Under His Watch

In hindsight, maybe lighting a match inside a porta-potty wasn’t my best idea.

But hindsight is for people who think things through. I’m more of a vibes and poor impulse control kind of girl.

And this vibe? Absolute, flaming, catastrophic chaos.

It starts like this: I’m at the county fair, trying to survive a chili dog that’s staging an armed revolt inside my stomach. The beer tent ran out of Pepto. The guy at the funnel cake stand refused to make eye contact with me because of last year’s incident involving powdered sugar and a mechanical bull. And the only available bathroom is a tilted blue box of bacterial death that smells like someone pissed directly into the concept of dignity.

So yeah. I go in. I do my business. And when I find a half-used matchbook in my purse, leftover from a date I’d rather wipe from history, I have one simple, well-intentioned thought: Maybe this will help the smell.

What I didn’t account for was the half-empty bottle of hand sanitizer leaking next to the toilet paper… or the fact that alcohol-based gel is basically rocket fuel.

One flick. One tiny flame.

And then boom.

The blue walls glow with heat. The toilet lets out an awful gurgling sound that’ll haunt my soul. Then the whole thing blows apart like a poop-scented firecracker went off inside a bad carnival ride.

I barely make it out in time, fumbling with my pants and hitting the gravel hard, looking less like an action hero and more like the extra who gets taken out immediately. Behind me, the porta-potty erupts into a mushroom cloud of burning plastic, smoke, and absolute humiliation.

Kids start screaming. Moms pull their children close. Somewhere nearby, a guy in a hot dog costume actually passes out. And over all the chaos, someone shouts, “It’s happening again!” which feels wildly overdramatic, considering the circumstances.

And right in the middle of it all, standing there like he’s been expecting this the entire time, is Killian Moody. One hand on his hip. The other was already reaching for the cuffs.

Because naturally, he is.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he says, voice low and flat like he’s talking to a live bomb. Which, honestly, is fair.

His mirrored sunglasses glint in the sun. His jaw looks like it was carved by spite and protein powder. His arms are crossed over a chest that absolutely does not skip bench day, and his expression screams Why, God, why me?

I push to my feet, brushing dirt and gravel off my jeans, and offer my best innocent smile. “Officer Moody. Fancy meeting you here. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

His eyes sweep over me, the singed hair, smoke clinging to my clothes, one shoelace melted into something that used to resemble footwear, and I swear I see a muscle twitch in his jaw.

“That thing’s still smoking,” he says, nodding toward the wrecked porta-potty. “So is your shirt.”

“Oh.” I pat down the scorched fabric. “Little toast. Adds character.”

“Pretty sure it gives you arson charges,” he says under his breath.

“That seems a little dramatic.”

“That is extreme.” He takes a step closer, towering over me in that way that makes me want to fight him and maybe lick him a little. “You lit a match in a chemical toilet, Everhart.”

I hold up a finger. “To be fair, it was for the greater good. People were suffering.”

“People are still suffering,” he says, glancing at the hot dog guy who’s being fanned with a corn dog wrapper.

The porta-potty lets out one last wheeze before the roof collapses.

Killian blinks. Slowly.

“DO you have any idea how bad this looks?” he asks.

“On a scale of one to ‘local news headline,’ I’m thinking… viral TikTok,” I say brightly. “And if we stage it right, I could sell merchandise.”

His jaw flexes. “Merchandise.”

“Yeah. T-shirts that say I Survived the Porta-Potty Inferno of Willow Creek. You could even sign a few. Boost your image with the locals.”

He stares at me for a long, painful beat.

Then he says, “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

So, I do. And if the sound of the cuffs didn’t click so loud, I’d have pretended it was foreplay.

“You sure you don’t want to just write me a ticket?” I ask sweetly, letting him secure my wrists behind me with frankly unnecessary firmness. “Maybe a stern warning? A slap on the—”

“Finish that sentence,” he growls, “and I’ll add resisting arrest.”

I grin and lean back against his chest just enough to annoy him. “Kinky.”

He sighs like a man rethinking his entire career path. “Everhart, I swear to God—”

“Relax, Moody. It’s just a little accidental arson. Who hasn’t accidentally set a mobile bathroom ablaze during peak chili dog hour?”

