"You said you're all in," she says, her voice sharp, cracking the air like thunder.

We're standing outside the precinct, the sun's bleeding out over the asphalt like it took a bullet. My shift starts in twenty minutes—third shift for the whole damn week—and I should be inside prepping for roll call.

But I'm out here.

With her.

Again.

Kylie's arms are crossed tight, her jaw set like she's holding herself together with spite and caffeine. There's panic in her eyes, even if she's trying to hide it behind that usual armor of eyeliner and attitude.

And I can tell—something happened. Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Worse.

Quiet.

Subtle.

The kind of silence that creeps in when you start to realize someone might actually care. That you might actually care back.

"I meant every word," I say, steady—even though my heart's pounding like I'm the one about to get arrested this time.

"What the hell does that even mean, Killian?" she snaps. "Because one minute you're defending me like your life depends on it, and the next, it's like you're trying to scare me away."

"No," I grit, stepping forward. "I'm trying to make it real. That's the point."

Her eyes narrow. "Yeah, well, real isn't exactly something I've had a lot of practice with, Detective Commitment Issues."

That one stings—but I let it slide. Because I've been thinking about this all damn day. Ever since I watched her walk away after Dykstrom uncuffed her. After she stood there, shaking but proud, her eyes begging me not to give up on her.

And I knew.

If I don't say it now, I'll never say it right.

I scrub a hand over my jaw. "It means I'm not your rebound. I'm not some guy you fuck to forget your past or fill a quiet night. I'm not here to be a distraction, or a project, or a goddamn pit stop until the next fire burns hotter. I want you, Kylie. All of you. The messy. The mood swings. The mouth."

She flinches.

I soften, voice lowering. "But I'm not begging you. I've done enough of that in my life."

Her arms drop a little, her fingers flexing like they're itching to either grab me or slap me. Maybe both.

"You think I'm using you?" she says, quieter now. "You think that's what this is?"

"I think you're scared. And I get it. Hell, I've been scared of you since the day you came back."

She looks away, jaw clenched.

"But I'm not afraid anymore. And I won't pretend I don't want the real thing just because you're not sure if you do."

Her voice wavers. "I don't know how to do real."

"I know. And I'm not asking for perfect. I'm asking for honesty."

She blinks, and for a second, I see it—that terrified girl beneath the chaos. The one who thinks she's too broken to be wanted for more than a night.

I step in, close enough to feel her breath catch.

"Learn with me," I say, barely above a whisper. "Or let me go."

There's a beat of silence so thick it swallows the sunset. Her lip trembles, just barely. Her gaze flickers over my face like she's memorizing it—for leaving. Or for staying.

Then she turns.

And walks away.

And it fucking wrecks me.

***

She storms into the station like a loaded gun—black jeans painted on, tank top hugging every inch I've tried like hell to forget and failed every damn time. Her hair's wild from the wind, and those fuck-me eyes of hers lock on me like I'm the next crime she plans to commit.

And for five solid seconds, I forget how to breathe.

My pulse kicks beneath my uniform like it's trying to break free.

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't pause. Doesn't even blink.

"Hey," she says, all casual sin and reckless calm, like she didn't just walk away from me earlier without a word. Like she didn't leave me standing there, her back retreating like the edge of a fucking cliff.

I don't respond. Not yet. I just stare.

Her gaze burns through me, defiant and unbothered. But her shoulders? Tense. Her hands? Twitchy. She's not nearly as composed as she wants me to believe.

"Kylie," I say finally, low and edged like a warning I don't really mean.

She walks closer, lips parted, gaze locked on mine. "Killian."

My name sounds like a dare on her tongue.

"Do you have room for a ride-along tonight?"

I stare at her for a beat, lean back against the wall like I'm not seconds from losing it. Arms crossed, jaw clenched. Every nerve is on fire because she's here. Again. After walking out. After throwing my heart back at me like a live grenade.

"You want a ride-along?" I ask slowly. "Pretty sure you've had more squad car time than half my rookies."

She shrugs one shoulder. "And yet none of them made it nearly as fun."

I arch a brow. "You mean illegal, chaotic, and loud?"

"Don't forget memorable," she says, smirking. "And wildly inappropriate."

Jesus Christ.

I push off the wall, trying to keep my voice level. "You think this is funny? You show up out of nowhere—after that conversation—and what? You just slip back in like we didn't have it?"

"Oh, we had it." Her smile falters. Just barely. "And I thought about what you said."

"Really? Before or after deciding to strut into my shift like a one-woman tornado?"

"Depends," she fires back. "Does the idea of me in your space make you mad or just hard?"

I scrub a hand down my face, groaning. "You drive me absolutely, fucking insane."

"And yet here we are." She tilts her head. "So... do I get to ride along, or do you want to keep pretending you don't want me next to you every second of the goddamn night?"

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from answering too fast. Because she's not wrong. I do want her with me. Every second. Every damn shift I'm stuck working nights, I hate not knowing where she is. If she's safe. If she's alone. If her ex returned and is stalking her.

But I'm still pissed. Still raw from earlier.

So, I lean in close—so close our mouths almost brush. "This isn't a game, Firecracker."

She doesn't back down. "I'm not playing."

"You turned your back."

"I panicked," she snaps, then instantly looks like she didn't mean to say that out loud.

Her eyes shift—uncertain, a little vulnerable.

I see it. I feel it.

So I exhale hard, grab her elbow—gently—and I start walking her out. "Let's go."

"Killian," she blurts, her voice laced with panic. She probably thinks I'm throwing her out.

Not the case.

She's coming with me. On patrol. Maybe we'll talk. Maybe we won't. But I can't stand the thought of her not being near me tonight.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks, struggling to keep up.

