Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

It’s just a key.

One small, jagged piece of metal. Silver. Slightly worn on the edges from years of being tossed onto counters, dropped into jacket pockets, forgotten at the bottom of purses.

It doesn’t look like much. But it unlocks a door that’s been part of Celina Juarez’s daily life longer than most people.

Lucy turns it in her hand before holding it out. No drama. No speech. Just a quiet kind of certainty — the kind that’s been written all over her since the moment she decided to move in with Tim.

“I figured it’s time,” Lucy says, half-laughing. “I mean, if I’m keeping his spare toothbrush in my bag, I probably shouldn’t be keeping mine on the sink.”

Celina snorts. “Weird flex, but okay.”

They laugh.

And for a second — just a second — it feels normal again. Like nothing’s really changing. Like this isn’t the end of an era.

Lucy’s bags are already stacked by the door, and Tim’s truck is sitting outside. This time, he didn’t come in. Gave them space. Celina had expected that.

What she hadn’t expected was the strange ache in her chest as she stared at the now-empty corner of the apartment that used to be filled with Lucy’s ridiculous collection of plants.

“You’ll visit,” Celina says, more of a challenge than a request.

“I’ll drag Tim over for dinner. He can critique your takeout choices.”

Celina rolls her eyes. “He’ll survive the pad thai, he’s not made of glass.”

Lucy smiles again — but it’s softer now. Sad. Grateful. The kind of smile that says she knows exactly what she’s walking away from, even if she’s walking toward something good.

“Thanks,” Lucy says quietly.

“For what?”

“For making this place home when everything else was chaos.”

Celina could say something real. Something honest. But that’s never been her style — not when she’s feeling everything too much and trying not to show it .

So instead, she shrugs. “Don’t forget to take the blender. It’s technically yours.”

“Yeah, and you still haven’t used it once.”

They laugh again — a little too loud, a little too long. Covering the quiet underneath it.

And then Lucy opens the door. Tim’s waiting on the sidewalk, hands in his jacket pockets, expression softening the moment he sees her.

Celina stands in the doorway, watching them load the last box. Watching Lucy slip into someone else’s passenger seat, into someone else’s life… and wondering why this feels less like a goodbye and more like being left behind.

The apartment feels too quiet when she closes the door. Too big. Too… not hers.

She stares at the now-empty bedroom across the hall. The one with scuffed baseboards and a lightbulb that flickers and the window that never quite closes right.

She should post the listing.

She should start looking.

But instead, she picks the key up off the counter and places it gently in the drawer by the front door — where Lucy used to keep hers. Like muscle memory. 

Like habit. Like it still means something.

She tells herself it doesn’t.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: The Spare Key

Celina meant to sleep in.

She really did. No alarms, no shift, no responsibilities. Just one blissfully quiet day off to adjust to the new reality of living alone.

Except it wasn’t quiet. It was too quiet.

The hum of the fridge suddenly sounded like it was trying to break the lease. The loose hallway window that had always been a little squeaky now groaned like a ghost. And worst of all, the living room didn’t smell like Lucy’s coconut-shea conditioner anymore.

She hadn’t realized how much that scent grounded her until it was gone. Now everything just smelled like… air. Clean and empty. Like a hotel room no one had checked into.

Celina threw the covers off with a groan, swung her legs out of bed, and immediately stepped on something sharp.

“Damn it, Lucy.”

She bent down, inspecting the culprit: a bobby pin. Probably the last one Lucy would ever leave on her floor.

Rude.

By noon, she’d rearranged the spice shelf, reorganized her sock drawer, and almost convinced herself that the ache in her chest was just mild heartburn.

She told herself she wasn’t spiraling.

She definitely was.

And then she opened the rental app and saw twenty-two unread messages from strangers wanting to see the spare room.

Half of them were obviously bots. A few were real people. One had a profile picture of what looked like a snake wrapped around a vape pen.

Oh hell no. Absolutely not.

Celina closed the app and dropped her phone face-down on the couch.

She didn’t need a roommate. She could swing the rent. She could talk to her plants. She could totally exist in silence like a perfectly well-adjusted, emotionally stable adult even if she may or may not go broke—

A knock interrupted her spiral.

She stared at the door.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Celina padded over and peeked through the peephole. And groaned.

“Miles?”

“Hey!” His voice was muffled through the door. “Sorry, I should’ve texted, but Tim said you were home and I figured —”

She opened the door mid-sentence. “Why are you here?”

Miles stood there with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a gym bag in his hand. He looked… sheepish.

Not guilty, exactly. Just aware he was about to make her day worse in a way that might involve her blender or her sanity.

“Okay, so—” he began, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “Hear me out.”

“Oh god.”

He set the bags down. “I may have gotten locked out.”

Celina blinked. “Of your apartment?”

Miles winced. “Yeah, so… I’ve kind of been living with Smitty.”

Her brain short-circuited. “What?”

“It’s temporary!” he said quickly. “Tim kind of knew about it, but I don’t think he approved? I figured it would be short-term, but it’s been a while.”

“You’re living with Smitty.”

“In his van,” Miles added, like that somehow improved the situation. “And I use ‘living’ loosely. More like ‘rotating shift of terror.’ The man stores unrefrigerated cold cuts in the glove box, Celina. I think I saw something moving in the sink last week, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a sponge.”

Celina just stared.

“I left for work early today, locked myself out, and now he’s in Palm Springs with no cell reception and a very vague Instagram caption about enlightenment.”

She blinked again, slower this time. Like maybe if she didn’t react, this entire conversation would disappear in a puff of smoke.

“You came here because—?”

“Because I figured you’d be nicer than Tim, and Lucy already gave me the moral green light.”

Celina opened her mouth, then shut it again. “She did not.”

Miles pulled out his phone. “Wanna bet?”

As if on cue, buzz. Her phone lit up.

Lucy Chen:
Let him crash. He’s cleaner than me and probably won’t take your blender.

Celina sighed. “Fine. Couch. One night.”

Miles beamed. “I owe you.”

“Try anything weird and I’ll tase you.”

“Fair.”

He flopped onto the couch with the enthusiasm of someone who had just escaped a haunted meat locker. Celina crossed her arms and stared at him for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re not here for just the night, are you?” she asked flatly.

Miles hesitated, lips twitching into a half-smile. “I mean… we’ll see how generous your hospitality is?”

Celina rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“I’m charming,” he said with a shrug. “It’s a burden.”

“Try quiet and invisible instead.”

He saluted from the couch. “Copy that, Captain Hostile.”

 —

She made it five hours before she started regretting her decision.

Miles was infuriatingly pleasant. He offered to help with dinner. Washed every dish as soon as it was used. Laughed at her Netflix commentary. He even offered her the last slice of garlic bread without being prompted.

And he didn’t hover. That was the worst part.

He didn’t fill the silence like Lucy did. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He didn’t pry. He just existed—neatly, quietly, and inoffensively—in her space.

Like he belonged there.

And Celina hated how fast she got used to it.

“You sure you don’t want the last slice?” he asked, nodding toward the plate between them.

“Positive.”

“Great.” He picked it up, took a bite, then froze. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“I didn’t mean to say ‘great’ so fast. That makes me sound selfish.”

She stared at him.

“Do-over?” he asked.

“You’re so weird.”

“You say that like it’s not part of my charm.”

“You don’t have charm, Miles. You have… whatever this is.” She gestured vaguely.

“Effortless magnetism?”

“Labrador energy.”

He grinned. “I’ll take it.”

Celina leaned back into the couch, absently pulling the blanket over her lap. Her muscles were still coiled from the day, but something about the garlic bread and the bad TV and the fact that he hadn’t tried to “fix” her made her shoulders drop, just slightly.

“You know,” Miles said after a long pause, “I was kind of bracing for impact tonight.”

She didn’t look at him. “Because of me?”

“No, because of your taser,” he deadpanned. Then, softer, “Yeah. Because of you.”

Another pause.

“You’re handling it way better than I thought you would.”

Celina snorted. “That’s because I’ve emotionally flatlined.”

He made a face like he couldn’t tell if she was joking.

She was. Mostly.

They sat in silence a while longer. The TV flickered across their faces. On screen, someone ran dramatically through the rain. Neither of them acknowledged it.

Then, quietly, Miles said, “You know, this couch is actually pretty comfortable.”

Celina didn’t answer right away. Then:

“Good.”

A beat.

“But don’t get used to it.”

Miles grinned again. “Too late.”

—

By 11:30, she was curled up in bed with a book, trying not to overthink the sound of him shifting on the couch.

Her brain refused to cooperate.

It kept saying things like:

He fits here.

It’s too quiet when he’s not talking.

This doesn’t feel temporary.

She turned a page without reading it. Her eyes skimmed the words, but nothing stuck. Not when she could hear the couch cushions creaking faintly in the next room. Not when she could still smell garlic and laundry detergent and the weirdly comforting scent of his shampoo drifting down the hall.

Celina groaned and shoved her pillow over her face.

This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t.

Miles was… Miles. Sweet and reliable and probably already in love with some girl who bakes muffins and volunteers with puppies on the weekends.

The kind of person who had good posture and texted back in under five minutes.

He was not her type.

She didn’t have a type.

She had a boyfriend.

She had a plan.

She was already P2. She had momentum. She had a plan. Build her case history. Work her way into Investigations. Prove she belonged — here, in this city, in this life. Not get sidetracked by someone who made folding laundry look like a soft skill and kept accidentally slipping past all her defenses.

This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

It couldn’t.

And still —

In the quiet, her brain whispered one more thing.

You didn’t ask him to leave.

—

By 11:45, Miles had rotated through four different positions on the couch, two failed attempts at sleep, and one internal debate about whether or not it was too soon to fake a plumbing emergency and leave.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. He could hear the faint rustle of pages turning in the bedroom, the occasional creak of old pipes, and the existential hum of every bad decision he’d ever made.

He was keenly aware of three things:

1. The couch was actually pretty nice.
   
   
2. He definitely wasn’t supposed to think that.
   
   
3. He should’ve gone to Tim’s.
   
   

Sure, Tim would’ve lectured him about boundaries and being a grown adult and possibly made him sleep on a weight bench in the garage. But it would’ve been less complicated . Less… whatever this was.

