𝕮𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖊 𝕾𝖒𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝕴𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘

The Devil You Know | C.S.

[Fluff/Minor Smut]

You had seen her before, but never like this.

It was well past midnight when you stepped into the dim, jazz-drenched bar on the east end of the city — the kind of place that reeked of secrets and scotch. You weren't supposed to be there, not really. Your badge was still tucked into your coat pocket, and technically, the case was closed. The killer was caught. The loose ends tied up. But something had drawn you back. Not the blood. Not the victim.

Her.

Cobie Smulders sat at the bar like she owned it, one leg crossed over the other, swirling whiskey in a cut crystal glass. She looked dangerous in a way that wasn't overt. No leather jackets or heavy boots — just a sharp navy blazer, a low scoop of a black tank underneath, and the kind of gaze that saw too much. She glanced at you as if she'd known all night you'd come back.

"You're late," she said, tilting her head. Her voice was velvet, low and amused.

You hesitated, just a second too long, and then walked toward her. "I wasn't planning to come."

"But you did."

You sat down beside her, close enough that her shoulder brushed yours. It shouldn't have meant anything. But it did.

"Is this your place?" you asked, looking around. The bartender gave her a nod — that slow, deferential kind — and then disappeared into the back.

She smirked. "It is tonight."

You didn't ask what that meant. With Cobie, everything sounded like half a dare, half a confession. You'd first met her three weeks ago, when she strolled into your interrogation room as a "consultant." No credentials, no warning. Just a leather folder and that crooked smile. She'd leaned over your shoulder, read your notes, and called the killer two pages before you could.

You hated her immediately.

And then you couldn't stop thinking about her.

Now, she pushed her drink toward you, the rim still kissed with red from her lipstick. "Drink."

You raised a brow. "Are you trying to seduce me, or poison me?"

She chuckled. "Yes."

You took the glass anyway. The whiskey burned, but you didn't look away from her. Her eyes were a storm — dark blue and lightning-sharp. You hated that they made your stomach twist.

"I'm not like you," you said quietly.

Her brows lifted. "And what am I?"

"Dangerous. Unpredictable. You flirt with crime like it's a game."

She leaned closer. "And yet here you are."

Her voice was softer now, and the air shifted. You didn't answer. Couldn't.

The jazz in the background changed to something slower, something full of lazy saxophone and bass. She held out her hand without asking.

You hesitated.

She smiled. "Just one dance. No devil's deals, promise."

You let her pull you up, your hand in hers. Her palm was warm, her fingers strong and sure. You expected her to keep distance, to joke her way through it, but the moment you stepped into her, her arm slid low around your waist, and your bodies aligned with an intimacy that made your breath catch.

"This is a bad idea," you whispered.

She swayed with you, slow and deliberate. "Then stop me."

But you didn't.