The first time I saw Kylie Everhart, causing havoc, she was fifteen, setting off fireworks in the middle of Main Street, wearing a tiara and her famous combat boots.

I remember the way the sparks lit up the night and the unbothered smirk she gave me when I told her to stand down. She was in her combat boots. Eating a Popsicle. And she looked me dead in the eye and said, "It's for the children, Rent-a-Cop Jr. on training wheels." There were no children. Just a drunk guy named Richard egging her on.

The second time I arrested her, she was sixteen, for being involved in a slip-n-slide stunt that ended with three stolen traffic cones, an inflatable duck, and a very traumatized goat. To this day, no one's sure where the goat came from.

Now she's here. In my precinct. With a box fan spewing smoke and a smug grin that makes my blood pressure spike.

I scrub both hands down my face like that'll erase the image of her under the desk this morning—ass in the air, cursing like a sailor while elbow-deep in printer cables. I've dealt with cartel smugglers with less attitude. Run toward live gunfire with more calm than I feel when she opens her mouth.

Three hours in, and I'm ten seconds from tasing her. Not even out of duty. Just for peace.

This morning alone, she's taken down our Wi-Fi, tampered with federal equipment, turned a printer into a crime scene, and bedazzled my stapler like she was prepping it for the Met Gala. And Janice—the same woman who once maced a rookie for stealing her string cheese—brought her coffee. Coffee.

What fresh hell is this?

Janice is humming wedding music under her breath and giving me that look every time Kylie walks past. The precinct loves her chaos. They're entertained.

I'm ready to self-immolate.

And the worst part—the absolute goddamn worst part?

I keep looking at her.

Not because I want to. Not because I should.

But because every time I glance in her direction, she's doing something absurd. Like arguing with the vending machine. Or sorting files while singing Beyoncé like she's headlining the damn Super Bowl. And my brain—my professionally trained, badge-holding, emotionally calcified brain—short-circuits at the sight of her in that pink crop top, mouthing off to a broken fax machine like it insulted her mother.

I pass her door again.

She's got her boots on the desk, highlighter in one hand, earbuds in, conducting an invisible orchestra while tossing peanut M&Ms into the air and catching them with her mouth. The second she spots me, she winks.

I don't stop walking.

Because if I do, I'm going to say something I'll regret. Or worse—something I won't.

Janice intercepts me at the breakroom.

"She's good for you," she says casually, sipping her tea.

"Excuse me?"

"Kylie. She'll keep you young. Maybe even loosen that stick up your ass."

I scowl. "She's a walking safety violation."

Janice smiles sweetly. "She's also the first person who's made you stop growling at everyone in six months."

"I'm not growling."

"You just did it now."

I glare.

She just winks and walks away, humming something that sounds suspiciously like Crazy in Love.

The door swings shut behind her, and I'm left standing in the breakroom with a cold coffee, an uncooperative vending machine, and the lingering echo of her words.

She's good for you.

Good for me? Kylie Everhart is a Category 5 hurricane in combat boots and lip gloss. She's the human equivalent of a pulled fire alarm—chaotic, shrill, and impossible to ignore.

She's also the first person who's made me feel anything other than numb in a long damn time.

And maybe that's the part that scares me most.

I sigh, scrub a hand down my face, and refocus on the vending machine. I didn't come in here for unsolicited life advice—I came for pretzels and silence. At least one of those should be possible.

I punch in the code for pretzels, wait for the ancient machine to whir, groan, and finally deliver the goods with a thunk.

In the distance, faint strains of Beyoncé drift down the hallway. Of course, she turned the music back on. And she's singing about drunk love again.

Why was every damn song she picked about heat or kissing or fire?

I shake my head, grab the bag, and head for the door.

Because if I don't check what she's doing in the next three minutes, odds are I'll find her riding the office chair like a rodeo bull or zip-tying the fax machine for insubordination.

And God help me, part of me wants to see it.

I tell myself I'll just walk past her door. Keep going. Pretend I don't hear the music. Don't notice the mess. Don't care.

I do all of that—and then keep walking.

Straight back to my office, where I sit down, breathe deeply, and try to will my headache away.

No dice.

There's still glitter on my pen. I swear it smells like strawberry lip gloss.

And then I hear it—again. The ancient fan sputtering like it's dying a slow, smoky death. A beat later, a thud. Then silence.

Her laugh cuts through the hallway, sudden and unfiltered. Like she forgot the world could hear. I used to live for that sound. Didn't know it until it disappeared.

I stand. Slowly. Calmly. Like a man heading into a hostage negotiation with no intention of compromise.

When I get to the door, I don't knock. I just walk in.

And there she is.

Dancing.

Full-body, hips-swaying, hair-flipping, folder-as-a-mic dancing. Combat boots stomping the tile like she's owning the stage. There's a pink Post-It stuck to her thigh, and she's mouthing "Crazy in Love" like the lyrics were written in her honor.

I freeze.

Not because I'm impressed.

Because I'm angry.

Angry, and maybe a little... stunned.