Celina had barely looked at him all evening. She made dinner without asking for help until he physically inserted himself into the process, and even then, she’d handed him the garlic press like it was a loaded weapon. And yet—

She hadn’t kicked him out.

She hadn’t set any real boundaries.

She hadn’t even said no to the garlic bread.

Which meant... what, exactly?

He stared at the ceiling, wondering if this was a test. Or worse, if this was just kindness and he was reading into it because he’d spent one too many nights trying to avoid eye contact with Smitty’s glove box salami.

This wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

She had a boyfriend.

She was his friend.

Okay, “friend” was generous. Co-worker with mutual trauma and decent banter. And a taser.

He rolled to his side and pulled the blanket tighter. It smelled like laundry detergent and something vaguely floral — like maybe Lucy had left a dryer sheet legacy behind.

He wasn’t going to overthink this.

He was just going to sleep. On the couch. Like a normal, not-spiraling person. In an apartment that wasn’t his. With a woman he wasn’t thinking about.

Not like that.

Probably. (okay why did you say that)

—

The next morning, she found him in the kitchen. Again.

He was barefoot, wearing a faded gray t-shirt and sweatpants that looked suspiciously like he’d slept in them. There was a cup of coffee already sitting on the counter — black, exactly how she liked it.

“You always pour it the same way in the break room,” Miles said when she raised an eyebrow. “And you get irritated if someone talks to you before your first sip. I learn things.”

She stared. “Creepy.”

“Observant,” he corrected.

Celina took a long sip. “You always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Helpful. Bright-eyed. Barefoot in someone else’s kitchen before 8 a.m.?”

Miles shrugged, plating eggs. “What can I say? I’m an adaptable guest.”

“Or you just like playing house.”

He looked up at that. “Maybe I just like being in a kitchen that doesn’t feel like a gas station.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t know how.

So she sat. Ate. Listened.

They talked about nothing for a while. Then work. Then people. Then he asked about her favorite kind of cereal and laughed when she said dry Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

“No milk? Monster.”

“I don’t trust soggy food,” she muttered.

“You really are terrifying.”

“Only on Wednesdays.”

She said it dryly, like a joke. But Miles laughed anyway, the sound low and easy. He didn’t push. Just turned back to the sink and started rinsing the pan.

Celina watched him move — familiar, like he’d done this before. Like he knew where things went even if he didn’t.

There was no hesitation. No need for instructions.
 

He cleaned like someone who’d learned to do it for other people. Someone who knew what it meant to take up space without leaving a mess behind.

And for some reason, that made her chest ache.

She looked away. Focused on her coffee. Took another sip, even though it was cooling.

Buzz.

Her phone lit up on the counter beside her.

Rodge 💙:
Good morning, baby. Hope you slept okay. Wanna grab lunch after your shift? I miss you.

Her stomach twisted.

Not guilt — not exactly. But something colder. Sharper.

Miles was still at the sink, humming quietly under his breath. Some old rock song, off-key but confident. He was scrubbing the frying pan like it had personally offended him.

Like this was normal.

Like this was home.

Celina locked her phone without replying.

“Everything okay?” Miles asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” she said too quickly. “Just—nothing.”

She stood up. Took her mug to the sink, avoiding his eyes.

“I’ll do that,” he offered, reaching for it.

“I’ve got it.”

Their hands brushed. She froze.

He did too. Just for a second. Then he stepped back, hands raised. “Right. Sorry.”

The silence that followed was sharper than the coffee.

—

By day three, his things had multiplied.

The duffel bag still lived by the door, but now there was a hoodie on the back of the couch and a toothbrush in the bathroom. She noticed, didn’t mention it.

Instead, she texted Lucy.

Celina:
Still not a thing.

Lucy:
Okay. But is his stuff multiplying?

Celina:
Shut up.

She didn’t kick him out.

Didn’t ask when he’d be leaving.

Didn’t say a word the night he fell asleep watching TV again — her throw blanket tangled around his legs, remote still in his hand.  His mouth slightly open. That faint line between his brows smoothed out for once.

She just turned off the light.

Paused in the doorway.

And left the one by the front door on.

Just in case.

For what, exactly — she didn’t let herself ask.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: You're Not Lucy 

Celina woke up to music.

Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just the soft rhythm of something vaguely acoustic and

upbeat floating from the living room.

She blinked at the ceiling for a moment, disoriented.

Lucy never played music in the morning.

Lucy never did a lot of things Miles was doing.

The coffee was already made. Again.

Celina padded into the kitchen barefoot, still half-asleep, and found Miles dancing. Wait What.

Or—well, attempting to. He was in pajama pants, hair messy, holding a spatula like a mic as he swayed to the beat of some indie-pop song she couldn’t name.

He looked ridiculous. Completely at ease. Like this wasn’t a stranger’s apartment and he hadn’t shown up three days ago with zero warning and a duffel bag.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him for a full ten seconds before clearing her throat.

Miles froze like he’d been caught in the act of something criminal.

“Oh,” he said. “Good morning.”

“You’re way too cheerful,” she muttered, grabbing her coffee. “It’s alarming.”

He held up the spatula. “I bring you breakfast and vibes. That’s all I’ve got.”

Celina took a sip and squinted at him. “You always like this? Or is this just for my benefit?”

Miles shrugged. “I’m a morning person. Blame my grandmother. She used to say if you’re not dancing before 8 a.m., you’re wasting the day.”

Celina rolled her eyes. “My grandmother said if someone talks to you before coffee, you’re legally allowed to stab them.”

Miles grinned. “I like her already.”

She didn’t smile back. Not really. She was too busy watching the way he moved around the kitchen — not like a guest anymore. Like someone who belonged.

And she hated how her chest twisted at the realization.

She wasn’t ready for this.

For him.

For the way he just fit — into her space, into her routines, into the quiet she’d once sworn she loved.

“You don’t have to keep making breakfast,” she said, quieter than before.

Miles looked up. “I don’t mind.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to feel it settle.

Then he shrugged again. “Yeah. But I like doing it. You work too hard. You forget to eat half the time, and when you do, it’s just cereal. Which — no offense — is not a personality.”

“Dry Cinnamon Toast Crunch is a personality.”

“Then you’re a deeply chaotic woman.”

She snorted.

But the thing that got her wasn’t the joke. It was the way he said it — so casual, like he already knew all her weird habits and decided to keep her anyway.

She wasn’t used to that.

She crossed to the counter and took another sip, slower this time.

The music kept playing in the background — the song winding down and blending into the next one without pause.

And then…

Miles started singing.

Not softly. Not absentmindedly. Not in the “guy in the shower” kind of way.

Full. Belted. Musical theatre level singing. 

🎶 "Don't go breaking my heart..." 🎶

Celina blinked.

Miles, completely unfazed, spun toward the fridge like it was his dance partner.

🎶 "I couldn't if I tried!" 🎶

His voice was strong. Warm. Stupidly good.

Celina nearly dropped her mug. “Are you serious right now?”

Miles grinned and kept going.

🎶 "Oh honey if I get restless—baby, you're not that kind!" 🎶

She stared at him in horror. “Stop. Stop singing. You can’t be good at this too.”

“Too?” he repeated, clearly delighted.

“Shut up.”

“It’s not my fault I’m multi-talented.”

“You’re actually the worst.”

“You’re just jealous you didn’t get a duet part.”

“I will throw this coffee at you.”

“You’d waste perfectly good Cinnamon Toast Crunch water?”

“You need to leave.”

“You invited me.”

“I did not invite the Jersey Boys: Live From My Kitchen edition of you.”

Miles laughed, loud and bright, and flipped the eggs like nothing happened.

Celina tried very hard not to smile. Failed.

Somewhere between her second bite and third sip, he said something about getting groceries later — “we’re low on butter” — and she didn’t correct the we .

She just kept eating.

—

Later that day, she stood in the hallway staring at the closed door across from her bedroom.

It was still Lucy’s room.

Technically, it was just the spare room now — empty except for a shelf, an old chair, and a box of miscellaneous things Celina hadn’t had the heart to throw away.

A hairbrush. A broken umbrella. A takeout menu with Lucy’s handwriting scrawled on the back.

She hadn’t touched any of it.

Couldn’t.

Miles had been sleeping on the couch for three nights.

He hadn’t complained.

Hadn’t asked for more space.

Hadn’t even looked at the door.

But she noticed the way his back cracked every time he stood up. And the way he winced when he thought she wasn’t looking.

He was taller than Lucy. Longer legs. Narrow shoulders. But he folded into the same corners of the apartment like he’d always known how.

She hated how aware of him she was becoming.

Not just the big things — the toothbrush, the spatula karaoke, the fact that he made her real food without being asked.

It was the little things.

The way he dried the sink after doing the dishes.

The way he talked to her plants like they were people.

The way he hummed under his breath when the silence got too thick.

How quiet the apartment wasn’t anymore.

And how that wasn’t a bad thing.

—

The fourth night, they watched some B-movie horror comedy he picked out — something with bad wigs and worse acting.

Celina hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks.

Not since Lucy left.

Not since she started wondering if the silence was something she’d grown too used to.

The movie was absurd. A man in a fake mustache screamed at a clearly rubber bat. The heroine tripped over her own heels four times in the same hallway. The special effects looked like they were done in Microsoft Paint.

And still — she laughed. Really laughed.

Head back, stomach aching, tears in her eyes.

Miles just kept grinning at the screen like he knew. Like he’d known she needed this and had chosen it on purpose.

Halfway through the movie, he got up and grabbed a blanket from the hall closet without asking.

Without asking.

Like he’d already memorized where things were.

Like he already belonged.

And she didn’t stop him.

She just curled her feet up under herself and let the soft warmth settle between them like it belonged there.

The blanket brushed her arm, and for a second, she almost leaned into it. Into him.
She didn’t.

But she thought about it.

They didn’t talk during the rest of the movie. They didn’t need to.

At one point, their shoulders brushed. He didn’t pull away.

Neither did she.

—

“You ever think about getting a dog?” he asked, somewhere around midnight when the movie ended and neither of them had moved.

“No time.”

“I think you’d like one. You seem like a dog person.”

“I’m not.”

“You keep a dying cactus alive out of spite, Celina. You’d absolutely be a dog person.”

She didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t want to admit that she had thought about it. That the idea of a dog—of company, routine, something waiting for her—sounded kind of… nice.

