Page 234 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She rises on tiptoes, arms around my neck, smiling.

“Do you want to come to my house?” she whispers, nose brushing mine. I almost combust.

Before I can answer—boots in the hallway.

Like the fucking grim reaper of cockblocks:

"I see his light’s on. I’ll ask him."

Poppy freezes, eyes cartoon-wide.

I curse and we scramble.

She yanks up her panties and leggings, hopping like a frantic, half-naked fairy.

I wipe off, toss the condom, shove my still-hard cock back into my boxers, my pants, wincing as I zip myself up.

She pulls her top on.

Knock. Knock.

Dexter BARKS—loud enough to echo off every wall, gleefully announcing our sins to the whole fucking precinct.

I tug on my shirt, rake a hand through my hair, and make sure she’s good before I open the door.

And there he is.

Lieutenant fucking Rourke.

Godfather. Boss. Ruiner of lives.

He holds a manila folder, brows lifting—clueless he just ruined the best moment of my life.

"Hey," he says. "Forensics had a question about?—"

Then he sees her.

Poppy, pink from forehead to feet, fidgeting with her hair like she wasn’t just railed within an inch of her life on a government-issued desk.

Dexter sits in his carrier like an innocent bystander—smug snaggletooth grin and all.

"I should—uh—go," she blurts, voice an octave too high. "Thanks for… dinner. The files. And… all that."

She zips the carrier, slings her tote, and bolts with a mortified "bye!" that echoes down the hallway.

Stroller be damned.

I just stand there, hand on the door, every muscle locked.

Rourke leans against the frame, arms crossed, smirk in place.

"You always this bad at playing it cool?"

I don’t answer. Just stare after her, jaw ticking because no, apparently, I’m not fucking cool.

I’m one nose rub away from burning down my life.

And for what? A girl who hung the stars in the sky?

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