Because that top is criminal. The way it clings to her. The way it moves with her.

And I hate—hate—that my first thought is, I remember that mouth.

Kylie twirls, sees me, and grins like she's caught mid-felony and dares me to cuff her anyway.

"Officer Moody," she purrs. "You're just in time for my encore."

"Nope." I raise a hand like I'm casting out a demon. "We're done. Music off. Chaos down. Folder dance revoked."

"You're no fun," she pouts, killing the music with a dramatic sigh. "Someone woke up with their badge in a twist."

I ignore the sway in her hips, the tilt of her smile. The way her jeans ride low enough to make me consider early retirement.

"You blew out the Wi-Fi," I bite out. "Fried the server. Lit a fan on fire. And now you're throwing a solo concert in the middle of government property."

"Technically," she says, holding up a finger, "I hosted a private morale-building experience. Very exclusive. Just me and Queen Bey."

"Two warnings a day," I remind her. "You're out."

She shrugs. "Guess I'll have to earn more."

That smile—sharp and sweet and soaked in trouble—goes straight to my blood. It's a dare. A punchline. A promise.

And God help me, part of me wants to rise to it.

I should leave.

I should throw paperwork at her and walk out.

But I don't.

I lean against the frame, arms crossed. "You're gonna burn out fast."

"Oh, baby," she says, "I was born in flames."

I stare at her.

Really stare.

And she doesn't look away.

She's wild. Relentless. Dangerous in all the right ways. And so goddamn alive, she makes everything else feel dim, like cardboard.

She makes the room crackle.

And for the first time in years, I feel off-balance.

I lower my voice. "What are you doing here, Kylie?" She was seventeen. I was too old—five years too old. Too cautious. Too smart to even look her way—and not nearly smart enough to stop wondering what her mouth tasted like when she smiled. "Really. Why'd you come back?"

For a second—just one—her smile falters. Her eyes flash with something raw.

But then she recovers. Shrugs like it's nothing. "Court order. Remember? Poor impulse control. A judge's flamingo. The whole thing was blown out of proportion."

"That's not what I meant."

She tilts her head, studying me. "What did you mean, then?"

I don't answer.

Because if I do, I'll say something stupid. Like how I still remember the way she used to laugh, like she wasn't afraid of anything. Like how I used to watch her sneak into my peripheral like she belonged there. Like how I've spent too long pretending her disappearance didn't gut me.

I clench my jaw. Push off the doorframe.

"Keep it down."

She salutes. "Yes, sir."

The tone is 80% sass, 20% stripper routine.

I slam the door harder than I mean to.

Not because I'm pissed.

Because I need distance.

I drag myself back to my office, I rake both hands through my hair, and curse the day I agreed to supervise her community service. She's a walking disaster. A neon pink hurricane with a rap sheet and zero shame.

And yet I keep imagining what it'd feel like to touch her. Just once. Just enough to quiet the storm—or let it drag me under.

Which is a problem. Because I'm a cop.

A disciplined, no-nonsense, uptight, rules-matter kind of cop.

Who is definitely not thinking about the curve of her ass or the way she looked at me just now, like she saw something I haven't shown anyone in years.

I stare at the laptop screen. The blinking cursor mocks me. Every time I try to focus on the intake logs, her voice snakes back into my brain like it's on loop.

Oh, baby, I was born in flames...

I slam my drawer shut. The whole cabinet rattles.

Five minutes. I just need five goddamn minutes without her taking up mental real estate like she pays rent.

So I try.

I go over last week's reports. I skim a pending complaint. I even reply to an email from Hawkins that's been sitting in my inbox for a month.

Before that, I remember how this whole mess started. Cooper, grinning like a jackal, sliding the folder across my desk.

"You've got nerves of steel, Moody. Babysitting one civilian won't kill you."

Turns out steel melts.

Just as I start reading a log entry about misplaced tasers, I hear laughter outside my office. It's Michaels and Torres. Someone mutters, "Moody and the Mouth," and the other snickers.

I see red.

She's not mine.

I'm not hers.

And people need to stop talking like they're waiting for me to pin her against a copier.

Eventually, I cave. Tell myself I'm just doing a check-in. A supervisory sweep. Nothing more.

I push up from my desk and make my way down the hall, already preparing a speech in my head about professionalism and respecting taxpayer-funded electronics.

And that's when I find her.

Bent over the table.

Elbow-deep in a box labeled stationery, mumbling to herself and poking the fan with a paperclip.

"For science," she says when she catches me watching, like she's conducting a goddamn peer-reviewed experiment.

I blink. My eye twitches.

I'm vibrating.

"If you're trying to seduce me, Everhart," I mutter, "at least wait until HR goes on lunch break."

She grins, all mischief. "You wish. This angle's strictly for the paperwork."

I turn on my heel, bark my shin against a file box, and hiss through my teeth.

This woman will be the death of me.

She's reckless, chaotic, impossible—and I can't stop watching her. Like she's the match, and I'm already soaked in gasoline.

And the worst part?

A stupid, silent, traitorous part of me—might let her.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