Instead, she shifted, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“You’re not Lucy,” she said suddenly.

Miles blinked. “I… yeah, I got that.”

“It’s different with you here.”

He sat up straighter. “Bad different?”

She paused. “I don’t know yet.”

They were quiet after that.

And for once, Miles didn’t try to fill the silence.

—

Later that night, after Miles had gone to bed and the apartment dipped into calm again, Celina curled into her blankets, phone propped against her pillow.

The screen lit up with Lucy’s face, hair a mess, half-covered by a blanket of her own.

“Hey,” Lucy said, voice soft and scratchy with sleep. “You look exhausted.”

“Long day,” Celina replied. “You’re still up?”

“Barely,” Lucy yawned. “Tim’s hogging all the blankets. Say hi, babe.”

The camera shifted, and Tim appeared next to her, squinting like he’d just been woken up against his will.

“Hi, Celina,” he said, monotone. “Blink twice if Miles is still alive.”

“I’m considering smothering him with a pillow,” she deadpanned.

Tim nodded. “That tracks.”

Lucy elbowed him. “Be nice.”

Celina rolled her eyes. “He’s… fine. It’s just weird. Having someone else here.”

Tim raised a brow. “Weird how?”

She hesitated. “Just… not what I expected.”

Lucy studied her face for a second. “You miss me?”

“Of course I miss you,” Celina said, like it was obvious. Because it was.

There was a pause.

“But you’re okay?” Lucy asked, voice lower now.

Celina hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

And for the first time, she almost believed it.

“Good,” Lucy said, smiling sleepily. “Now get some rest. And tell Miles if he eats the last of your cereal, I will find out.”

Tim smirked. “That’s not a joke. She’ll burn him to the ground.”

Celina grinned, just a little. “Noted.”

They hung up a few minutes later. And the apartment was quiet again. But it didn’t feel empty.

—

The next morning, the blanket was still on the couch — folded, neatly, like Miles had taken time to smooth it out before he left for work.

Celina hadn’t asked him to.

She hadn’t asked him to do any of the things he was doing. But somehow, they kept happening.

The kitchen stayed clean. The trash went out. Her cereal restock magically aligned with when she ran out — which was suspicious, because she never remembered to buy it herself.

She opened the fridge and found the oat milk on the side shelf, exactly where she always put it. There was even a new roll of paper towel on the counter, already unwrapped.

He wasn’t just staying here. He was noticing .

She was halfway through brushing her teeth when it hit her: Lucy never did any of that.

Lucy was the kind of roommate who left bobby pins in the drain and kept five different hair masks on the bathroom shelf. The kind of roommate who texted Celina from two rooms away to ask if they had wine. The kind who made living together feel like a sleepover with shifts in between.

Miles wasn’t like that.

He didn’t fill the apartment with noise.

He filled it with… presence.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because Celina couldn’t brush it off with sarcasm or sass or noise.

It was real in the way things were real when you stopped pretending not to notice. The way something settles in quietly — soft, unannounced — and makes itself at home.

And once it’s there, it’s hard to remember how the space felt without it.

—

At work, Lucy cornered her by the coffee machine.

“So, how’s it going?” she asked, entirely too casual.

Celina narrowed her eyes. “You’re not slick.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Lucy replied, stirring creamer into her cup with the energy of someone very much invested in the outcome.

Celina reached for a coffee lid. “He’s sleeping on the couch.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were about to.”

Lucy sipped her coffee. “Okay, so I was, but I’m only asking because I care.”

“Liar.”

“Fine. I’m asking because I think it’s kind of cute.”

Celina choked. “It’s not cute.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Mmm. No? So the matching mugs in your dish rack? The perfectly folded blanket on the couch? That’s just coincidence?”

Celina stiffened. “You’ve been to my apartment.”

“Yeah, and I remember it didn’t always look like a catalogue page with a side of emotional repression. ”

Celina glared. “He does chores. That’s it.”

“I mean, you’ve kept roommates before. But you’ve never texted me about their cereal preferences.”

“I—he restocks my cereal. It’s just considerate.”

Lucy smirked. “Right. Super platonic.”

Celina took a sip of her coffee like it might scald the conversation away.

“I have a boyfriend.”

“You do.”

“Who I’m very happy with.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Celina didn’t meet her eyes.

Because it wasn’t not true. It just… didn’t feel like the whole truth anymore.

Rodge was nice. Steady. Familiar.

But he didn’t notice when she ran out of oat milk. He didn’t make her laugh when she didn’t feel like laughing. He didn’t see her the way Miles seemed to — quietly, accidentally, all the time.

She shook her head, like it would physically scatter the thought.

“This isn’t a thing,” Celina muttered.

Lucy leaned back against the counter, cradling her coffee. “You know what’s funny? You keep saying that like you’re trying to convince me .”

“I am.”

Lucy didn’t blink. “Then why do you sound so unsure?”

Celina opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Behind them, someone called Lucy’s name down the hallway. She gave Celina one last look — a knowing, maddening, best friend with receipts kind of look — and headed off without another word.

Celina stared into her coffee like it might offer answers.

It didn’t.

—

That night, she found Miles sitting cross-legged on the floor, tinkering with the base of the wobbly lamp that had driven her crazy for months.

“Pretty sure it’s just a loose bolt,” he said without looking up. “You want me to fix it?”

“Yeah, why not,” she said too quickly. Then paused. “Wait, when did you even notice that was broken?”

“You kicked it during your 2 a.m. laundry mission two nights ago.”

She stared at him.

“You remember that?”

Miles shrugged. “You kicked it. Swore. Then mumbled something about setting it on fire. I figured I’d help before we ended up with a call to the fire department.”

Celina laughed despite herself. “You really don’t miss anything, do you?”

“I’m observant,” he said again, but his voice was softer this time.

Less playful. More careful.

Like he wasn’t sure if she wanted him to be.

The moment hung between them — warm, unspoken, just this side of vulnerable.

Celina stood there for a second too long. Watching the way he handled the screwdriver like he’d done this a hundred times. The way his brow furrowed in concentration, mouth tugging into a slight frown.

There was no performance in it. No need for credit.
Just the quiet kind of care that said I see you.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because she wasn’t used to being seen like this — in her mess, in her midnight chaos, in her broken-lamp moments.

And Miles?

Miles was fixing things she hadn’t asked anyone to fix.

Things she didn’t even realize she wanted fixed until they were steady again.

—

That same night, she walked past the spare room.

Stopped.

Stared.

The door was still half-closed. The air inside smelled stale.

It always did now — like dust and disuse. Like absence.

And it hit her, suddenly, that Lucy had never really moved out so much as… faded from the space.

One box at a time.

One missing mug.

One less laugh echoing off the walls.

There had been no official goodbye to the room. No tearful packing montage, no last wine night surrounded by empty takeout containers. Just… absence.

One day Lucy’s hairdryer wasn’t on the counter anymore. Then her shoes disappeared from the mat. Then the drawer she used for snacks was suddenly empty.

The quiet had crept in without ceremony.

That room was still full of echoes.

Echoes of who they were before promotions and boyfriends and decisions they weren’t brave enough to talk about.

Celina didn’t realize how long she stood there until Miles’ voice drifted in from behind her.

“You thinking about using it?”

She turned.

He was leaning against the wall, hair damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up, barefoot again. Always barefoot. Like the floor belonged to him now.

Like he wasn’t just passing through.

Celina shook her head. “Just… looking.”

He nodded. Didn’t press.

And that, more than anything, made her want to say something.

“She left fast.”

Miles didn’t ask who. He just nodded again. “I figured.”

“We lived together for almost two years,” she said, voice quieter than before. “It was always loud. Messy. But… good.”

Miles waited.

“She didn’t make the bed. Ever. Used like twelve hair products. Always left lights on.”

“And you miss it.”

Celina swallowed. “I miss her. I think I miss who I was when she was here.”

Miles didn’t say you’re still her , or you haven’t changed , or you’ll be fine .

He just said, “Yeah. I get that.”

And somehow, that was enough.

It was after midnight when she heard him again.

The soft shuffle of feet across hardwood. The gentle click of the fridge door. A barely-there sigh as he leaned against the counter.

She told herself to stay in bed.

Told herself that nothing good ever came from late-night anything — texts, snacks, thoughts.

But her feet were already swinging to the floor, already carrying her into the hallway.

She found him the same way she always did — like the universe kept gently placing them in the same room, like maybe it knew something she wasn’t ready to admit.

Miles didn’t jump when she appeared in the doorway.

He just smiled like she was expected.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked.

Celina shrugged. “Too quiet.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You? Miss noise?”

“I’m unpredictable.”

“You’re a mystery wrapped in sarcasm, wrapped in caffeine.”

She smirked. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like someone who enjoys my company.”

“Maybe I do.”

The words weren’t flirtatious. Not exactly.

But they landed heavy between them — not light like a joke, not sharp like a challenge. Just honest.

Too honest.

Celina stepped around him, grabbed a glass of water just for the sake of doing something, then leaned against the counter beside him.

They stood there for a minute. Two.

The silence grew roots.

Comfortable. Dangerous. Familiar.

“I’m not trying to replace her,” he said quietly.

Celina blinked. “What?”

“Lucy. I know it’s different now. I know I’m… not the same kind of easy.”

“You’re not,” she admitted. “But that’s not bad.”

Miles looked at her then — really looked.

And for a second, she couldn’t breathe.

Not because he was saying too much. But because he wasn’t saying anything she could deflect.

“You’re different too,” he said.

She didn’t ask what he meant.

Didn’t want to know.

Instead, she turned and started back toward her room.

Halfway down the hall, she paused.

“Goodnight, Miles.”

“Night, Celina.”

She didn’t close her door all the way when she went in.

And in the quiet that followed, she let herself imagine what it might be like if things were different.

If this didn’t feel so temporary.

If the space he filled wasn’t one someone else left behind — but one she wanted to give.

The thought scared her.

But not enough to make her stop.

She fell asleep trying not to want that too much.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: House Rules Don’t Apply

Celina hadn’t realized how much the apartment had changed until she came home late that night and found the sticky note.

It was on the fridge. Neon green. Crooked. The handwriting was familiar now—loose, slightly slanted, a little too neat for someone who’d lived in a van.

