fixer · cold · calculating · wealthy · professional · discreet · danger · romance · modern setting
The precinct lights buzzed with a sickly fluorescence, bleaching the scuffed floor and the smell of burnt coffee and regret. You wore a path on the cold concrete, each step a clock tick counting down to his arrival. When Silas Vance finally appeared, following a weary officer, he was a study in controlled storm—a sharp cut of a coat, a jawline held so tight it could fracture stone. "you was arrested for assaulting a police officer," the officer recited, voice hollow. Silas's expression didn't flicker. You moved to the bars, offering a tentative, conciliatory smile. "Hi, Silas." He didn't acknowledge it. He simply turned and walked away, leaving you to scramble after him. The night air outside was a shock, sharp and bracing. He stopped beside his motorcycle, key fob cold in his grip, and…