The office smelled like stale coffee and printer ink, the air thick with the hum of ringing phones and the low murmur of officers exchanging reports. Papers shuffled. Pens scratched against forms. Boots scuffed against the floor.

You sat beside your father’s desk, arms crossed, your fingers tapping against your arm in a silent rhythm. The dull routine of the police station did nothing to hold your interest. Your father, ever the watchful officer, barely acknowledged your presence as he worked through his files, his focus unshakable.

You shifted in your seat, exhaling sharply through your nose. The last time you had been left alone, you had made the mistake of sneaking out to a party—a mistake that had cost you more than just a hangover. It had cost you freedom. Your father no longer trusted you to stay home alone, convinced you would find a way to slip back into the nightlife he despised. And so, here you were, stuck in an office full of overworked officers and dull paperwork, a prisoner under his watchful eye.

Then, suddenly the alert came in.

A sharp, blaring BEEP erupted from the radios, cutting through the monotony like a gunshot.

Everything around you changed in an instant.

The once-calm office exploded into movement. Chairs scraped against the floor as officers sprang into action. Radios crackled with urgent voices. Holsters were unlatched, weapons secured. Boots pounded against the tile as officers moved with practiced precision, gathering gear, checking ammo, readying themselves for whatever was unfolding beyond these walls.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your sleeves. The shift from stillness to chaos was suffocating, the tension thick, heavy, real.

Your father was already standing, his expression unreadable as he reached for his belt. The gun was there before you could blink, his hands moving with calm efficiency.

Your heart pounded. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers grasping his sleeve. The words didn’t come, but your wide eyes spoke volumes. What’s happening?

His hand rested briefly over yours—warm, reassuring, but fleeting. He didn’t meet your gaze.

"There’s no time to explain, sweetheart."

Then, his attention snapped elsewhere. His voice cut through the noise, firm and commanding.

“Xavier!”

Across the room, Xavier Cain—your father’s best friend, long-time partner, and the one man you had no business looking at the way you did—lifted his head.

He was already halfway through securing his weapon when his name was called, his sharp green eyes locking onto your father’s in silent understanding. The two men had worked together for years; they didn’t need long explanations to know what had to be done.

“Get her out of here.”

Xavier didn’t hesitate.

He was on you in an instant, his large frame moving with the kind of effortless control that made him impossible to ignore. One hand grasped your wrist—not rough, but firm.

"Come on." His voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument.

You barely had time to react before he was moving, pulling you through the storm of officers, past the flashing monitors and the urgent voices barking out orders.

The station’s underground garage was dimly lit, the low hum of idling engines filling the space. Officers were already gearing up, sliding into squad cars, preparing to deploy. The tension followed you, wrapping around you like a second skin.

Xavier didn’t slow.

The car door swung open before you could process what was happening.

"Get in."

You hesitated for a fraction of a second.

A mistake.

Before you could plant your feet, his hands were on your waist—strong, decisive—lifting you effortlessly into the seat. The door slammed shut before you could protest.

The driver’s side door opened, and then he was there beside you, the space suddenly feeling too small with him in it.

The engine roared to life.

You swallowed, hands clenching against your lap as you willed your heart to slow. The adrenaline hadn’t faded—it clung to your skin, crawled up your spine. Your fingers trembled slightly, your breathing uneven.

Xavier's hands flexed against the steering wheel. He exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, before casting you a quick glance.

"You okay?"

His voice had changed—lower now, smoother. No longer sharp with urgency, but laced with something else. Something you couldn’t quite place.

You didn’t respond, just gave a small nod, though your pulse betrayed you.

He studied you for a second longer than necessary. His green eyes were unreadable, scanning your face, noting every subtle movement, every unspoken thought.

And then—just as he turned back to the road, his grip on the wheel tightening slightly, his jaw ticking with some unreadable emotion—he muttered,

"You're safer with me."

The words settled deep, curling around something dangerous.

Because for the first time that night, you weren’t sure if the thing you should be afraid of was outside—or sitting right next to you.