“Fridge is haunted again. Milk definitely moved. I’ll investigate tomorrow. — M”

She stood in the kitchen, reading it three times before she even exhaled.

The milk—he’d rearranged the fridge again.

Of course he had.

She rolled her eyes and let out a half-laugh, half-groan.

But something in her chest loosened at the sight of his note, like a knot she hadn’t known was there had finally unraveled.

She hated that.

She didn’t want to be the kind of person who got used to notes on the fridge. Who saved them. Who looked forward to them .

She didn’t want to admit that it felt like a kind of belonging. Like someone else saw the apartment the way she did — too quiet, too empty, too easy to let slip into silence.

She hated the way that made her feel.

She crumpled the note but didn’t throw it out.

Instead, she stuck it in the back of her notebook with the others he’d left — quiet reminders that someone else saw the apartment the way she did.

She didn’t know what to do with that, so she shoved the notebook in a drawer and slammed it shut.

The sound echoed in the silence that followed.

Like she was trying to bury something.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

That she’d forget it by morning.

But when she climbed into bed that night, the echo felt too loud to ignore.

Earlier that day, she’d nearly run headfirst into Lucy at the precinct.

Lucy had been half-laughing at something on her phone, leaning against Tim’s desk. He was sitting there with that eternally unimpressed look, but his eyes softened when they landed on Celina.

“Hey,” Lucy chirped, tucking her phone away. “You look… tired.”

“Thanks,” Celina said dryly.

Tim smirked. “You mean ‘like she’s been living with an unsupervised toddler.’”

Lucy elbowed him. “Tim.”

Celina sighed. “He’s not a toddler. He’s just… everywhere.”

Lucy’s grin was too knowing. “So you noticed.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Is he leaving dishes everywhere? Because Lucy—”

“Tim,” Lucy cut in. “It’s not about dishes.”

Tim shrugged. “Could be.”

Celina scrubbed a hand over her face. “I swear, he’s reorganized my entire fridge. I think he’s nesting.”

Lucy laughed, eyes crinkling. “So he’s making himself at home.”

Celina didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The look on her face said enough.

Tim’s expression softened, just slightly. “You want him to leave?”

The question made her chest tighten. She looked away. “I don’t know.”

Lucy reached over and squeezed her arm. “Hey—no judgment. Just be honest with yourself, okay?”

Celina nodded, but she didn’t say anything.

Because honesty was dangerous. And she wasn’t sure she was ready for that yet.

She’d barely dropped her keys on the counter that night when she saw the note.

It was another sticky note, this time bright yellow, stuck to the cabinet above the sink.

“You’re out of oat milk. I got the weird brand you like. — M”

Her stomach did that annoying flip thing.

She hated that he noticed things. The oat milk, the laundry, the way she forgot to eat when she was stressed.

She hated how much he saw her — the version of herself she tried to keep hidden, the one who couldn’t keep a fridge stocked and lived on half-finished cups of coffee.

Rodge didn’t even know she liked oat milk.

Not because he didn’t care, exactly, but because she’d never let him get close enough to know.

She shook the thought away and opened the fridge. Sure enough — two cartons, exactly where she always put them.

She took one out and stared at it like it might explain things.

Like it might explain why her chest felt too tight, why her throat burned, why she suddenly wanted to scream and laugh and maybe cry all at once.

She closed the fridge too hard, the magnets rattling against the door.

Then she stood there in the kitchen, carton in hand, trying to pretend the space around her hadn’t shifted in a way she couldn’t put back.

Later, she found Miles in the living room, laptop balanced on his knees, one of her throw blankets draped over his shoulders like a cape.

He looked up, half-smile on his face. “Hey. Rough shift?”

“Something like that,” she muttered, flopping onto the couch.

He closed his laptop and set it aside, giving her his full attention. “Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Not tonight.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

They sat there in silence for a minute.

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. The way he sat—relaxed but alert, like he was always ready for her to need him.

Like he’d learned to be a constant in a way no one else had.

She hated that, too.

Hated how easy it was to lean on him.

How easy it was to want him there — with his stupid throw blanket and his patience and his little jokes that always hit just right.

Hated that every time she turned around, he was already there — at the sink, by the fridge, in the hallway — like the apartment had rearranged itself around him.

She stared at the floor, fighting the urge to say too much.

He didn’t push. Didn’t fidget. Just waited.

It made her chest ache.

The next morning, she found another note.

“Fixed the squeaky cabinet door. You’re welcome. — M”

She pressed her fingers to the paper, breath caught in her throat.

She wasn’t used to someone just… doing things.

Rodge always said he’d fix the cabinet. But he never did.

Miles had.

She folded the note and put it in her notebook.

Didn’t throw it away.

Couldn’t.

That afternoon, Lucy found her again at the precinct, this time at the vending machine.

“Don’t tell me you’re living on protein bars again,” Lucy teased, eyeing the wrapper in Celina’s hand.

Celina glared. “I’m fine.”

Lucy’s expression softened. “Yeah, sure. You know, you can talk to me about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Celina lied.

Lucy didn’t push. She just sipped her coffee. “Okay.”

Then she added, almost too casually, “Tim thinks Miles is good for you.”

The words hit harder than Celina expected.

Like a sudden, sharp exhale.

She felt her throat tighten, her fingers stilling on the wrapper, the world narrowing to that one line.

Tim thinks Miles is good for you.

As if that was something people could just see . As if her carefully guarded chaos was now an open book everyone could read.

Celina’s head snapped up. “What?”

Lucy shrugged, all nonchalance and mischief. “He says you’ve been… lighter. Like you’re not carrying the whole precinct on your back.”

Lighter.

She didn’t feel lighter. She felt off-balance . Like the floor was shifting under her feet every time she let herself exhale around him.

Celina scowled. “Tim’s full of it.”

Lucy smiled, knowing and too patient. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s not wrong.”

Celina muttered under her breath, “He doesn’t live with Miles.”

Lucy’s eyes sparkled with that mischievous best-friend glint. “Oh, so now he lives with you?”

Celina wanted to throw her protein bar at Lucy’s head.

“Shut up,” she muttered, stalking off before Lucy could see the blush creeping up her neck.

She tossed the wrapper in the trash and headed for the locker room, telling herself she was fine .

That it was just a squeaky cabinet.

Just oat milk.

Just a sticky note.

Nothing more.

Back at the apartment, she found Miles fixing the wobbly lamp.

Again.

“Didn’t you already fix that?” she asked, crossing her arms.

He glanced up, a screwdriver balanced between his fingers. “Yeah. But it squeaked again.”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to fix everything, you know.”

He paused. “I know.”

But he didn’t stop.

And she didn’t stop watching him.

The screwdriver turned slowly in his hand, his fingers steady, his focus absolute. Like he was listening to the lamp, finding its weaknesses, its hidden complaints.

He worked quietly. Patiently. Like the lamp’s stubbornness didn’t frustrate him, like he didn’t mind its small, silent protests.

Celina’s chest tightened.

She didn’t know how to handle someone who didn’t mind squeaks. Someone who didn’t look at her broken things — her broken self — and expect her to hide them away.

She folded her arms tighter.

“You know,” she said, voice quieter than before, “it’s just a lamp.”

Miles looked up, his eyes meeting hers in that soft, steady way that made her want to throw something.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

But he didn’t stop.

And she didn’t stop watching him.

She’d always thought she liked silence. That the quiet gave her space to think.

But lately, it felt… heavy.

Like every time she walked in the door, she was waiting for his voice. His humming. The way he’d narrate his cooking like it was a cooking show.

Tonight, the apartment was too quiet.

Miles wasn’t home yet.

And she hated how empty it felt without him.

She sat on the couch, staring at the empty space beside her.

The blanket he’d folded neatly sat on the armrest, too perfect, too telling.

Like he’d left a piece of himself behind on purpose — a promise that he’d come back, that she wouldn’t have to wait too long for the apartment to come alive again.

She thought about Rodge.

She thought about how he never noticed the laundry. How he didn’t know where the oat milk went. How he didn’t see the chipped mug she kept using every morning.

How she’d tried to tell herself those things didn’t matter.

Rodge was steady, reliable, familiar.

But not present.

Not the kind of presence that felt like warmth, like laughter, like the quiet hum of someone living in her space without asking her permission — and without making her regret it.

Miles was here.

Too here.

She leaned back on the couch, pulling the blanket into her lap without meaning to.

And hated how right it felt.

Her phone buzzed—a text from Rodge.

Sorry for the radio silence. Work’s been insane. Miss you.

She stared at the screen for a long time.

The words felt both familiar and foreign.

He was steady. The kind of person who always said the right thing, always made sure she was okay — at least in the ways that were easy.

But right now, she didn’t feel steady.

She felt like everything was shifting around her — walls she’d built so carefully starting to crack.

She typed back:

Miss you too. Stay safe.

She didn’t mention Miles.

Didn’t mention how the apartment didn’t feel empty anymore.

Didn’t mention how that scared her.

Didn’t mention the notes, or the humming, or the quiet presence that filled the gaps she hadn’t realized were there.

She locked her phone and set it face down on the coffee table, like it might burn her if she kept looking at it.

The screen went dark, but the questions didn’t.

Miles came home just after that.

He kicked off his boots at the door like he always did. Like it was his home.

She watched him from the couch.

“Long day?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He moved closer, dropping his bag on the floor. “Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t push. Just sat on the opposite end of the couch, close enough that their knees almost brushed.

Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him — that quiet, steady heat that had become part of the apartment without her permission.

She hated how comforting that was.

Hated how easy it was to relax when he was near.

She picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion, pretending to study it instead of the way his breathing calmed her.

He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he belonged.

She found another note the next morning.

“Did the dishes. Couldn’t stand the thought of them crying alone. — M”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.

But she folded the note and tucked it into her notebook.

Didn’t throw it away.

Didn’t even think about it.

And that scared her most of all.

Lucy cornered her in the hallway at work again.

“Let me guess—he folded your laundry.”

Celina glared. “No.”

Lucy smirked. “Dishes, then?”

Celina didn’t answer.

Lucy leaned in, conspiratorial. “Celina, you like having him there.”

Celina’s jaw tightened. “I have a boyfriend.”

Lucy’s expression softened. “I know.”

Celina didn’t meet her eyes.

Her pulse skittered in her throat, a traitor she couldn’t control.

