I've faced meth heads in mid-rage withdrawals and pulled three bodies from a wreck off Route 9 without blinking. But Kylie Everhart?

She's the one making me question my goddamn sanity. Not because she's dangerous in the usual way—no, she's the kind of dangerous that gets under your skin and makes you start imagining things you shouldn't.

I'm hunched over my desk, jaw tight, trying to fill out the incident report from her evidence room disaster. It should be routine. Simple checkboxes. A list of what she broke. A timestamp. An "uncooperative civilian" box I check so hard the pen nearly snaps. But my hand pauses when I reach the notes section, and instead of writing anything helpful, my brain supplies a vivid flash of her holding those damn zip-tie cuffs like a teddy bear. Her hoodie crooked. Eyes wide. Dust in her hair like she survived a bomb—smiling.

Like she wasn't the bomb.

My pen clatters against the desk, loud in the silence. Like it's trying to snap me out of whatever the hell this is. Obsession. Concern. Lust. Regret. I'm not sure anymore. "Jesus Christ," I mutter and shove the report aside.

"You look constipated," Hawkins says from the doorway, holding a chipped precinct mug and sipping coffee that smells like regret and machine grease. He's got that shit-eating grin he saves for moments of my personal suffering.

I don't look up right away. Because if I do, he's going to see it. The tension I can't shake. The storm I've been trying to outrun ever since she looked at me like she didn't know what I was hiding—but wanted to.

Finally, I glance up from the half-written report I've been staring at for ten minutes. "Everhart."

His brows lift, amused. "Ah. The pink menace returns."

"She's a walking liability."

He leans against the doorframe like he's got nowhere better to be. "Hotter than sin though."

I shoot him a look. "Not the point."

He shrugs. "Maybe not your point, but it's definitely mine."

Hawkins strolls in and drops into the chair across from me like this is therapy hour and he's about to bill me for it. He takes a long, loud sip of sludge that might once have resembled coffee.

"She destroyed half the evidence room," I snap.

"She also survived being buried in it, which frankly, is a miracle. Those shelves are held up by duct tape and broken dreams."

"She's chaos in boots," I mutter. "Glitter-stained, profanity-laced chaos."

And I can't stop watching her. Even when I know I should be looking away. Looking anywhere else. But she's the kind of mess that dares you to step closer.

Hawkins chuckles. "You're just mad she got to the Zip-ties before you did."

I grab the nearest pencil and chuck it at his head. He dodges without effort, still grinning.

I glare at him, but deep down, I know this is my fault for opening my mouth to begin with. Hawkins is like throwing gasoline on an open wound—messy, unhelpful, and likely to leave permanent damage.

But I can't stop.

"I found her digging through a wreck like she was playing Clue: Felony Edition," I say. "And then—then—she asked if I keep secrets."

That wipes the smile off his face.

His smirk falters. The silence between us stretches just enough to sting.

And I hate that it rattled me. That her voice—soft, serious, nothing like the usual sass—still echoes in my head like it cracked something open.

"Didn't even look scared. Just...curious."

Hawkins raises both brows.

"Yeah," I mutter. "Exactly."

He leans back. "So do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Keep secrets."

I don't answer.

Because yeah—I do.

We all do in this job. Some get filed away. Others rot quietly in the corners of your chest. I've got a whole fucking cemetery inside me. And one of the headstones says Kylie Everhart, July 14th.

I never thought I'd see her again. And now that I have—I wish I remembered less. Because the version of her I'm looking at now? She's not the girl I wrote that report on. And maybe that's what scares me.

I lean back and drag a hand through my hair.

There's something different about her.

She's still loud. Still reckless. Still looks at me like she wants to set fire to the rulebook just to watch me scramble to rewrite it.

But something's shifted.

Beneath the glitter and mouthiness, she's quieter sometimes. Quicker to deflect. That cocky grin doesn't always reach her eyes. And when she found that file—yeah, I know she did—I saw it peeking from her hoodie.

That flicker of confusion. Of fear.

She doesn't remember.

Or she's pretending not to.

Either way, it's making me restless. Curious. Unsettled in a way I don't like. I've spent years locking things down. Staying clean. Controlled. Predictable.

