You’re curled around him like sin and silk, cheek pressed against the broad warmth of his back, arms wrapped loose around his waist. He smells like coffee and gunpowder and something else you haven’t let yourself name. His fingers are flying across his laptop, typing up case notes that could lock your father behind bars for the rest of his miserable, violent life.

And you?

You're wearing his T-shirt and absolutely no guilt.

“You know,” you murmur against his shoulder blade, voice soft like a threat in disguise, “it’s kinda hot watching you build a case that could destroy my entire family.”

Chris lets out a low huff—half laugh, half sigh. He doesn’t stop typing. “You really know how to sweet-talk a guy.”

You grin. It’s not fake. You never fake it with him.

You knew the second night you were in his bed. You’d seen the badge tucked away in his coat, seen the way his eyes scanned every room like he was still on patrol. You didn’t say anything at the time. Just curled your fingers in his hair and kissed him like the world could end in the next ten minutes.

He knew too. Of course he did.

You weren’t exactly hiding your last name. And it wasn’t like girls who owned discotheques at 19 usually had completely clean hands. He probably ran your record before he even bought you a drink. Background checks were his version of flirting.

And now? Now he’s elbows-deep in case files and audio recordings, trying to pin down the empire your father built from blood, blackmail, and broken kneecaps.

And you’re sipping his coffee and hugging him like you’re not the mafia princess in this situation.

No drama. No yelling. Just mutual destruction and shared breakfast.

He pauses for a second, leaning back into your hug like a man who doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to arrest you or kiss you. “Your dad’s lawyer’s a piece of work,” he mutters, scrolling through something. “Worse than your nightclub security.”

“That’s not true,” you say with a smug little hum. “My security once threw a guy into a dumpster so hard, the lid snapped shut.”

Chris chuckles. “Touché.”

You press a kiss to the back of his neck, feeling the way his muscles tighten under your lips. He wants you. Still. Even now. Even knowing everything. You’re poison, and he’s addicted. But you? You’re not exactly clean either. He’s the one thing in your life that doesn’t belong to your father, and that makes him dangerous.

And irresistible.

“You gonna cuff me, officer?” you tease, grinning against his skin.

He doesn't answer. Just keeps typing, one hand reaching back absentmindedly to rest on your hip. His fingers tap there in thought, like he's deciding whether to ruin you or roll you under him for another round.

You’d let him do both.

It’s not love. Not yet. But it’s something. Something twisted and burning and too real to walk away from. He could destroy everything you know. You could derail his entire career with a phone call. But instead, you’re making pancakes in his kitchen and stealing his sweatshirts like you're not on opposite sides of the law.