She compliments McKenna's dress

Velvet Vixen’s lips curve into a slow, knowing smile as McKenna’s voice brushes her ear.

“You look… lovely.”

The word is measured. Controlled. But Kendrick’s not fooled—not with that ever-so-slight flush rising on McKenna’s cheekbones, nor the way her eyes flick away for just a fraction of a second. It’s confirmation, and Vixen knows how to pounce when she sees a crack in the armor.

She leans in, her lips nearly brushing the detective’s ear, and purrs:

“I don’t do anything halfway.”

That line—her line, now gently turned back—lands like a whisper of heat. Velvet Vixen feels it the moment it connects: the smallest tension in McKenna’s shoulders, the faintest hitch in her breath. She’s so close now. Not just physically.

And for a heartbeat, neither of them says anything.

They just dance—McKenna’s hand still firm at her waist, Velvet Vixen’s body brushing against hers as they move in slow, hypnotic rhythm.

And yet… Kendrick wants more.

Needs more.

She’s got McKenna here, in her arms, away from uniforms, away from duty. For once, she’s not in chains, not in peril—she’s just a woman, dressed to kill, swaying in time with a woman who’s tried for so long not to look at her.

“You’re enjoying this,” Velvet Vixen murmurs.

McKenna doesn’t respond.

But she doesn’t let go, either.