Kylie's none of those things.

Hawkins watches me too long. "You're staring into the void again, Moody."

"She's hiding something."

"And you're hoping it's not her underwear."

"Jesus, Hawkins."

He shrugs. "Just saying. It's been a long time since I've seen you this bothered by someone who wasn't actively trying to shoot you."

I go quiet. Because he's right.

She is getting under my skin. And not just because she's chaos in combat boots. Not just because I can still smell strawberry lip gloss on the pen she borrowed. It's the way she talks—reckless, unfiltered, but sometimes there's this edge beneath it. Like she's hiding behind the sharpness because if she ever let it dull, the truth would cut her wide open.

Because when she looked at me in that evidence room—confused, vulnerable, afraid—I didn't feel smug.

I felt something twist.

"She doesn't remember that summer," I say slowly.

Hawkins frowns. "The boat thing?"

"No. After that. The fire."

Hawkins tilts his head. "What'd you say?"

"The truth."

I don't say it out loud again, but it's echoing inside me. Everyone keeps secrets, Everhart. Some are just better at hiding them.

And I should've walked away after that.

But something in the way she asked—that flicker of uncertainty, the way her voice dipped just enough to make me think she was scared of the answer—got under my skin.

I see the flames again. Hear the sirens. Her voice—raw, screaming. And then nothing.

Hawkins studies me. "She really doesn't remember it, does she?"

I hesitate. Then shake my head. "No. Not a damn thing."

His face darkens. "You think she's faking it? Playing dumb?"

"I don't know... She didn't seem to be playing anything."

Because if she's pretending, she's either dangerous or desperate. And if she's not pretending...

Then something happened to her.

Something bad enough to erase it completely.

Hawkins tilts his head. "So. What now? What're you gonna do?"

I rub the back of my neck, feeling the weight of that moment still coiled in my spine. "I don't know. I've spent the last three days wanting to scream every time she opens her mouth, but now I keep wondering what the hell happened to make her forget. I'll have to keep watching her."

"Do you think she'll tell you?"

"No." I exhale. "But I need to know anyway."

"Because you care?"

"Because something about her doesn't add up."

Hawkins leans forward, eyebrows raised, voice casual. "Sure. And that has nothing to do with the way you were staring at her like she was the last cigarette in a prison yard."

I narrow my eyes. "I'm not—"

"You are."

"I'm not catching feelings, Hawkins."

He grins. "Didn't say you were. But you're curious. And that's how it starts."

I lean back in my chair, scowling up at the ceiling like it's got answers I haven't found yet. "She's going to be the death of me."

"She's gonna be a lot of things before that." He shoots me a look, smug and dangerous. "And if she keeps looking at you like she wants to jump you in the janitor's closet?"

I glare. "Then I'm transferring to dispatch."

He snorts. "Please. Dispatch wouldn't last a day with your sunshine personality."

"Exactly," I mutter.

But he laughs anyway, shaking his head as he stands. "Good luck, Moody. You're gonna need it."

He strolls out, still chuckling under his breath.

But I don't laugh.

I don't even move.

I just sit there, muscles tight, heart in some kind of slow-burning riot.

Because it's not funny. Not to me.

Not when every time she walks into a room, I feel it—that pull. Like gravity's been rewired and she's the new center of my orbit. It's not just the way she looks, either. Yeah, she's beautiful. But that's not the part that's dangerous.

It's her defiance. The fire behind her jokes. The way she looks at me like she sees too much—like I'm more than the badge, more than the job, more than the stone-faced bastard I've worked hard to become.

It's the questions she's not asking out loud.

It's the secrets I know she's holding, even if she doesn't know it yet.

I scrub a hand down my face and stare at the ceiling like maybe if I breathe deep enough, I'll exorcise her from my system.

No such luck.

Because Kylie Everhart?

She's not just a disruption.

She's a goddamn reckoning—past-tense, present-tense, future-tense—wrapped in pink gloss and irreverence, with a laugh that gets in my bloodstream and eyes that ask questions I don't want to answer. Or worse—ones I've buried so deep I don't even know how to.

And if I'm not careful—she's gonna make me forget how to say no.

And worse?

Part of me already wants to let her.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