He didn’t flinch at the weapon pointed at him, and I couldn’t move. It felt like standing on the edge of something I didn’t understand, facing a man who seemed to exist in a world I couldn’t reach.
“What the fuck was that?” I snapped, the words ripped out of me before I could stop them, raw and jagged. My hands were steady, but everything inside me shook. I’d seen plenty of bad things in my time—crime scenes, murders, bodies dumped in alleys—but this was different. This was organized, clean, and intentional. The kind of thing that didn’t end up in reports because people like Doc made sure it never got that far.
The thought hit me hard: if I wasn’t calling this in, was I halfway to becoming my dad?
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as if he were trying to decide whether I was a threat to eliminate or just anotherproblem to ignore. The silence stretched until it felt heavy enough to crush me. He leaned in, and for a heartbeat, my brain stuttered. The space between us vanished, his breath brushing my cheek—warm, steady, too close. I caught myself noticing the way his eyes tracked mine, how close his mouth was, and a jolt of shame hit me. What the hell was wrong with me for feeling that spark now, when everything about him screamed danger? Why was he so close? Was it threat, curiosity, or something worse? I couldn’t read him, and that unsettled me.
“You just stood there,” I said, forcing the words out. “You let it happen. Who was he? Who’s the other man?”
Doc’s expression didn’t change. “You don’t want to know.”
“The hell I don’t.” My voice cracked, anger bubbling up to drown out the fear. “That was murder.”
He took a slow step closer, not glancing at the gun I still had aimed at his chest. “You need to go home, Detective.”
“Don’t tell me what I need.” My throat burned. “You think I can just walk away from this?”
He stopped. “If you don’t, it’ll eat you alive,” he said quietly. “Trust me on that.”
“Who was the man you killed?” The question came out before I could stop it. My voice scraped against the silence between us. I needed something—an explanation, a lie, anything. But Doc didn’t blink.
“No one,” he said finally, and quirked a half-smile.
It wasn’t an answer. I tightened my grip on the gun, but I didn’t pull the trigger, and he took that final step until the barrel was against his chest. My hand trembled, brushing his shirt as the metal pressed in, and I felt the solid weight of his body behind it. The space between us was wrong—danger twisted with a pull I didn’t want to name. His hand lifted almost lazily, fingers on my jaw, tilting my face up just enough to make breathing feel optional. For a split second, the world shrank tothat touch—his thumb against my skin, his eyes holding mine—and I didn’t know if he was testing me, warning me, or about to kiss me. Every nerve screamed both threat and invitation. And then his hand shifted, drawing me closer, his lips across mine in a sudden, brief kiss that stole my breath. I didn’t stop him, and that was the part I couldn’t explain away. I let it happen anyway. It wasn’t tender—it was a test, a warning, a spark of danger that left me reeling and unsure if it was dominance, manipulation, or something real.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I snapped, the words catching somewhere between fury and disbelief, every instinct screaming to shove him away, but my body betrayed me. For a single, shameful second, I leaned into the kiss before jerking back, shocked at myself—at the lingering heat and the rush that made me want to do it again. Part of me still wanted to believe there was more to him—that Doc was morally gray but wasn’t capable of what I’d witnessed. That murder was all on the other guy.
The killer.
But standing there, looking into those eyes as he pulled back from that kiss, I knew better. There was no remorse, no panic at having the barrel of my gun pressed to him. Calm acceptance. Dead-eyed.
He looked down at the gun, then back up at me. “Are you going to shoot me?” he asked, quiet, steady. Not mocking. Not afraid.
I should’ve pulled the trigger. Every rule, every moral line I’d ever sworn to uphold as a cop told me to do it. But I didn’t because the other side of me—the part that believed rules didn’t always fix the world—forced the cop side down. My finger froze, muscles locked, and God help me, I needed to understand him more than I wanted to stop him.
“I’m going to arrest you,” I said.
He took another breath, “No, you’re not.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Who was that man?”
He tilted his head, studying me the way he looked at a patient—calculating, distant. “There isn’t a version of the truth that you’d find acceptable,” he said.
“Try me.”
He cradled my face again and placed another kiss on my lips.
I yanked away from him, scowling hard. I shoved him back, fury snapping through me, the sound of boots scraping on concrete. “Stop fucking touching me,” I snapped, voice rougher than I intended, rage and confusion fighting to take over. I didn’t only shove him this time—I went at him, fury boiling over into motion. I hit his chest, shoulder first, sending him back a step, then another. He caught my wrist before I could swing again, grip like iron. For a second, we struggled—bodies colliding, boots scraping the ground, my gun useless as he clasped my wrist. He had half a head in height on me, and a weight he clearly knew how to use. I twisted, using his momentum to push him toward the car, but he didn’t fight the way I expected; he absorbed it, redirected it, until it felt as if he was controlling the fight without ever throwing a punch.
The air between us burned, rage and adrenaline blurring into something messier. I hated that I could feel the solid heat of him, the strength in every movement. We locked eyes—me panting, him infuriatingly composed. Then, to my disbelief, he chuckled, a low sound that crawled up my spine.
“Done?” he asked, twisting my wrist, angling my elbow back enough to trigger the release reflex. Pain jolted up my arm, and the gun clattered to the ground before I could stop it. He stepped back then, composed, as if it had all been effortless before kicking the gun my way, indicating I should pick it up.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, jaw tight, refusing to answer. My gaze never left him as I crouched, scooped up the gun, and straightened. Every muscle was coiled, waiting for him to move, for another strike, another push. But Doc didn’t move. He stood motionless, eyes locked on me, assessing every twitch as if he was waiting to see whether I’d lunge, run, or break apart right there.
“You want to know about the dead man?” he asked after a pause.
“Yes.”