I don't answer.

She'll figure it out in about ten seconds.

When we reach my cruiser, I yank open the passenger door with a rough jerk.

"Get in."

She blinks. "You're not throwing me out?"

"I said get in before I change my mind."

She slides past me, the heat of her body brushing mine like static—like punishment.

And as she sinks into the seat with a triumphant grin, I mutter under my breath, "God help me."

Because she's not just trouble tonight.

She's mine.

And no matter how much she pushes, how much she runs, I already know—

I'm not letting her go.

Ten minutes later, the silence is a living thing, clawing at my ribs. She's not looking at me, just tracing the console with one finger, slow, like she's teasing the edge of a blade. The cruiser hums through Willow Creek's empty streets, the radio crackling faintly with static.

"So," she says, voice deceptively light. "Heard you turned down two dates this week."

"Not interested," I grunt, eyes on the road.

"Anyone in particular you're saving yourself for, Officer Moody?" Her tone's teasing, but there's an edge to it, like she's fishing for something deeper.

I let the question hang, my grip tightening on the wheel. Because the truth? I'm already drowning in her. Chest deep. No fucking exits.

"You know what I want," I say, voice rough, finally meeting her eyes.

She freezes, her finger stilling on the console. Her gaze is raw, wide-eyed, barely breathing. "You said you're all in," she whispers. "What's that even mean?"

I pull the cruiser over, the engine idling in the dark lot of a closed-for-the-evening warehouse. My heart's pounding, not just from want but from the terror she might bolt. "It means I'm not your rebound. Not your maybe. I'm not here for games, Kylie. I want you—real, messy, all of you. Or I walk."

The air thickens, pressing against my chest. Her throat works, her eyes flickering with panic, like she's one second from running. Then something snaps. Her breath hitches, and she moves—slow, deliberate, a fever dream unfolding.

She slides over the console, one knee on the seat, her hand pressing into my chest, fingers curling into my uniform. Her lips hover inches from mine, her scent—vanilla and trouble—flooding my senses. "Say it again," she breathes, voice trembling with need.

"All in," I growl, my hands itching to grab her.

She kisses me, hard and desperate, all teeth and tongue and raw hunger. Her nails rake my chest, then grip my shoulders, anchoring herself like I'm her lifeline. The kiss is messy, unhinged, like she's pouring years of want into me. I'm lost, drowning in her taste—sweet, wild, fucking addictive.

Then she drops.

Fast.

On her knees between the seats, her fingers are tearing at my belt with a frenzy that makes my cock throb. "Kylie—" I start, voice hoarse.

"No," she snaps, eyes flashing up at me, defiant and blazing. "No talking. Let me show you I'm in, Officer. Let me wreck you."

My hands clench the wheel, knuckles white. The radio crackles—a dispatcher's voice cutting through—but she doesn't flinch, her fingers freeing me, my cock springing hard and heavy into her grip. She smirks, wickedly, and leans in, her breath hot against me. "You think you're all in, Killian? Bet you've never let anyone run this cruiser like I'm about to."

"Fuck, Firecracker," I groan, my head tipping back as her tongue flicks the tip, teasing, slow, before she swirls around me, deliberate and filthy. Her hand pumps the base, firm and possessive, while her mouth takes me deep, her throat tightening as she hums, the vibration shooting straight to my balls. The wet, slick sound of her lips mixes with the cruiser's hum, and I'm losing it, my hips twitching despite my fight to stay still.

"Jesus, Kylie," I rasp, voice shredded, "you're sucking me like you own me." Her eyes lock on mine, lips stretched around my cock, hair a tangled mess of sin.

She pulls back, just enough to speak, her voice low and dirty. "I do own you, Officer Moody. And you're gonna come so hard you forget your own damn name."

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

She dives back in, relentless, her tongue tracing the vein along my length before she takes me to the hilt, her nails scraping my thighs, leaving marks I'll feel for days. Headlights flash across the windshield, and my pulse spikes—someone could see, could hear—but she doesn't stop, her mouth working me like she's daring the world to catch us. The risk, the taboo of her owning me in my own cruiser, makes it filthier, hotter.

"Look at you," I growl, one hand tangling in her hair, not guiding but surrendering. "Fucking me up in my own car. You're trouble, Firecracker, and I'm fucking addicted."

God, am I ever.

She moans around me, the sound vibrating through me, pushing me closer to the edge. Her pace quickens, sloppy and desperate, spit slicking her lips as she sucks harder, her hand twisting with every stroke. My control frays, my hips bucking as she takes me deeper, her eyes daring me to let go.

I want to hold back. Drag this out. Mark every second. But she's dragging it out of me like she's got a fucking leash wrapped around my soul.

"Fuck, Kylie—gonna come," I warn, voice guttural, my grip tightening in her hair. She doesn't pull back, just hums again, her tongue flicking relentlessly, and I'm gone. I come hard, hips jerking, a low groan ripping from my throat as I spill into her mouth. She swallows every drop, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving mine, like she's never letting me forget who I belong to.

She pulls back, breathless, lips pink and swollen, defiance burning in her gaze. Climbing back into the seat, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smirking. "That clear enough for you, Moody?"

I stare at her, chest heaving, my world tilted. "Crystal," I say, voice rough. But it's not enough. Not even close. Because I'm going to claim her back—every inch, every moan, every fucking heartbeat.

Her fingers brush my jaw, soft, almost tender, and for a second, I see it—her answer, not in words, but in the way she doesn't run. She's in, or at least she's trying. And that's enough for now.

But when I take her, it'll be my turn to show her what "all in" really means.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