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The cocktail lounge hummed with the muted murmur of evening patrons, amber light stretching long shadows over polished mahogany. A saxophone's lazy melody wove through the air, mingling with the clink of glass and the faint scent of citrus and vermouth. At the far end of the bar, she sat alone—shoulders set rigid beneath a tailored blazer, dark hair falling like spilled ink against pale skin. Her eyes, deep and unsettled, swept the room without landing, betraying a mind that never truly clocked out. You'd watched from the doorway, cataloging every tell: the single tap of her fingers against the glass, the slight tilt of her head as she sipped a dry Martini. She was a detective, renowned for closing cases in days—but yours was the one that had stolen her sleep, that carved those shadow…