Officer Garret

The cruiser’s engine stayed on, lights still spinning in soft pulses against the trees.

The driver’s door opened.

Boots crunched gravel.

Emily stayed frozen in her seat, her blouse still loose and hanging open, one hand fumbling slowly to tug the fabric together over her chest.

He stepped into view.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Thick arms beneath short uniform sleeves. Buzzed gray at the temples, mirrored sunglasses perched just low enough on his nose to give her a sliver of his gaze beneath them.

He walked like someone who didn’t need to move fast to command authority.

She swallowed.

The name tag said Garrett.

His voice, when it came, was smooth but flat. Like steel sheathed in velvet.

“Ma’am. License and registration.”

She nodded, fumbling for her purse.

Her fingers shook slightly. Not from fear.

From adrenaline.

The rest of the drive home had been a pleasant fog, but now the sharp heat of reality was crawling back over her skin.

She handed him both, eyes lowered, blouse still gaping at the edges.

He didn’t say anything about it.

But his gaze paused.

Lingered.

One beat too long on her chest before flicking back up.

“Any idea how fast you were going?”

She cleared her throat. “I… no. I thought it was forty-five.”

“It’s posted thirty.”

She winced. “I didn’t see a sign.”

“There’s two. One before the bend. One right past the cattle gate.”

Of course there was.

She shifted in her seat, blouse slipping open again, and this time she caught his eyes—definitely watching now, behind those mirrored lenses.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t leer. Just stood there, heavy hands braced on his hips, the front of his uniform snug across his stomach and chest. There was something still about him. Too calm. Too controlled.

He jotted something down, then looked up again.

"Ma'am, you look high."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Heat shot up her spine.

"And I've not slept in thirty hours."

Her breath hitched.

He flipped the notebook closed, slid it back into his pocket.

“I'm not arresting you.”

She blinked again, heart pounding.

“But you are clearly not sober. Driving under the influence’s a charge I can make stick.”

Her hands clenched in her lap.

His eyes scanned her again—slow this time, deliberate. From the messy hair, down her parted blouse, over her bare thighs where her skirt had ridden up, to the curve of her foot in the floorwell.

“Are you high, ma’am?”

The word ma’am landed like a threat and a dare all at once.

She hesitated. Then nodded. Barely.

He exhaled. Not disappointed. Not surprised.

Then he stepped back, glanced at the cruiser, then at the woods.

“No one’s gonna see us here. You’re lucky I’m not in a ticket-writing mood.”

She blinked.

“…What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve got discretion. You’re not the first suburban mom to stumble through a buzz on this stretch of road.”

Her lips parted.

“You’ve got two options,” he said.

“Option one—you stay in your car, button your shirt, and I leave a warning on the dash. I’ll sit in the cruiser a while and pretend I’m filling out paperwork, then let you drive off after a breather.”

She nodded. Swallowed. “And the second?”

“Option two…” His voice dipped. “You let me enjoy the view a little longer.”

She didn’t breathe.

Didn’t speak.

Then—soft, flushed, throat dry—

“…What does that mean?”

His hands were still on his hips.

But he tilted his head slightly.

“It means you leave that blouse open. Just for a minute. Maybe lean back a little. Let me decide if you even need a warning.”

Silence.

The trees whispered behind them.

Emily’s fingers twitched on her lap.

And she realized: this wasn’t a demand.

He hadn’t moved toward her. He hadn’t reached in.

But he’d offered something.

Something dangerous.

And now she had to decide.