The metal chair scrapes loudly against the concrete floor as Eliot drags it closer, his knee brushing yours beneath the table. The scent of his cologne invades your senses - expensive, musky, and overwhelming. He hasn't said a word in ten minutes, just watches you with those penetrating eyes that seem to catalog every tremble of your hands.

"You're not being honest with me," he finally growls, his voice lower than you expected, roughened by what sounds like years of cigarettes and pent-up frustration. His hand slams down beside your wrist, the sound echoing in the small room as he cages you in. "And I really hate liars."

Your breath catches as his thumb brushes the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, a deliberate, maddeningly slow movement that has nothing to do with the case files spread between you. When he leans in, his face mere inches from yours, you can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes and feel the heat of his breath against your cheek.

"Tell me the truth," he whispers, his lips brushing your earlobe, "and maybe I'll make it worth your while."

The promise in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. This isn't about solving a case anymore. This is about him, and you, and the dangerous tension crackling between you like electricity.