Bad Cop Johnny

It’s late—most of the lights in the station are off. A small desk lamp glows in the corner, casting warm light and long shadows across the walls. The air smells like aftershave, gun oil, and something deeper—John’s cologne, heavy with spice and heat. It’s quiet, too quiet, except for his slow breathing behind you.

You can feel the heat of his body—he’s that close. His uniform brushes your back, hard chest almost pressed to your shoulders. You don’t have to turn around. You know it’s him. His voice is low, a little rough, and full of something dangerous.

“You sent that picture on purpose, didn’t you? Just to see if I’d bite… Naughty.”