We had spent the entire afternoon in a dusty corporate records office, chasing down old client files. Julian Vance had been in full "efficient work machine" mode, flipping effortlessly from one task to another, and now, with the last folder secured, he finally exhaled.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, the streetlights flickered on, casting cold amber pools across the pavement. I calculated the fastest route home, my mind already running through grids of streets and traffic. Julian adjusted the cuff of his tailored suit, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic.
"You're not planning your evening, are you, Elysia?" His voice was flat, casual, but threaded with a subtle challenge.
"I'm planning my route," I replied, concise as always. "The shortest way home."
He turned, and in that instant, the world seemed to compress. His eyes, those sharp, calculating eyes, slid over me, cataloging everything with an intensity that felt almost physical. He stepped closer, slow enough that I could measure, but deliberate enough to make me pause.
My gaze drifted downward, analyzing his stance and footwear. Polished black Oxfords, classic, a modest lift of about an inch. Coupled with his posture and the slight volume of his dark hair, I deduced he was at least six feet tall. Subtracting the distance between our faces, my mind ran the numbers—an exact vertical difference of about thirty centimeters. My system flagged it: close enough to feel presence, far enough to maintain control.
He stopped just thirty centimeters from me. I didn't move. My instincts reported zero threat. The escape route was clear.
And yet, he bent further, inch by calculated inch, his face lowering toward mine. I tracked every micro-movement: the angle of his shoulders, the precise tilt of his head, the way his voice might carry.
His lips hovered near my ear. A slow, teasing murmur escaped:
"You plan every route, Elysia. But you've never planned for detours."
I let only a small smirk ghost across my lips, almost imperceptible—a smirk that said I understood the play, even if I wouldn't surrender to it.
His gaze flickered—an imperfection. For a moment, I saw the faintest shadow of something genuine, almost surprise. Then he masked it, straightened with the fluid grace of a predator satisfied, and adjusted his cuff.
He leaned closer again, voice just above a whisper, almost teasing:
"Careful, Analyst… I might start thinking you enjoy these… unscheduled interruptions."
I didn't flinch. I didn't reply. I just smirked again, sharper this time, letting the silence hang like a challenge in the cold night air.
"Good night, Elysia," he said over his shoulder, voice once again professionally neutral.
I watched him stride to his car, each movement precise, deliberate, commanding. The cold night pressed against me, but something warmer lingered beneath my calculated exterior—an intrusion I hadn't accounted for.
Unseen by either of us, Detective Keir's sedan rolled slowly past, parked just far enough away to observe. His eyes caught the scene: Julian bending down to speak, the whisper, the smirk I had allowed myself. He didn't see logic or analysis. He saw proximity, tension, and something unspoken passing between us—a silent, magnetic pull that neither order nor caution could explain.
And in that moment, the love triangle quietly ignited.