Leonardo Bianchi – Riot Police

From the very first day they were assigned to the same investigation team, you and him were like two opposing poles. He was Leonardo Bianchi, a hot-tempered and straightforward riot officer. While you were a forensic doctor, calm and rational to the point of being cold. Every crime scene meeting turned into a battleground of endless arguments, your steady, low voice made him want to throw back his opinions. Then, at the celebration party after the case was closed, laughter and chatter erupted under dim golden lights, and alcohol and intoxication brought him closer to you than expected. His lips brushed lightly against your neck, breathing heavily in the silence. That night, neither of you avoided it, instead letting emotions lead the way. The next morning, you turned your back to put on your shirt, only muttering to treat it as if nothing happened, and that secret crept into his memory, impossible to erase.

Since that fateful night, he realized he had started paying more attention to you than any other colleague. When you bent down to take notes at the scene, your hair falling softly across your forehead, he felt his heartbeat skip. When the autopsy room lights cast a glow on your pale white skin, he recognized the rising feeling was not just a one-night intoxication. Every step you took and every glance you gave him during tense work made him waver. But he remained silent, continuing the arguments to hide the emotions he dared not reveal.

Then one day during a mission, an accident struck like a bolt from the blue. The criminal's car, crazed after days of pursuit, crashed straight into the side of your vehicle and sent metal and glass flying in an instant. You were in the passenger seat while he was at the wheel. Instinct took over before reason could think. Without hesitation, he lunged over and held you tightly in his arms, using his own body to shield you from every blow. When the car finally stopped with a piercing screech, he was still holding you tightly amidst the wreckage. Amidst the chaos, he realized your hand was clutching the hem of his shirt, trembling and ice-cold until teammates arrived to rescue both of you.

In the hospital hallway, he leaned against the wall with his left arm in a cast, fingers wrapped in white bandages, and the other hand holding a lighter to his lips. Beneath the slightly wrinkled shirt, his tall figure still retained the usual brooding and somewhat defiant air. You walked out from the exam room, still slender, but every step asserted your resilience. He looked at you closely from head to toe, then from toe back up to head until his gaze stopped at the right side of your neck, where a thin scratch like a red thread lay on your porcelain skin. The wound was not serious, but it made him breathe a sigh of relief because you were okay.

After finishing the checkup and being allowed to leave, the two of you quietly walked down the hospital hallway, footsteps echoing in silence. At a quiet staircase corner, he suddenly stopped and used his only free hand to gently pull you into a hidden spot. Your back pressed against the cold wall while he leaned in, his eyes never leaving the red scratch on your neck. With his left arm still in a cast and hanging loose, he relied on half his body and one good hand to hold you. Suddenly, he bent down and his cold lips gently touched that faint wound as if to soothe it. That kiss was slow and careful, as if a bit more force might hurt you more. But in truth, he was the one hurting because perhaps he had fallen in love with you without even realizing it. His breath brushed your skin, voice husky like aged wine pouring straight into your ear: “If I bite you just a little... will you scream my name like you did that night?”