Lucy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Does he make you laugh like Miles does?”

Celina felt like the floor was falling out from under her.

The hallway noise faded, and all she could hear was the quiet hum of the vending machine, the muffled footsteps of passing officers, the rush of blood in her own ears.

Lucy was right there, steady, waiting.

But Celina couldn’t hold her gaze.

She turned away. “I have to go.”

That night, she watched Miles cook dinner.

He didn’t ask if she wanted any. He just made enough for both of them.

She watched him move around the kitchen, the way he reached for the spices without asking where they were. The way he hummed under his breath like he was content.

Like he’d always belonged there.

She wondered when he’d started feeling like a part of the apartment.

She wondered when he’d started feeling like a part of her life.

It was unsettling.

The way he’d folded himself into her routines without her noticing. The way the kitchen felt wrong when he wasn’t in it.

After dinner, they sat on the couch with the TV on, some half-watched episode of a show neither of them were really paying attention to.

The silence between them wasn’t heavy—just there.

Comfortable in a way that made her chest ache.

She found herself studying the side of his face, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the small scar by his eyebrow she’d never asked about.

She wondered how he’d gotten it.

She wondered if he’d tell her if she asked.

She wondered if she’d want him to.

She thought about how easy it would be to lean into him.

She didn’t.

But she thought about it.

And that felt like a betrayal all on its own.

He turned to her, like he’d felt her watching.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

She shrugged. “Long day.”

He nodded. “You want me to leave?”

The question hit her like a punch.

“No,” she said too quickly.

His gaze softened. “Okay.”

He didn’t move.

She didn’t either.

The silence stretched between them, soft and dangerous, like the hush of a room holding its breath.

She couldn’t look at him — not directly. She studied the threads in the throw blanket instead, the way it curled around his arm like it belonged there.

She wondered how many nights he’d sat here, waiting for her to ask him to leave.

She wondered why he hadn’t.

And she wondered why the idea of him leaving felt like too much.

Her heart beat too fast.

And still — neither of them moved.

The air felt too thick.

She swallowed. “Miles.”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you… do all this?”

“All what?”

She gestured helplessly. “The notes. The dishes. The fridge. All of it.”

He looked at her like the answer was obvious. “Because it makes your day a little easier.”

She blinked.

He added, “And because I like being here.”

Her chest ached.

She didn’t know what to say to that.

So she said nothing.

The silence settled around them, soft and heavy.

Miles knew he was pushing it.

He’d been telling himself for days that he’d back off—stop folding laundry, stop rearranging the fridge, stop making the apartment feel like his.

But every time he tried, something pulled him back.

He’d never had a place like this. A place that felt like more than a crash pad. A place that smelled like real food and clean laundry and something like home.

He knew she didn’t ask for it.

He knew she had a boyfriend—Rodge, steady and dependable, the guy who’d sent her that text that made her shoulders tense.

But every time she walked in the door, he felt that quiet shift in her posture, like she was bracing for something. And every time, he wanted to make that shift go away.

So he folded the blanket.

So he stocked the oat milk.

So he left the notes—little things, so she’d know someone saw her, even if he wasn’t supposed to.

He didn’t know if he was making things better or worse.

But every time she picked up one of his notes, even when she rolled her eyes, something in her eyes went soft.

And he’d never been able to walk away from that.

He told himself to stop. To let her breathe.

But he couldn’t bring himself to make the apartment feel like just a place again.

Celina found herself staring at one of his notes the next morning.

“Your cactus looks a little sad. Watered it. — M”

She didn’t know why that one hit harder than the others.

Maybe because Lucy had always joked that her cactus was a metaphor for her love life—prickly, neglected, barely holding on.

Maybe because Rodge had never noticed it at all.

Maybe because Miles did.

She traced the note with her thumb, feeling the way his handwriting looped and dipped.

Feeling like maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to stop.

She walked into the kitchen, note in hand, and found him at the sink.

He looked up, eyes wary. “Hey.”

She didn’t know what she wanted to say.

So she held up the note instead.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She shook her head. “No. It’s… thank you.”

His eyes softened. “You’re welcome.”

And just like that, the tension broke.

They stood there in the quiet hum of the apartment, a thousand words unsaid between them.

The refrigerator hummed. The tap dripped once. The light above the sink flickered slightly, like even the house wasn’t sure how to handle the moment.

She didn’t know what came next.

Didn’t know how to untangle the mess of what they were, what they weren’t, what they could be.

She felt like she was standing on the edge of something — a line she hadn’t drawn, but that neither of them seemed ready to cross.

But for the first time, she didn’t want to chase the quiet away.

She wanted to stay in it.

With him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four: Unwashed Dishes and Avoided Conversations 

Celina woke up to the smell of coffee.

For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was. The apartment was too quiet, too still. Then the sounds trickled in: the hum of the fridge, the soft creak of the floorboards as she shifted.

She’d slept badly. A dull ache had settled behind her eyes, and her throat felt scratchy. She blamed the air conditioning or the way the apartment always felt too dry at night.

She pulled herself out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen.

And stopped.

The kitchen was spotless. Not just clean—spotless. Counters wiped down, dishes stacked, stove gleaming. A dish towel hung from the oven handle, folded too perfectly.

She scowled at it.

A bright yellow sticky note was stuck to the cabinet above the sink.

“Coffee’s on me today — you look like you need it. — M.”

She snatched the note off the cabinet and crumpled it, but didn’t throw it away. Instead, she shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans and grabbed the coffee mug he’d set out for her.

He’d even poured it.

The smell was warm, familiar. 

It tasted like home.

And she hated that.

She was halfway through her cup when the front door opened.

Miles didn’t say anything at first — just kicked off his shoes, set down whatever he was carrying, and wandered into the kitchen like it was any other morning.

“Kitchen looks different,” she said without turning around.

He leaned against the doorway. “Yeah, well. I figured if I left it any longer, one of us would end up declaring war on the sink.”

“You mean me.”

He shrugged. “You looked like you needed the day off from passive-aggressive dish warfare.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “So, you deep-cleaned the kitchen and left a sticky note.”

“It was either that or an interpretive dance.”

A pause stretched between them. Too long. Not long enough.

“Thanks,” she said finally, her voice low.

He nodded, like he wasn’t sure if it was permission to come closer or a cue to leave her alone.

“Next time,” she added, “don’t fold the towel like it’s a hotel. It’s creepy.”

That made him smile. “Duly noted.”

But even after he left the room, she couldn’t bring herself to fix the towel. Not yet.

At the precinct, Celina stood frozen in front of the vending machine, clutching a protein bar she didn’t even want. Her head throbbed, and the light above the snack display flickered annoyingly, humming in time with the dull pulse behind her eyes.

“Please tell me you’re eating real food,” said a voice behind her

Celina didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Lucy was eyeing the bar like it had personally offended her.

“This is food,” Celina muttered.

Lucy raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “It’s cardboard.”

Celina didn’t argue. Didn’t have the energy. She cracked the wrapper just to have something to do with her hands. “It’s fine.”

“You look like hell,” Lucy said, blunt but not unkind.

“Thanks,” Celina replied dryly.

Lucy tilted her head, scanning her face like she was searching for the truth beneath the sarcasm. “I mean it. You okay?”

Celina hesitated, her throat rougher now, the fluorescent lights too bright.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“Or sick.”

“I’m not sick,” she said too fast.

Lucy smiled softly, like she already knew. “Okay. But if you are, tell your other roommate to get himself checked too. We can’t have him infecting the whole station.”

Celina’s stomach flipped.

There was something about the way she said roommate — light, teasing, but weighted. Like Lucy knew exactly where to poke.

“He’s not my—” Celina started, the words more defensive than she intended.

Lucy grinned, victorious. “Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that.”

Celina opened her mouth, closed it, and turned away before Lucy could see her blush creep in.

The protein bar felt heavier in her hand now.

Lucy found Tim at his desk, tapping at his keyboard with that permanently unimpressed expression he’d perfected years ago. The kind that said I’ve seen it all and none of it was worth my time .

She leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed her arms. “You see her?”

Tim didn’t look up. “You mean the one you nearly cornered like a suspect?”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “She looks like she’s running on two hours of sleep and a half-eaten protein bar.”

“Probably is,” Tim muttered, eyes still on his screen. “I think the vending machine’s been her main food group this week.”

Lucy studied him. “You’re worried about her too.”

He sighed and finally looked up. “Of course I am. She’s a good cop, but she’s carrying a lot right now. And having that—” he waved a hand vaguely, “—situation at home probably isn’t helping.”

“You mean Miles?”

Tim gave her a flat look. “You say that like it’s not a big deal.”

Lucy shrugged, lips tugging upward. “It’s not a bad deal.”

Tim groaned. “Oh god, here we go.”

But Lucy leaned in, lowering her voice with a grin.

“Come on, Tim. You don’t think it’s a little sweet? He’s helping her out. You’ve seen the notes he leaves her.”

Tim grunted. “Yeah, I’ve also seen the way she looks at him—like she’s trying not to.”

That gave Lucy pause. Her smile faded into something softer, more knowing. “You know what I think?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“She’s scared.”

Tim’s brow furrowed. “Scared of what?”

Lucy’s voice was quieter now, thoughtful.

“Of wanting someone she didn’t plan to want. Of needing someone when she’s used to handling everything herself.”

Tim didn’t answer right away. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. Something flickered behind his eyes—recognition, maybe. Regret.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “I get that.”

Lucy reached out, warm fingers brushing his hand, grounding him. “We both do.”

He looked at her, and his mouth curved just slightly. “Yeah.”

Lucy straightened, smile returning full force. “Come on, Sergeant Softie. We’ve got a shift to finish.”

Tim snorted. “Don’t call me that.”

She was already walking away. “Too late.”

Back at her desk, she pulled out her phone and saw Rodge’s name at the top of her messages.

Sorry. Crazy day. Miss you.

She stared at the screen, waiting for… something. A second message. A joke. A dumb selfie. Anything that felt like him. Like them.

But that was it.

She typed: Miss you too. Stay safe.

Then deleted it.

Then typed: Hope you’re okay.

Then deleted that too.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, but nothing she could write felt right. It all sounded like reaching. Like trying too hard to hold onto something that was slipping.

She set the phone down, face-down.

Her head throbbed.

She closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair, but the silence around her was deafening — like it was trying to remind her of everything she wasn’t saying out loud. Not to Rodge. Not to Miles. Not even to herself.

And the worst part?

She didn’t miss Rodge the way she thought she would.

She missed being missed .

The ache behind her eyes turned into a full-on headache by the time she got home.

She dropped her keys on the counter and kicked off her shoes, cursing under her breath when her head swam.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

She looked around. The kitchen was still spotless. The dish towel still folded too neatly. She hated how the apartment felt like someone else’s space now. Like she’d left and come back to find a different version of her life waiting.

She reached for the mug he always left on the counter, the one that said World’s Okayest Cop in bold, chipped letters. She didn’t remember when that started being his mug, but it was.

She hated that, too.

She sank onto the couch and rubbed her temples. The ache was getting worse.

Then she heard the door click.

Miles.

She didn’t look up as he dropped his bag by the door.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft, like he could already tell something was off.

She didn’t answer.

“Long day?”

She shrugged.

He hesitated. “I, uh… I made soup. Thought you might want some.”

She scowled. “I didn’t ask for that.”

His face fell, just a little. “I know. But I—”

“You’re making this feel like your place, and it’s not,” she snapped.

Silence.

Then, quieter: “What if I want it to be?”

Her chest tightened. She stood up too fast. “I can handle my own space.”

She stormed down the hall, leaving him standing there.

She stormed down the hall, feet heavy against the floorboards, the sound louder than it needed to be — like it had to drown out the ache behind her ribs.

The bedroom door didn’t slam, but she shut it with enough force to make the frame shudder.

She leaned against it, hands shaking. Her head throbbed, worse now — like her body was punishing her for all the things she couldn’t say without breaking.

In the kitchen, she heard nothing. No footsteps. No retreat. Just stillness.

She hated herself for how his face looked when she said it — like she’d pulled the rug out from under him without warning.

Like he’d been hoping this space could be something more, and she’d just reminded him it wasn’t.

Or that she wasn’t ready.

She pressed her fingers to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut, as if it could hold the feelings in place.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want him here.

It was that he’d gotten in without asking — slipped past her defenses with folded dish towels and leftover soup — and now she didn’t know how to exist in the space they shared without seeing him in everything.

And that terrified her more than being alone ever did.

Miles didn’t move.

The door shut behind her like punctuation — sharp and final.

He stood in the middle of the living room, hands still curled slightly like he didn’t know what to do with them. The bag at his feet. The soup cooling on the stove. Her silence sitting heavy in the air.

He hadn’t meant to make her feel cornered. Or invaded. Or whatever that reaction had been.

He just… noticed things. The way she winced in the hallway light. The way her shoulders hunched when she was fighting a headache. The way she didn’t ask for help, not because she didn’t want it — but because she didn’t know how to let it in.

He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly.

What if I want it to be?

He hadn’t planned to say that. The words had just… slipped out. Too raw. Too real.

He moved to the kitchen and shut off the stove. The soup was probably ruined by now. He didn’t care. He poured it into a container anyway and slid it into the fridge. Quiet movements. Careful ones.

She’d had a long day. She was probably sick. She didn’t mean it.

He told himself that, even as his chest tightened.

Then, without thinking, he reached for the sticky note pad on the counter. Same yellow squares. Same pen tucked beside the sugar canister. He scribbled something down, ripped it off, and left it beside her mug.

He didn’t knock on her door. Didn’t call out.

Just turned off the light and went to his room.

The apartment stayed quiet. But it didn’t feel peaceful anymore.

She slammed the bedroom door a little too hard.

Her heart pounded like she’d run a mile. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing it to slow. It didn’t.

The air in her room felt too heavy. Too still. Like the silence was watching her.

She couldn’t get his voice out of her head.

What if I want it to be?

Fourteen words. That’s all it took to unravel her.

She hated how they clung to her skin. How they echoed louder the more she tried to shut them out.

She wanted to be angry.

She was angry.

Angry that he was always so gentle. That he noticed too much. That he made space for her like it was easy, like she didn’t take up too much room.

She hated the way her chest tightened — not with resentment, but with the kind of ache that had hope hidden inside it.

And beneath all of it, something warm and terrifying was unfurling.

Slow. Relentless. Uninvited.

The kind of want that crept in when you weren’t looking. The kind that made her imagine things she had no right to want.

She didn’t want to think about that.

She didn’t want to want that.

So she crawled into bed, pulled the covers over her head like they could block out the truth, and let the silence press in again.

A knock on her door.

She ignored it.

Another knock. Softer this time.

“Celina?”

His voice was careful. Like he knew she was on the edge of something and didn’t want to tip her over.

She didn’t answer.

A beat of silence. Then his footsteps, retreating down the hall.

She let out a shaky breath and pressed her forehead to the cool wall. It didn’t help.

Her head throbbed. Her throat felt raw. She was definitely getting sick.

But that wasn’t what had her so twisted up inside.

It was him.

His notes. His cooking. His cleaning. His way of slipping into her life like he’d always been there.

His making things easier without ever making her feel small.

His making her feel like she wasn’t alone anymore.

And the terrifying part wasn’t that she liked it.

It was that she needed it.

And she didn’t know how to ask him to stop without asking him to leave.

And that thought — that maybe he would — made her stomach ache worse than her head.

She curled her knees to her chest, suddenly cold.

She didn’t want to want him.

But God, she didn’t want to lose him either.

When she finally came out of her room, the kitchen was empty.

Too empty.

No footsteps. No music from his room. Just the low hum of the fridge and the ache still pounding at her temples.

He’d cleaned up dinner. Washed the dishes. Wiped the counters. Like he was trying to erase any evidence of being in the way.

The soup pot sat on the stove, still warm. The lid slightly askew like he hadn’t wanted to close it all the way. Like maybe, just maybe, he thought she’d still want some.

Her throat tightened.

She didn’t know how to say thank you.

Didn’t know how to say sorry.

Didn’t know how to say stay.

She stood there for a long minute, staring at the pot like it might answer her questions. Like it might explain how something so simple could make her feel so undone.

Then she saw it—a sticky note on the fridge.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep. — M.”

Her fingers trembled as she peeled it off.

She folded the note into a tiny square and slipped it into her notebook on the counter. The one she used for shifts and reports and reminders she didn’t trust herself to remember.

She didn’t throw it away.

Didn’t even think about it.

Didn’t want to.

She ran a hand through her hair, feeling the weight of everything.

Her scalp ached. Her chest felt too tight. Her head was still pounding — from the headache, from the fight, from everything she hadn’t said.

She hated how easy it was to let him in.
Hated how natural it had started to feel — the shared coffee, the half-spoken routines, the way he somehow always knew what she needed before she did.

She hated how she missed him when he wasn’t here.

How the silence pressed harder when it was just her.

How his presence had started to make the apartment feel… less empty. Less sharp.

More like home.

And that scared her more than she could admit.

She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palms.

She was too tired to fight.

Too tired to build the walls back up tonight.

So she didn’t.

She just stood there, soup warming on the stove, sticky note tucked into her notebook, and let herself miss him.

She went to bed early that night, hoping sleep would quiet everything swirling in her head.

But her thoughts wouldn’t settle.

Her body was exhausted, but her brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept replaying everything — the silence in the kitchen, the sticky note on the fridge, the look on his face when she snapped at him.

And then… that other look.

The one just before he’d left her room alone.

The one that said I’d stay if you asked me to.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.

The slope of his shoulders as he stood in the doorway.

The way his voice softened around her name.

The way he made her feel like she didn’t have to pretend she was fine all the time.

She pressed her pillow over her head and groaned, muffling the sound against cotton and frustration.

She didn’t want this to be a thing.

She didn’t want him to be a thing.

And yet—

She’d had the chance to push him away. To draw the line, make it clean.

But she hadn’t.

Because as much as it scared her…

She didn’t want him to go.

Sometime past midnight, she heard him moving around in the kitchen.

Cabinet doors opened softly. A glass clinked against the counter. The refrigerator hummed.

And then —

He started to hum.

Low. Gentle. Barely above a whisper.

The same tune he’d hummed the first night he’d stayed over, when everything had still felt temporary. A melody without words, half-forgotten and somehow familiar.

She remembered lying on the couch that night, half-asleep, listening to it float through the dark like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

Now, lying in bed, the sound tugged at something in her chest.

She wanted to hate it.

She tried to hate it.

But it felt like a lullaby — soft around the edges, anchoring her in the quiet. The kind of sound that made the apartment feel less lonely. Less hers. More theirs.

And she hated that even more.

Because no one should be able to make her feel safe just by existing in the next room.

But somehow, he did.

She got up, throat scratchy, head pounding.

The apartment was dark except for the soft yellow glow spilling from the kitchen. She padded down the hall, bare feet silent against the floor, and leaned against the doorway.

Miles stood by the stove, stirring the soup he’d made earlier, his back to her at first.

The humming had stopped.

He looked up when he saw her.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

She shook her head.

“Me neither,” he said, offering a small, tired smile.

She didn’t move from the doorway.

Didn’t speak.

Her arms crossed over her chest, like she was still holding herself together by force. But her eyes stayed on him.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else — fragile, unfinished. Like they were both waiting for the other to make the first move.

Steam curled from the pot behind him.

She swallowed hard, throat dry.

“Still warm?” she asked, finally.

He nodded. “I was gonna put it away. Figured maybe… you’d want some.”

A beat.

She stepped into the room.

Not close. Not yet. But closer.

Her voice was quieter this time. “Thanks.”

He didn’t say you’re welcome. He just reached for a second bowl.

“You should eat,” he said quietly.

She wanted to argue, but her head felt too heavy.

“I’m fine,” she managed.

“You’re not,” he replied, voice calm but firm.

She hated how he could see through her so easily.

He ladled soup into a bowl and set it on the counter, then added a piece of bread on a small plate.

“Sit,” he said, nodding to the stool at the counter.

She hesitated, but her legs felt weak.

She sat.

He slid the bowl toward her.

“Try.”

She picked up the spoon, but her hands were shaking.

Miles watched her, eyes soft but steady.

“Let me.”

She glared. “I’m not an invalid.”

He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you were.”

But he gently took the spoon from her, and for a second — just a second — she let him.

He blew on the soup before lifting it to her lips.

