Page 4 of Vigilante Twink and the Cop

“Oh,” he says, not moving away from where we’re still half tangled together. “I’m so sorry for walking into you.” His eyes drag over me, slow and unbothered, like he’s got all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it. “Or am I?”

The smile that follows is pure cheek, no apology in it whatsoever.

“What are you doing here?” It comes out rougher than I mean it to, more growl than question, and I hate that I know exactly why. I am flustered. I am a forty-four year old detective standing in a derelict hospital next to a body left in the worst possible position a man can be found in, and I am flustered by a stranger’s smile.

“Urban exploring.” He says it like it explains everything, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world to be doing in a derelict building at three in the morning. “For my YouTube channel. You’d be amazed how many subscribers a decent abandoned hospital gets you.”

“Through which door?”

He blinks. Just once. Just a fraction too long. “Side gate. Same as you, probably.”

“I came in the front.”

“Then I suppose I’m more adventurous than you.” The smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it widens, like he’s enjoying this, like getting caught somewhere he shouldn’t be, by a detective twice his age, is the most fun he’s had all week.

I should be asking for ID. I should be walking him straight to a uniform and having him processed properly, name, address, the full sweep, the way I would for anyone else who turned up loose at a fresh scene. Instead what comes out of my mouth is, “Name.”

“Micah.” A beat, just long enough that I notice it.

“Surname?”

He smirks. “Nope.”

“Everyone’s got a surname.”

“They do.” He tilts his head, considering me, like he’s the one deciding whether I’ve earned anything further. “Doesn’t mean I’m handing mine to a stranger in a dead hospital at three in the morning.”

I find myself reaching for my badge, less because I need it and more because some buried, deeply unprofessional part of me wants to watch what he does with it.

“Detective Inspector Lennox.” I hold it up between us. “I need your name.”

Something shifts across his face, fast and total, the cheek dropping away like it was never there. His eyes go wide in an entirely different way than before, no fear in it at all, just open, unguarded delight.

“Oh.” He leans in slightly to actually read it, like he wants to be sure. “You’re a cop.”

“That’s generally what the badge means.”

“That’s so hot.” He says it like he’s commenting on the weather, easy and unbothered, and the worst part is how thoroughly I enjoy hearing it. I haven’t been looked at like that in years. Possibly ever. I clear my throat and try very hard to remember which one of us is supposed to be in control of this conversation.

“Name,” I say again, firmer this time, mostly for my own benefit.

“Micah Vee.” No hesitation now, no coy beat, nothing held back. He gives it freely, like the badge unlocked something in him that the flirting hadn’t touched. “Do you need my address too? I can give you my address. I can give you anything you want.”

The way he says it, low and a little too pleased with himself, makes it an invitation rather than cooperation, and I am annoyed at myself for enjoying the difference.

“This is a murder scene.”

His eyes go wide again, properly this time, all that delight collapsing into something that looks exactly like fear.

“Oh no.” His voice has gone small. Young. Genuinely frightened, or close enough to it that I can’t find the seam anywhere. “I didn’t, I had no idea, I would never have come in if I’d known. Is that why the door was already open? Was there someone else in here with me the whole time?”

He wraps his own arms around himself, and the gesture is so unguarded, so entirely without performance, that every careful instinct I’ve spent twenty-two years building tells me to step closer instead of further away. To put a hand on his shoulder and tell him he’s safe now. I don’t let myself do it. But I want to, and that wanting is its own kind of warning I’m already choosing not to listen to.

“I’ll need a number as well,” I tell him. “In case we need a statement.”

He rattles it off before I’ve even finished asking, eager in a way that should probably reassure me, but doesn’t.

“You’re free to go home,” I tell him. “Try not to film any more murder scenes.”