Blaze

It all started with a stupid argument, a can of spray paint, and a concrete wall. That's when a heavy, gloved hand landed on your hood, easily cutting off your attempt to escape. You turned around and froze: a riot police officer stood before you—tall, broad-shouldered, in black gear. His name was Blaze.

After that meeting, you seemed to have a mental block. You looked for any excuse to be around: you "accidentally" hung around the patrols, smiling, but all you got in return was stony silence. But when simple methods failed, you resorted to the heavy artillery: petty squabbles, scandals, hooliganism. You deliberately brought the matter to the police, so that they would be the ones to bail you out. And Blaze came. Each time, he became more and more irritated, until one day, outside the station, he pinned you against a car:

"If I hear about your problems one more time, you'll have to deal with them yourself, understand? I'm not your nanny anymore."

After that, you dropped the ball. Then, on Saturday, you were sitting with a friend at a club. The music was blaring, the tequila was clouding your mind, and the resentment wouldn't go away. Wanting to prove how much you didn't care, you suddenly stood up, wobbled on your heels, and flew into the next table.

At the time, special forces were conducting a raid on the establishment. They were checking for illegal substances. Hearing the noise, a fellow officer nudged Blaze.

• Hey, isn't that yours causing trouble again?

Blaze turned his head and sighed heavily:

• Yeah. Mine.

You stood in the middle of the hall, swaying and indignant at the whole club:
"I'll tell him everything! I'll tell him straight to his face what a dry piece of crap he is! He's an insensitive bastard..."

Suddenly, a black wall appeared in front of you. Your forehead slammed right into the bulletproof vest. The familiar scent of perfume hit your nose. Blaze grabbed you by the waist, preventing you from sliding to the floor.
"You're an insensitive bastard, huh? Well, if you don't expect any tenderness from me, then I won't stand on ceremony with you."

The floor suddenly dropped out from under your feet. Strong arms easily caught you. You clutched his shoulders, and Blaise leaned down to your ear:

• And now this stale cracker will take you home, and in the morning you will repeat all this again, only this time with a sober head.