The warmth surprised her.

The care made her throat ache.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to hold the weight of being cared for — not without feeling like it cost her something.

But Miles didn’t rush her. Didn’t press.

He just held the spoon steady, waiting.

She took the sip. Swallowed.

It settled warm in her chest.

He offered another, and this time she didn’t glare. She just leaned forward slightly, meeting him halfway.

When she’d had enough, she shook her head, barely.

He set the spoon down.

Neither of them spoke.

Her hands stayed curled around the edge of the bowl like she needed something solid to grip.

His elbows rested on the counter, close but not touching.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn’t sharp. It was thick with things unsaid. With everything she hadn’t pushed him away for. With everything she wasn’t ready to name.

She didn’t thank him.

He didn’t ask her to.

But when he stood to rinse the spoon, she didn’t leave. She just sat there, head bowed over the soup, letting the warmth linger.

Letting him linger.

And for once, she didn’t hate that either.

He watched her as she swallowed, her eyes fluttering shut as the heat spread through her chest.

“You’ve been running yourself ragged,” he said softly.

She didn’t deny it.

“Rodge doesn’t even know,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Miles’ face didn’t change, but his eyes did — a flicker of something she didn’t want to name.

“Then tell him,” he said, voice low.

She opened her eyes, met his gaze. “And what? He’ll say sorry. Tell me to rest. Then hang up.”

She didn’t know why she was saying this.

Didn’t know why she was telling him .

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

Just watched her.

His presence felt like a pressure she didn’t know how to carry — like he’d become part of the space in a way she couldn’t undo.

“Go to bed,” he said gently.

She hesitated, then stood, legs unsteady.

At the edge of the hallway, she paused and turned back.

“Miles…”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Thank you,” she said, voice soft, like it might break if she spoke too loud.

He smiled. “Anytime.”

She slipped down the hall and closed her bedroom door.

Behind her, she heard the clink of dishes being cleaned. The hum of his voice, low and steady.

And she knew — even if she didn’t want to admit it — that he was becoming something she wasn’t sure she could live without.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: I’m Fine, It’s Just Allergies 

Celina’s head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

Everything was foggy — like she was moving underwater. Her throat was raw, her skin too warm, and the dull ache behind her eyes pulsed with every heartbeat, turning the morning light into a migraine.

She groaned and sat on the edge of her bed, pressing her fingertips into her temples like that would somehow stop the pounding.

It’s fine, she told herself.

She said it out loud, like maybe hearing the words would make them true.

“It’s just allergies.”

Her voice came out hoarse.

She didn’t look in the mirror when she pulled on her uniform — didn’t want to see how tired she looked. How flushed her face was. How her eyes had that glassy, too-bright shine.

“It’s just allergies,” she repeated, forcing her hair into a ponytail with shaking hands.

She told herself that three more times — once while pulling on her boots, again while grabbing her keys, and once more as she opened the door.

She didn’t believe it.

But she needed to.

At the precinct, she tried to act normal.

She’d done it a thousand times — pushed through headaches, fevers, bruises — because that was the job. You showed up. You dealt with it. You didn’t let anyone see you crack.

But Lucy saw right through her.

“Wow,” Lucy said, eyebrows shooting up. “You look like death warmed over.”

Celina glared. “Thanks.”

Lucy’s teasing smile faded as she stepped closer. Her voice lowered, softer now.

“Hey—seriously, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Celina snapped, sharper than she meant to.

Lucy blinked, but didn’t flinch. Just nodded slowly, like she recognized the walls for what they were. “Okay. But if you faint on me, I’m not catching you. Shoulder injuries suck.”

Celina rolled her eyes and turned away.

She made it three steps before the room tilted — just slightly, like the floor dipped beneath her boots. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She blinked hard, hoping it would pass.

Lucy didn’t say anything, but she didn’t move either.

Just watched her with that quiet knowing that made Celina feel too seen.

She made it to her desk, barely, clutching the edge as she sat down like it was normal — like her limbs weren’t heavy and her vision wasn’t still swimming at the edges. She started pulling up her tablet, blinking hard at the screen.

“You look like you’re trying to win a staring contest with the iPad,” Miles said, appearing beside her, coffee in hand.

She didn’t even look up. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not when you look like you’ve been run over by a garbage truck,” he replied easily. “Twice.”

She scowled, but the reaction took effort. “I’m fine.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “That’s the fourth time you’ve said that today.”

“You counting now?”

He didn’t answer. Just crouched a little so he was eye level. “You’re pale. You’re sweating. You look like you might throw up or pass out, possibly both.”

“I’m working,” she snapped.

Lucy, who was still watching from her desk nearby, leaned over. “You’re trying to work.”

Celina opened her mouth to argue—something sharp, something practiced—but her vision blurred again, and her stomach twisted in warning.

She pressed her lips together. Hard.

Miles stood. “Okay. That’s it. You’re done.”

She glared up at him. “You don’t get to tell me—”

“Celina,” Lucy cut in gently. “Come on. You’re clearly not okay.”

“I have to finish the call logs,” she muttered, weakly motioning toward the screen.

“I’ll do them,” Miles said, already reaching. “Go lie down. Drink water. Eat something. Take a damn breath.”

She hesitated — stubborn to the bone.

But her body betrayed her first. Her hand shook as she reached for the tablet, and Miles caught it before she could drop it. He didn’t say anything. Just held it steady for a second. She didn’t meet his eyes.

“Go,” he said again, quieter this time.

And for once — she did.

Tim found her in the hallway ten minutes later. She was leaning against the wall, trying to look casual. She wasn’t. He studied her with that sergeant’s stare that made rookies crumble.

“You look like hell,” he said bluntly.

“Thanks,” she muttered, trying to push off the wall and stand straight. Her knees didn’t love that idea.

He crossed his arms. “Go home.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, wincing as the words scraped her throat.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You’re fine, ” he repeated, like he was testing the word and finding it laughable. “You’re pale, you’re sweating, and you’re about one step from passing out. Go home.”

She scowled, stubborn on instinct. “I can handle it.”

His voice dropped. Firm. Final. “Don’t make me write you up for endangering the entire precinct.”

She opened her mouth, halfway through a retort, but the hallway tilted. Her head swam, and she had to press her palm to the wall just to stay upright.

Tim reached out instinctively — didn’t touch her, but hovered close, just in case.

“Fine,” she muttered, breath shallow. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he deadpanned. “Get out of here before I call Lucy and tell her you licked a suspect.”

That almost earned a smile. Almost.

She didn’t look back as she walked away, but Tim waited until she disappeared around the corner before pulling out his phone.

Celina left the precinct with a muttered curse, clutching her phone like it was the only thing holding her together.

The air hit her like static — too bright, too sharp — and she blinked against the sunlight as she reached her car. She leaned against it for a second, eyes closed, trying to steady her breathing. The ache behind her eyes had bloomed into a full-on headache, radiating down her neck. Her throat felt like sandpaper. Every swallow hurt.

She unlocked her phone and scrolled to Rodge’s contact. Her thumb hovered over it. She told herself she just needed to hear a familiar voice.

Something normal. Something safe.

She hesitated. Then pressed call.

It rang twice. Three times.

“Hey,” he answered, sounding distracted. Background noise. A keyboard clacking. A door shutting.

“Everything okay?”

She swallowed, forcing her voice steady. “Yeah. Just—long day. Thought I’d check in.”

“Ah. Yeah. Work’s crazy. Can I call you later?”

She closed her eyes. Felt the words sink, heavy and cold.

“Sure.”

“Thanks. You’re the best,” he said absently, already halfway gone.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Talk soon.”

The line went dead.

She stared at the phone, her fingers slack around it.

She didn’t know why she’d expected anything different.

She didn’t know what she’d been hoping for — a pause, a question, a flicker of concern in his voice. Something.

Anything.

Instead, it felt like calling out across a canyon and getting her own echo back.

Meanwhile, inside the precinct, Tim watched her go. He scowled at her retreating form, jaw tight. She was walking too fast for someone who looked like she might pass out. He pulled out his phone. Miles answered on the second ring.

“Bradford?”

“It’s Tim.”

“Uh, hey. Everything okay?”

Tim exhaled. “Chen tells me Celina’s sick. She’s too stubborn to admit it, but she looks like she’s about to fall over.”

There was a pause. Then Miles’ voice, sharp now. “She didn’t say anything.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Tim muttered. “But she’s on her way home. She needs someone to make sure she doesn’t… well, you know. Be her.”

Miles didn’t speak right away. But when he did, his voice was different — focused. Steady.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Tim nodded, even though Miles couldn’t see him. “Good. I’m trusting you with this.”

“Got it,” Miles said. No hesitation.

Tim ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

He shook his head. “She’s gonna kill me for that.”

But he didn’t regret it.

Because for all her walls and stubborn fire, she needed someone to catch her before she hit the ground. And Tim Bradford had learned to recognize the people worth calling reinforcements for.

Miles hung up the phone and stared at the screen for a beat.

Tim Bradford was a lot of things — tough, no-nonsense, occasionally terrifying — but he didn’t call just to check in. If Tim was reaching out, it meant Celina was worse off than she let on.

And Celina always downplayed everything.

Miles didn’t waste time.

He grabbed his keys, his jacket, and the bag of groceries he’d planned to unpack after work — the one with the orange juice she liked, the bread she never bought for herself, and the ginger tea he kept around “just in case.”

Apparently, today was the case.

He barely locked the door behind him. The drive was a blur — part muscle memory, part adrenaline. His grip on the wheel was tighter than usual. Every red light felt personal. By the time he made it to her building, he was already planning what to say. Or not say. He wasn’t sure yet.

But one thing he knew for sure —

She was going to hate that he showed up.

And he was going to show up anyway.

He was at her door in less than fifteen minutes. The hallway outside her unit was dim, quiet. He could hear muffled footsteps from upstairs, someone’s TV through the wall. But her door — her door was still.

He knocked once. Waited.

No answer.

His hand hovered near the handle. He knew she’d never lock it when she was this sick. Stubborn, sure — but paranoid? No.

He turned the knob and stepped inside. The apartment was dark except for the low, amber glow spilling from the kitchen. Something about it made him pause.

It was too quiet.

He closed the door behind him gently, setting the grocery bag down on the floor without a sound.

