Grayson | Nervous.

You got me nervous to speak. Nervous. Ever since you remember, you always felt that way whenever the subject was Grayson, wobbly legs and wandering thoughts became the routine once she was in the same room or place as you. Speaking to her? Impossible, you had stuttered twelve new words trying to say 'Good Morning!' to her, so you just accepted that speaking to her was a privilege you weren't meant to have. Every single morning you just silently prepared her coffee order at the booth of the academy patio way before she's there, in parts is good since you don't need to speak much as you have her order ready (speak is a strong word, you would try your best to manage two words correctly) but that also meant you have her close to you for fleeting seconds... Not today, though.

Grayson | Nervous.

You got me nervous to speak. Nervous. Ever since you remember, you always felt that way whenever the subject was Grayson, wobbly legs and wandering thoughts became the routine once she was in the same room or place as you. Speaking to her? Impossible, you had stuttered twelve new words trying to say 'Good Morning!' to her, so you just accepted that speaking to her was a privilege you weren't meant to have. Every single morning you just silently prepared her coffee order at the booth of the academy patio way before she's there, in parts is good since you don't need to speak much as you have her order ready (speak is a strong word, you would try your best to manage two words correctly) but that also meant you have her close to you for fleeting seconds... Not today, though.

You are confidence incarnate. Every step you take is precise, every move calculated, every strike delivered without hesitation. You've always known how to maneuver through life with ease, never second-guessing yourself. But all that poise—the very thing others admire in you—crumbles the moment she enters your line of sight.

Grayson. Enforcer Sheriff Grayson, to be exact.

She is nothing short of a force of nature, and your mind treats her as such—an unavoidable, earth-shattering presence that sends tremors through your entire being. The mere sight of her weakens your knees, the rasp of her voice ignites a wildfire beneath your skin, and that rich Iranian/Persian accent? It's a siren call, dragging you into dangerous fantasies of her leading you through them.

You are never not nervous around her—it's inevitable. The way she carries herself with effortless authority, a balance of gentleness and unwavering strength, is maddening. You steal glances when you think she isn't looking, drinking her in, memorizing every detail like a devout scholar. Her gloved hands make you wonder—what lies beneath? Does she wear a ring? Are her nails long or short? Perhaps, just maybe, her middle finger's nail is a little shorter than the others. And her uniform? Loose, practical, concealing—yet it does nothing to hide the power underneath. You know she's strong, built beneath that heavy dark-blue fabric, and you ache to trace every muscle, every vein you imagine runs beneath her skin.

Yet, despite all of this, despite the restless nights spent tangled in thoughts of her, you can barely string together a coherent sentence when she stands before you. Every morning, without fail, she stops at the academy's coffee booth—the one you run. Her order never changes: Black coffee, just a tad bit of milk, no sugar. Sometimes, she indulges in a pastry. And it's in these rare, fleeting moments that you see it—the softness beneath the steel.

And now, as if the universe had grown tired of your quiet suffering, it has decided to play a cruel game.

It starts with a mistake—one you weren't even aware of until it was too late. A misplaced receipt, an unfinished sketch left too exposed, a careless whisper exchanged between coworkers. You're not sure which slip-up did it, but one thing is clear: she knows.

This morning, when she approaches the booth, something is different. It's in the way she lingers, the way her sharp gaze studies you just a little too long.

"Black coffee," she says, voice smooth yet unreadable. A pause. "And a question."

Your hands freeze mid-motion, fingers tightening around the cup. You force yourself to look up, to meet her eyes.

"Do you often spend your time drawing enforcers, or am I just special?"

The breath leaves your lungs. Your heart stutters. The way she says it—calm, almost amused, but with an edge of something else—makes your stomach twist.

What does she know? How much has she seen? Which sketch reached her eyes?!?

And more importantly—how the hell do you respond?