His eyes cut to mine, dark and dangerous. “Everyone. Literally everyone but you.”

The crowd parts like the Red Sea as he leads me through the gravel lot, one large hand curled possessively around the chain between my cuffs. It’s not sexy. It’s manhandling. Still, I can’t help the little show I put on.

I lift both bound hands awkwardly behind me, elbows cocked at angles that probably look unhinged, and flap them around like a deranged Miss America. “Hi, friends! Don’t forget to tip your carnie!”

One guy actually starts clapping. A little kid points at me and yells, “That was awesome!” Somewhere off to the side, a teenage boy holds up a hand for a high five, but with my wrists cuffed behind my back, the best I can manage is a solemn nod.

“Live fast, little dude,” I tell him gravely.

Beside me, Killian lets out the kind of sigh that sounds one step away from homicide. “Keep walking.”

“You know,” I say brightly as we reach the cruiser, “you arrest me way more often than you ask women out. Ever think maybe you’ve got a thing for me?”

His response is instant, dry as desert heat. “I’d rather tongue-kiss a taser.”

“Oooh. Say that slower.”

He opens the car door, pauses, and turns just enough to look me dead in the eye. “I’d rather. Tongue. Kiss. A. Taser,” he says with slow, menacing enunciation. “And if you make me repeat myself again, I swear to God I will find a way to charge you with public stupidity.”

I beam. “See? You do care.”

Without another word, he ducks his head and lowers me into the back seat with all the gentleness of a bouncer tossing out a drunk girl who tried to climb the DJ booth. The door slams shut behind me like a gavel.

The inside of the squad car smells like leather, gun oil, and Killian’s stubborn masculinity. Everything is painfully neat, like the interior of a man who irons his socks. He climbs into the front without a glance back, adjusts his rearview mirror like I might pull a fast one, and grips the steering wheel so tight I’m pretty sure it’s about to file a restraining order.

Silence.

He doesn’t say a word.

I hum the Cops theme under my breath. Loudly.

When that doesn’t break him, I shift around and ask, “Are we going to do the whole Miranda rights thing or just skip straight to the part where I break out of holding with a paperclip and a charm bracelet?”

“You’re not funny.”

“You’re not denying that it’s possible.”

He exhales slowly, like counting to ten, but already halfway to rage blackout.

“You know,” I say, watching him out of the corner of my eye, “this is basically foreplay in my world.”

He slams on the brakes at a red light so hard I nearly face-plant the cage in front of me. “You think this is a joke?”

I look him dead in the eyes. “Everything’s a joke, Killian. Some of us just don’t walk around with a nightstick up our ass.”

His nostrils flare like he’s reconsidering every life choice that brought him here. “You’re lucky the judge has a soft spot for lunatics.”

I scoff. “Lunatic is such a harsh word. I prefer being called a ‘creative problem solver with boundary issues.’”

He doesn’t bite, but his knuckles go white on the wheel. I’m calling that a win.

The rest of the ride is silent except for the squeak of leather under his shifting grip and my occasional humming, alternating between Jailhouse Rock and the Mission: Impossible theme, just to see which one makes the vein in his forehead pop first.

By the time we pull into the station, the cruiser smells of tension, sarcasm, and mild smoke damage from the flaming-toilet incident.

He parks with a jerk and yanks open the back door. “Out.”

“God, buy me dinner first,” I mutter, as he hauls me out like a grumpy personal butler with rage issues.

His hand is firm on my arm as he marches me through the front doors of the precinct, trying to pretend the lobby full of onlookers isn’t watching the town’s walking scandal roll in in cuffs again.

We enter the building, and sure enough, Janice, the front desk queen of sass and bingo gossip, glances up from her mug and smirks.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Everhart.” She narrows her eyes knowingly. “Let me guess. Caught streaking across the courthouse fountain again?”

I grin widely, cuffs still shining under the fluorescent lights. “Nope. But close. I like to keep things spicy.”

Janice cackles. Killian groans.

“Could you not encourage her?” he mutters, steering me toward the back with even less patience than before.

