Chapter 1: The Jell-O Shot Relay
The bullpen of the 99th Precinct hummed with a different kind of energy. It was after hours, the usual chaos of ringing phones and shouted complaints replaced by the low, anxious buzz of fluorescent lights and the scent of stale donuts going sour. Desks had been shoved against the walls, creating a ragged clearing in the center of the room.
Charles Boyle stood on a wheeled chair, one trembling hand holding his phone aloft. “The arena is set! The champions are ready! The gelatin is… moderately stable!” His voice echoed with performative gravitas.
In the cleared space, Amy Santiago stood ramrod straight, her eyes fixed on a water stain on the ceiling tiles. She’d unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt, the crisp cotton pulled aside to expose a long, clean line of her collarbone and the gentle slope of her shoulder. On her skin, gleaming under the harsh light, were three orange Jell-O shots, quivering in a perfect row.
Jake Peralta cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders like a boxer entering the ring. His smirk was in place, but his eyes held a focused intensity usually reserved for perp chases. “Relax, Santiago. It’s just a culinary obstacle course.”
“It’s a sanitation nightmare, is what it is,” Amy muttered, her breath hitching as he stepped closer. The cool air of the bullpen raised goosebumps on her skin everywhere except the warm, sticky line of Jell-O.
From her desk, which served as a royal dais, Gina Linetti inspected her nails. She didn’t look up. “The challenge is simple, plebeians. Retrieve the shots. No hands. Efficiency, artistry, and minimal gagging are worth points. Boyle, you’re filming for archival purposes. This is history.”
Rosa Diaz leaned against a filing cabinet, arms crossed. She said nothing. She just watched, her dark eyes tracking Jake’s every micro-movement, analyzing like a predator studying a rival’s hunt.
“Okay,” Jake breathed, more to himself than anyone. He leaned in, his face inches from Amy’s neck. He could smell her perfume—something clean like soap and linen—undercut by the synthetic, citrus tang of the gelatin. He could see her pulse hammering in her throat.
He started at the top, near the curve of her shoulder.
His tongue was warm and flat, sweeping a firm, decisive path through the first globule of Jell-O. It was sugar and artificial orange, but underneath was the salt of her skin. Amy jerked as if shocked, a sharp, quiet gasp escaping her. Her fingers, clenched at her sides, tightened into white-knuckled fists.
Charles zoomed in, whispering commentary into his phone’s microphone. “The technique is bold, folks. Direct. No finesse yet, but the commitment is there…”
Jake moved to the second shot. This time, he adjusted. He used the tip of his tongue, collecting the wobbly mass with a slower, more deliberate lick. He felt the delicate architecture of her collarbone under his mouth, the stark contrast of hard bone and soft skin. Amy’s breathing shallowed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. A faint, inadvertent sound, almost a whimper, vibrated against his lips.
A snort came from the throne. “Deduction,” Gina announced, bored. “Peralta’s making it weird. It’s a snack, not a love letter. Two-point penalty for audible simmering.”
Jake’s concentration broke. He snorted a laugh against her damp skin, the unexpected vibration drawing a genuine, flustered giggle from Amy. The laugh escaped her, high and nervous, and she instinctively tilted her head back, offering more of her neck.
It was an involuntary surrender, a crack in her professional armor.
Jake saw it. Felt it. The game shifted. His competitive drive, his desire to win the stupid Jimmy Jab point, melted into something hotter and more singular. The bullpen, Charles’s filming, Gina’s judging—it all dissolved into a grey buzz. All that existed was the heat coming off Amy’s skin, the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath his lips, and the intoxicating, unfamiliar sound of her laughter.
For the third and final shot, he didn’t just lick. He closed his mouth over the spot, his lips sealing around the Jell-O and a half-inch of her skin, sucking gently to pull the sweetness away. He lingered for a half-second too long, cleaning a stray drip with a slow swipe of his tongue.
Amy’s entire body trembled. The file cabinet she was leaning against creaked.
“Whoa,” Charles breathed, lowering his phone.
Rosa’s eyes narrowed. She gave a single, slight nod. A technical assessment. Efficient.
Jake pulled back. His face was flushed. Amy’s was scarlet, her eyes wide and unfocused, staring at the precinct ceiling as if seeing it for the first time. The skin of her collarbone was shiny and clean, marked only by a faint, pink blush.
The silence was thick, punctuated only by the relentless fluorescent hum.
Gina broke it. She finally looked up, a slow, appraising smile spreading across her face. “Well. The gelatin is gone. Points for… thorough cleanup. Major points off for unregulated fraternization and causing a Santiago system malfunction. The final score is… pending judicial review.”
She pointed a long finger at Amy. “You. You’re vibrating. Compose yourself.”
Amy snapped her mouth shut, mechanically beginning to re-button her shirt with fumbling fingers. She couldn’t look at Jake.
Jake wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste of orange and Amy Santiago still on his tongue. The cocky smirk tried to fight its way back onto his face, but it felt fragile, unconvincing. The room came crashing back—the silly games, his friends, the absurdity. But the echo of her pulse against his mouth felt more real than any of it.
Charles hopped off the chair, breaking the spell. “Incredible! A new era for the Games! The sexual tension was palpable, the technique revolutionary! Jake, can you describe the mouthfeel?”
“Shut up, Charles,” Jake and Amy said in unison, their voices overlapping. They glanced at each other, then quickly away.
Rosa pushed off the filing cabinet. “The technique was adequate,” she stated, her voice flat. “The emotional distraction was a liability. You’d be dead in a real situation.” She turned and walked toward the locker room, her exit a silent verdict.
Gina spun once in her chair. “The event is concluded. The court is adjourned to scour the internet for next week’s challenge. Dismissed, but not forgotten.”
The bullpen felt suddenly, oppressively ordinary. The cleared space was just empty floor. The desk fortresses were just cluttered desks. Jake’s heart was still pounding a weird, uneven rhythm against his ribs.
Amy finished buttoning her shirt, tucking it in with sharp, precise motions. She picked up her blazer, not looking at him. “That was… unsanitary,” she said, her voice strained. “And unprofessional.”
“You signed the waiver, Santiago,” Jake said, recovering slightly. “The Jimmy Jab Games are a sacred precinct tradition.”
“It’s a vector for disease,” she shot back, finally meeting his eyes. Her gaze was a turbulent mix of anger, embarrassment, and something else he couldn’t name—something that sent a fresh jolt through him. “And you… you giggled. You ruined the form.”
“You giggled!”
“It was a reflexive tracheal spasm!”
They were back. The bickering was a familiar script, a life raft. But the words were empty, just noise filling the space where something else had just happened. The air between them still crackled, thin and charged, like the moment after a lightning strike.
Amy slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out, her steps a little too quick, her posture a little too perfect.
Jake watched her go. He could still feel the ghost of her shiver on his lips. Charles was babbling about frame rates and upload schedules, but the words blurred into nonsense.
For the first time in a long time, Jake Peralta had won a game and had no idea what the prize was, or if he’d just lost something much more important. The taste of artificial orange was already fading, leaving behind a mystery he suddenly, desperately needed to solve.