01

The precinct buzzed with the quiet murmur of early risers and strong coffee. Morgan Gillory entered with a bounce in her step, hair slightly windswept, and a brown box in hand.

"Morning," she called brightly, holding the donuts like a trophy.

Daphne lit up. "Tell me those aren't the protein-glazed ones."

Morgan feigned offense. "Of course not, sweetheart."

Oz was already halfway to her. "I take back everything I said about you yesterday."

Karadec glanced up from his desk, one brow arched and the other furrowed slightly, setting down his pen with deliberate calm.

"You're late," he said, his tone dry but his eyes briefly flicking toward the clock before meeting hers again.

"Morning to you too, Captain Sunshine," Morgan replied, sliding the box onto the edge of his desk before making a beeline for the coffee machine.

"You're late, and you're coming with me," he said, standing up and closing the file in front of him.

Morgan froze mid-pour. "Talk about it."

"Missing persons, possibly tied to an illegal poker ring. Woman vanished two nights ago after attending a private high-stakes game. No security cams, no phone activity since. Husband's freaking out. Claims she never would've gone off the grid."

She grinned. "Hmm. Mystery, risk, underground gambling? It's like a Netflix special. Only grimier."

"Now we've got a lead. We're going to pay him a visit. Eat your donut and let's go."

—

The parking situation was less than ideal. They ended up three blocks from the target building. The spring heat was unforgiving, and Morgan already regretting her choice of heeled boots, groaned dramatically.

"Ugh. Why did you park all the way over here? My feet are gonna file a complaint."

"I parked far because you always complain," Karadec said, unlocking his seatbelt. "It's tradition."

Morgan paused before stepping out of the car, frowning at her overpacked handbag. "Okay, well. Then tradition also says you carry this. It's heavy."

"No."

"Karadec."

"No."

She held out the bag. "It's not even that heavy, you're just being difficult."

"I am not carrying your literary-makeup hybrid beast of a bag."

"Rude. There are snacks in here too."

"Still no."

Morgan sighed theatrically and prepared to haul the bag over her shoulder. But just as she moved to shut her door, Karadec came around and took it from her without a word.

She blinked. "Wait... seriously?"

"I'm already regretting it," he muttered, slinging the bag awkwardly over his shoulder. It dangled weirdly at his side, and he looked like he was holding a ticking bomb.

Morgan tried, and failed to hold in a grin. "So you do care about me getting tired."

"I care about you not slowing us down by whining every five steps."

"Sure you do," she said, trailing after him.

Karadec's obviously not made for women handbags. He shifted the bag to the other side. Then back again. Then tried to carry it like a briefcase.

"You know, it actually looks good on you. Really brings out your shoulders," Morgan teased.

He frowned with visible discomfort. "How do you women do this? It's like hauling around a brick made of lip gloss."

"That's what the patriarchy never taught you," she said sagely.

"You're exhausting."

"And you're still holding it."

He muttered something under his breath but didn't stop walking—and didn't give the bag back.

They tracked the venue to a shadowy lounge posing as a jazz bar. Karadec flashed his badge at the uninterested bartender while Morgan strolled ahead, scanning the room like she owned it.

They slid into a dim booth across from a man with slick hair and a sharper smile—Sebastien Morel, known for running illicit card rooms with too many cameras and too few rules.

"Gillory," he purred, eyes twinkling. "You're looking as disruptive as ever."

Morgan beamed. "Aww. You remembered me."

Karadec sat beside her, a little closer than necessary. "We're here about Isabelle Fournier. Ring any bells?"

Sebastien's gaze lingered on Morgan a bit too long. "Depends who's asking."

"She is," Karadec said, tone cool.

Morgan blinked, caught the undercurrent. His posture hadn't changed, but there was a slight forward lean now, protective. A quiet claim. She nudged his knee with hers under the table. Karadec didn't move, but his jaw twitched once.

"We just want to know if she played that night," Morgan said.

Sebastien dragged his eyes back to her face. "She did. Won big, too. Left with a man I didn't recognize. Tall. Shaved head. Leather jacket. Didn't get a name. She didn't seem scared."

"She hasn't been seen since," Karadec said sharply. "So whether she seemed scared or not is irrelevant."

Morgan's brow lifted. That tone. It wasn't just cop-mode. It was... sharper.

Sebastien leaned back. "Relax, Detective. Just telling you what I saw."

"We'll need security footage," Morgan said, interrupting before Karadec could speak again.

Sebastien chuckled. "You'll need a warrant."

Morgan leaned in, smile sweet but eyes steel. "Then I'll get one. But if I were you, I'd consider how many gaming licenses you're not supposed to have before the paperwork starts flying."

There was a pause. Then Sebastien gave a slow nod, amused. "Still dangerous. I like that."

Karadec stood abruptly. "We're done here."

Morgan followed, flashing a grin at Sebastien over her shoulder. "Send the tape to the precinct. And drink water. You look dehydrated."

—

Back in the bullpen, Karadec worked in silence while Morgan unwrapped another donut at her desk in front of his, humming lightly.

"Sebastien seems nice," she said casually.

Karadec's hands tightened holding the files. "He's scum."

"Charming scum."

"He was undressing you with his eyes."

She turned to him, lips quirking. "Noticed that, did you?"

"I have eyes."

"And feelings?"

He glanced at her, deadpan. "A strong aversion to criminals, yes."

"Uh-huh," Morgan murmured, taking a slow bite of her donut. Karadec didn't look up. She chewed thoughtfully, eyes drifting toward him. "You did the lean again."

Now he looked up. "What lean?"

She shrugged. "That thing you do. Subtle shift forward. One shoulder angled toward me. It's your... I don't know, your 'guy proximity' stance."

He gave her a blank look. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course not." She took another bite, pretending to study the box of donuts like it was fascinating.

He didn't respond. He kept flipping through his report, eyebrows slightly knit.

She peeked over at him, smile small. "You're really good at that, by the way."

He didn't look up. "At what."

"That whole 'stone-faced professional who absolutely doesn't care' routine. Really convincing."

His lips quirked, just slightly. "It's not a routine."

"Mhm." Morgan turned back to her screen, tapping her pen once. Twice.

They sat in silence for a few beats, the kind that stretched just long enough to make the air feel thick.

Then Karadec cleared his throat, standing. "I'm grabbing another coffee. You want?"

She blinked. "Oh, sure. Same as always."

He nodded and walked off.

Later that day, they watched the grainy footage from Sebastien's club. It showed Isabelle winning hand after hand, her smile growing with each stack of chips. Then the man appeared. Leather jacket, cool swagger, sunglasses indoors. Isabelle hesitated briefly, then followed him out.

"No license plate," Karadec murmured.

"No camera outside," Morgan added.

"Either she trusted him... or he gave her no choice."

They sat side by side in the viewing room, shoulders nearly touching. The space buzzed with quiet urgency, but neither spoke.

Finally, Morgan leaned back in her chair. "I'm gonna interview Isabelle's husband again. Maybe she mentioned this mystery guy before."

"I'll come with."

She smirked. "Because you're protective?"

"Because you tend to ask invasive personal questions and forget to record the answers."

"Fair."

They rose in unison, the silence between them charged, not with tension, but with something quieter, steadier, beginning to take shape.