Janice calls after us, “Next time, at least invite me! I’ve got bail money and tequila!”

I blow her a kiss over my shoulder. “You’re on, Jan!”

Killian doesn’t say a word, but I can feel the judgment radiating off him like a human furnace. He’s practically dragging me down the hall now, as if silence and speed will break me. As if it will make me stop talking.

He’s wrong.

By the time we reach processing, his jaw’s a ticking bomb, and his grip could bruise steel. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t smile. Just moves like a cop-shaped robot fueled by rage, caffeine, and creatine.

In the intake room, he finally uncuffs me, rougher than necessary but not enough to complain, and hands me a form.

“What’s this?” I ask, spinning in the chair like I’m five and waiting for a lollipop.

“Your new schedule.”

I squint. “Community service?”

“Yes. Thirty days of it,” Moody says, already sounding like he regrets the following words. “Judge Ramirez approved early diversion because the jail’s overcrowded, and your charges are still minor. Sergeant Rebus assigned the precinct as your service placement. I’m supervising it.”

I blink. “Wait. That’s a thing now?”

Killian shrugs. “That’s what happens when you get arrested five times in three weeks, and the jail’s already overflowing.”

“I am not a threat to society,” I mutter. “I’m more like a misunderstood social experiment.”

He keeps walking like I didn’t say anything. “You should actually be thanking me. You were one bad decision away from an orange jumpsuit. Instead, you get community service, scrubbing floors and alphabetizing evidence bags.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “So who decided you get to babysit me?”

“Oh, that was all me,” he says, sounding way too pleased with himself. “The clerk pulled up your intake paperwork and asked if I wanted to stick you in sanitation, admin, or field work. I told her I’d take care of it personally.”

I stare at him. “You volunteered for this?”

“I told Rebus I’d handle it.”

“Why?”

He opens the cruiser door and gives me a flat look. “Because somebody has to stop you from turning community service into a citywide disaster.”

I cross my arms, leaning back in the chair. “You know, I always thought you hated paperwork.”

“I do,” he says. “But watching you suffer? That’s worth it.”

His smile is cruel. Beautiful. Lethal.

“You’re assigned to the precinct. Under me.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“Too late. Signed, sealed, and cursed.” He leans down, voice dangerously smug. “You’ll show up here tomorrow at eight a.m., ready to work. And if you so much as breathe out of line, I will personally drag your ass back to court and ask for jail time.”

I glare. “This is personal for you, isn’t it?”

“It became personal the day you poured glitter into my air vents.”

I grin, all teeth. “Oh come on, it was biodegradable glitter. I made your car smell like vanilla sparkle for weeks. You’re welcome for the upgrade, Sergeant Buzzkill.”

He leans in closer. I feel his breath against my cheek, warm and dangerously steady.

“You think you’re funny, Everhart. But I don’t do cute. I don’t do chaos. And I sure as hell don’t do second chances.”

“Well, good news for you, Officer Moody.” I smile sweetly. “I don’t do authority. I don’t do mornings. And I definitely don’t do cops.”

He pulls back, his smirk curling like a warning. “We’re going to have a problem.”

“Probably,” I agree.

He watches me like he’s trying to calculate how many ways I’ll make his life hell. Which is funny, because I already have a list in my head—and glitter is just the appetizer.

As I saunter toward the door, hips swinging just a little too much out of pure spite, his voice cuts through the room like a blade.

“Eight a.m., Everhart. Don’t be late.”

I pause in the doorway and turn back, flashing him the brightest, most insincere pageant smile I can muster.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Moody.”

I rub my newly-freed wrists dramatically, as if I’ve escaped a war camp, and blow him a kiss with my still-smudged fingers, then sashay out like the floor’s on fire and I’m too hot to burn.

I hear him mutter something that sounds suspiciously like “unbelievable.”

And maybe I am.

But one thing’s for damn sure.

I’m absolutely sleeping in.

Just to piss him off.

Tomorrow morning, Office Killian Moody becomes my supervisor.

My punishment.

My problem.

And judging by the way he looked at me when he said my name?

I might just become his.

Let the games begin.

Spoiler alert: I don’t play fair.