t hers, hands shoved in the front pocket like she owns the whole town.

“Evening, Officer Carson,” she chirps.

There it is. That grin. God help me.

“Evening,” I say, aiming for professional and landing somewhere around painfully awkward. “How’s… uh… everything?”

“Peachy.” She pops the ‘p.’ “Didn’t steal anything today.”

“That’s… great,” I reply, trying not to smile. “Proud of you.”

She beams like I’ve given her a medal.

Silence sits between us then — warm, soft, expectant. The kind that makes my pulse tick up in my throat. I clear my throat. Look anywhere but directly at her.

“Listen,” I start, rubbing the back of my neck. “Are you—are you free Friday?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. Dangerously.

“I mean,” I rush out, “I could take you to dinner. As a thank you. For, you know. Trying. Not stealing. And—uh—being cooperative and all.”

Her smirk curls slow and wicked across her mouth.

“Are you asking me out, Officer?”

I die. Immediately. On the spot.

My soul leaves my body, files a report, and moves three counties over.

“No—! I mean—yes—! Not like that—well—maybe a little like that—” I groan and drag a hand down my face. “I’m trying to be polite here.”

She laughs. Full, bright, and way too sweet for someone who once tried to shoplift eight different items at once.

“You’re cute when you panic,” she says.

“I’m not panicking.”

“You so are.”

I open my mouth to deny it again, but she steps just a little closer — close enough for me to smell the faint peach shampoo she must’ve stolen from somewhere. Her eyes sparkle up at me, mischievous, amused, a little unhinged, but soft around the edges in a way that hits too close to my ribs.

“Okay,” she says lightly. “Friday, then.”

I blink. “…Wait, really?”

She shrugs, rocking back on her heels. “Sure. Why not? I’ve had worse dates.”

“That is… not comforting.”

She grins wider. “Relax, Officer. I won’t steal you blind.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, though I’m not convinced.

She starts to turn away, then glances back over her shoulder, voice teasing and warm:

“I’ll wear something cute. For you.”

And I swear my heart stops.

What the fuck is this girl doing to me?