Finally, The Date
7:30 PM
Marios Italian Restaurant
The restaurant was perfect—intimate without being stuffy, upscale without being pretentious. Candlelight, exposed brick walls, the smell of fresh bread and wine.
They were seated in a corner booth, private enough to keep things appropriate.
At least, that was the plan.
Detective Ramirez: “So, Officer Santos. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
Santos: “Besides the fact that I apparently yell ‘tsunami’ in front of my entire precinct when I’m not thinking straight?”
Detective Ramirez: “Yeah, you can get wetter than a local water park, but besides that.
Although for the record, I’m never letting you get away with that one.”
Santos: “I figured. Okay, something you don’t know… I wanted to be a dancer when I was a kid. Ballet. I was actually pretty good.”
Detective Ramirez: “A dancer? That explains the flexibility.”
Santos felt her face flush.
Santos: “Ramirez! Don’t start”
Detective Ramirez: “What? I’m just saying, when you wrapped your legs around—”
Santos kicked him under the table.
Santos: “Remember we agreed on being appropriate, remember? Having an actual conversation?”
Detective Ramirez: “Right, right. Sorry. Continue. You were a dancer.”
Santos: “Until I blew out my knee out at seventeen. That was the end of that dream. So I figured I’ll get into law enforcement. Figured if I couldn’t dance, I could at least chase bad guys. Turns out I’m pretty good at that too.”
Detective Ramirez: “You’re incredible at it. The way you handled yourself yesterday, even after Henderson knocked you out—most people would have panicked. You stayed calm, stayed smart.”
Santos: “I had good motivation to stay alive. I had a date to get to.”
Detective Ramirez: “Speaking of which, I’m sorry Henderson ruined our first attempt.”
Santos: “Are you kidding? You saved my life. That’s like… the ultimate romantic gesture. Although the flowers are nice too.”
The waiter brought wine, and they ordered food. Pasta for her, steak for him. And then the conversation deepened.
Santos: “Okay, my turn. Why do they really call you Hurricane Tongue?”
Ramirez nearly choked on his wine.
Detective Ramirez: “Really? We’re going there?”
Santos: “We’re going there. I’ve experienced it firsthand—twice—and I still don’t understand how one human being can be that… skilled.”
Ramirez leaned back, his expression shifting from playful to something more serious.
Detective Ramirez: “Honestly? I had a girlfriend in college. She was older, and more experienced. She taught me a lot and in so many words it’s not just about the destination—it’s about the journey. About paying attention to details of every response, every reaction. About making whoever you are with feel like they the only person in the world.”
Santos: “And the tongue thing specifically?”
Detective Ramirez: “She said most guys rush. They don’t take their time. They don’t pay attention. So she taught me to slow down. To explore. To find what works and then… amplify it.”
Santos: “Well, she was an excellent teacher.”
Detective Ramirez: “But here’s the thing, Santos. With other women, it was . Like trying to hard to impress. But with you—”
He reached across the table and took her hand.
Detective Ramirez: “—With you, it’s a different feeling. I don’t have to think about it. I just want to make you feel good. I want to hear those sounds you make. I want to watch you lose control.”
Santos squeezed his hand, her voice dropping softly.
Santos: “Ramirez, if you keep talking like that, we not going to make it to dessert.”
Detective Ramirez: “Who says we need restaurant dessert?”
Their eyes locked across the table, and the temperature in the room seemed to spike about twenty degrees.
The waiter arrived with their food, breaking the moment. They ate, but the conversation stayed intimate.
Santos: “Okay, real talk. What do you want from this? From us?”
Detective Ramirez: “Honestly? I don’t know yet. All I know is that I can’t stop thinking about you. And not just the physical stuff—though trust me, I think about that a lot—but you. Your laugh. Your strength. The way you don’t take any of my crap.”
Santos: “I do take some of your crap. Exhibit A: I let you handcuff me to a stairwell.”
Detective Ramirez: “You enjoyed every second of it.”
Santos: “That’s not the point.”
Detective Ramirez: “That’s exactly the point. Santos, I want to see where this goes. For real. Not just stolen moments between cases. Actual us. Actual relationship. If you’re willing.”
Santos felt something shift in her chest. This was real. He was being real.
Santos: “Should I be terrified.”
Detective Ramirez: “Of what?
Santos: “Of how much I already feel for you. It’s been a week, Ramirez. One week. And you’ve completely turned my world upside down. That’s terrifying.”
Detective Ramirez: “Want to know a secret?”
Santos: “Always.”
Detective Ramirez: “I’m terrified too. Because I don’t do this. I don’t catch feelings. I don’t do relationships. But with you? Santos, I’d do anything. I’d transfer precincts if it meant being closer to you. I’d knock down a hundred Hendersons. I’d even—”
He paused
Detective Ramirez: “—I’d even stop calling myself Hurricane Tongue if you asked me to.”
Santos: “Don’t you dare. I’ve grown fond of the nickname. Both of them.”
Detective Ramirez: “Both?”
Santos: “Hurricane and Tsunami. Although I still think Tsunami is overkill.”
Detective Ramirez: “Just wait until I really go with my moves.”
Santos: “Is that a threat or a promise?
Detective Ramirez: “With you? Always a promise.”
They finished dinner, the conversation was flirty and serious, between playful and intense. By the time dessert arrived—ice cream they shared—Santos realized she was having the best date she ever had.
And they hadn’t even kissed yet.
Well, not tonight anyway.
Detective Ramirez paid the check—refusing to let Santos split it—and walked her back to his car. The night air was cool, and without thinking, Ramirez draped his jacket over her shoulders.
Santos: “Such a gentleman.”
Detective Ramirez: “Don’t get used to it. I’m still a natural disaster, remember?”
Santos: “I’m counting on it.”
In the car, the drive back to her apartment felt too short. They talked some more this time about everything—favorite movies, worst arrests, family stories, embarrassing moments. It was easy. Comfortable.
But underneath it all was an electric current of anticipation.