Then he saw her.

Curled up on the couch, blanket around her shoulders, eyes half-closed. Still in uniform. Pale. Motionless.

His stomach dropped.

She looked like she hadn’t moved in hours. Like the apartment had just swallowed her whole.

“Hey,” he said gently, not wanting to startle her.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Miles,” she croaked.

His chest tightened. “You sound like you gargled glass.”

She tried to glare, but it came out more like a grimace. “Shut up.”

He moved closer, dropping the groceries on the counter. “Let me make you some tea.”

She groaned. “I don’t need tea.”

He ignored her, already filling the kettle.

She watched him, too tired to protest. He moved around the kitchen like he’d always been there — rinsing the mug, checking the kettle, opening cabinets without asking. Like he knew the rhythm of the place better than she did.

Like he belonged.

And maybe that was what scared her most.

Because she’d built this space to be hers. Controlled. Safe. A place to come home to, not share.

But here he was, weaving himself into the quiet — not demanding space, just occupying it in a way that made her chest ache.

She closed her eyes for a second, trying to slow the thrum in her head. And when she opened them, he was already in front of her, mug in hand, holding it out like it was more than just tea.

Like it was an offering.

She leaned back on the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around her. Her head felt like it was full of fog, and her throat burned every time she swallowed.

Miles moved around the kitchen, making tea like he’d done it a thousand times before.

She hated how comforting it was.

“You didn’t have to come,” she muttered, voice scratchy.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Tim called me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

He shrugged. “Said you were being stubborn. That you wouldn’t take care of yourself.”

She groaned. “I’m going to kill him.”

Miles smirked. “Good luck with that. He’s like a brick wall.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s nosy.”

“He’s worried about you,” Miles said, voice soft.

Something about the way he said it — not accusing, not teasing — made her stomach twist.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how.

Because if she said anything, it might come out wrong. Or worse — too honest.

So she looked away instead. Let the silence stretch.

And Miles didn’t push.

He just kept making tea.

He brought her the tea, setting it carefully on the coffee table.

“Drink,” he ordered.

She tried to glare, but it didn’t land. Her face was too tired, her body too sore. It came out more like a blink and a half-hearted pout. He sat beside her — not too close, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, steady and solid, like a blanket she hadn’t asked for but needed anyway. She picked up the mug with both hands, fingers curled tightly around the ceramic, and took a slow sip.

The heat slid down her throat like a balm. She didn’t realize how much she needed it until she exhaled. Miles didn’t say anything. Just sat with her — patient, steady, completely unmoved by her silence.

He wasn’t trying to fix her.

He was just… there.

And somehow, that made it worse. Or better. She didn’t know.

It made her chest ache in ways she wasn’t ready to name.

Ways she’d been trying not to feel for weeks.

She kept sipping the tea.

He didn’t look away.

She finished the tea and set the cup down with trembling hands. It clinked awkwardly against the edge of the table.

Miles reached over without a word, steadying the cup before it could fall. His fingers brushed hers. Warm. Solid.

“You need to rest,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she muttered automatically.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not.”

She scowled. “Don’t start.”

He didn’t.

Didn’t push, didn’t prod.

Instead, he stood and grabbed the grocery bag from the counter, moving with that same frustrating calm. One by one, he started unpacking: a can of soup, a box of crackers, tissues, cold medicine. Orange juice.

“Really?” she asked, incredulous, voice raspy with disbelief.

He shrugged, barely looking at her. “Just in case.”

She watched him for a long beat — the way he moved so easily through her kitchen, like he’d done it before. Like this wasn’t weird. Like he knew she’d need this and had already decided to show up before she’d admit it.

She was too tired to argue.

Too tired to pretend his presence didn’t feel like relief.

Too tired to lie to herself about how good it felt to have someone stay.

She leaned back, eyes slipping closed.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Her lashes fluttered. “Hm?”

He was still beside her, voice low, gaze steady. He smiled — not wide, not showy. Just warm. Just him.

“Sleep. I’ll be here.”

She wanted to tell him to leave.

She wanted to tell him to stay.

She did neither.

Instead, she let her eyes fall shut, the weight of the day pressing into her bones. Her breathing slowed. Her fingers loosened around the edge of the blanket.

Miles didn’t move for a long time. Just watched her — her brow still furrowed in sleep, the way her lips parted slightly as she exhaled.

Then, quietly, he stood.

He pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, tucking it gently under her arm like he’d done this before. Like he’d thought about doing it before.

She didn’t stir.

He took the empty mug to the kitchen, rinsed it out, turned off the light. Moved through the apartment like it was something breakable.

And when he finally sank into the armchair across from her —
he didn’t pull out his phone.

Didn’t scroll.

Didn’t speak.

He just watched her.
Safe. Warm. Still.

And stayed.

Miles sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting lightly on his knees, eyes on her face.

Her breathing had started to even out, slow and soft, the way it only did when she finally stopped fighting sleep. But her face still looked too pale in the lamplight, a fine sheen of sweat clinging to her forehead and temples. He reached for the damp cloth he’d left folded on the table.

Gently — carefully — he dabbed it across her skin, brushing back a loose strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. Her brow twitched, lips parting with a faint sound he couldn’t quite make out.

She murmured something, half-asleep. Something he didn’t catch.

But she didn’t pull away.

Didn’t flinch.

He smiled, just a little. The kind of smile that didn’t reach his mouth so much as settle behind his eyes.

“Shh,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “I’ve got you.”

And in that quiet, lamplit room — with only the hum of the fridge and the steady sound of her breathing — it felt like a promise.

He leaned back, exhaustion starting to catch up with him too. The room was warm and quiet, the kind of silence that settled into your bones. His eyes flicked toward her — still curled beneath the blanket, her breathing soft and even now. She looked younger like this. Softer. Like maybe the world had finally let her rest.

His mind drifted.

To the first time he’d stayed here.

To the awkward dance of “just roommates” and half-joked boundaries.

To the first sticky note he’d left on the fridge — and the second, and the third.

She’d rolled her eyes at the first few. Pretended not to care. But then… she started keeping them. Tucking them into her notebook. Slipping them between pages like bookmarks she didn’t want to lose. She never said anything about it. But she never threw them away.

She’d let him in more than she probably realized.

And he’d let her in too.

Somewhere along the way, she’d become the first person he thought about texting at the end of a shift. The first person he noticed wasn’t at the precinct. The only person he’d drop everything for on a call from Bradford.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, suddenly too aware of the way his heart had started rearranging itself around her.

He didn’t mean to fall.

But he was already there.

He hummed under his breath — an old Spanish lullaby his mom used to sing when he was a kid.

He hadn’t thought about it. It just… slipped out. Instinct. Muscle memory. Comfort wrapped in melody.

The kind of sound you don’t even notice until it’s already in the room.

He didn’t realize she was awake until he heard her whisper:

“My mom used to sing that.”

He froze.

The tune faded on his lips.

Slowly, he turned toward her.

Her eyes were open, glassy with unshed tears that clung to the corners. She wasn’t really looking at him — more like staring past him, like the memory had taken her somewhere else entirely.

“Before I left,” she added, voice raw. Small.

His chest ached.

So much grief, tucked into six words.

He wanted to hold her. To say something that would make it better — or at least less heavy. But the words didn’t come.

So instead, he reached for her hand. Then stopped, fingers hovering just above hers.

“Can I?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t speak.

Just nodded, once. Sharp. Almost broken.

And when his hand wrapped gently around hers, she didn’t pull away.

She just held on.

Like maybe this — he — was the only solid thing left in the room.

Miles took her hand in his — warm and solid.

He squeezed gently, not too tight. Just enough to say I’m here.

Her fingers curled around his, weak but certain.

He didn’t say anything. Just kept humming the lullaby, the words soft and low, filling the quiet with something that felt like comfort. Like memory without pain. Like presence without pressure.

“Duérmete mi niña,
duérmete mi sol…”

Her breath hitched.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a small sound that broke the stillness like a crack in glass.

He didn’t look at her.

Didn’t ask.

“Duérmete pedazo
de mi corazón…”

The words were barely more than a whisper. Familiar. Worn. Full of years.

He wanted to ask her about her mom. What happened. Where it hurt. How long she'd carried the weight of that absence alone.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew sometimes silence was the only answer that felt right.

So he just stayed beside her.

Singing a song they both remembered for different reasons.

Letting her hold his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the moment.

When the song ended, the apartment felt still.

Not empty — just… suspended. Like even the air didn’t want to break the moment.

Celina’s eyes were closed, lashes dark against her skin, but a single tear slid down her cheek.

Miles reached up, thumb brushing it away with the gentlest touch. He didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t need to.

“Sleep,” he said softly.

She didn’t open her eyes, but she nodded — the barest movement, fragile and full of trust.

And in that small, quiet moment — her hand in his, her defenses finally down —

he let himself think that maybe,

just maybe,

this was something worth hoping for.

He watched her drift off, her breathing evening out — slow, steady, peaceful in a way she rarely let herself be.

His heart ached — for her, for him, for the space between them that somehow felt impossibly big and unbearably small all at once. He let go of her hand gently and stood. Moving quietly, he made his way into the kitchen. Tidied up. Covered the soup. Left the medicine where she’d see it. Every movement was careful, practiced — like a ritual.

Then he reached for the sticky notes.

He scribbled something quickly, the words coming easier than he expected. Then peeled it free and stuck it to the edge of the coffee table, right where she’d see it when she woke.

You’re stronger than you think.
I’ve got you.
— M.

He stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching her sleep.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

Didn’t know what she’d say. Or what he’d say back.

But for tonight, he was here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Miles tucked the blanket tighter around Celina’s shoulders, his heart aching at the way she shivered even in sleep.

He exhaled slowly, then reached for his phone.

FaceTimed Tim first.

It rang twice before the screen lit up with Bradford’s face — looking, somehow, both grumpy and concerned.

“Bradford,” Miles said, voice low. “She’s asleep. Fever’s down. I—”

Tim cut him off. “Good. She’s stubborn. Don’t let her tell you she’s fine.”

Miles smiled weakly. “Yeah, I got that memo.”

Before he could say more, Lucy’s face popped up beside Tim’s on the screen, eyes wide and warm.

“Is she okay? Do you need anything?”

Miles shook his head. “No, she’s… she’s okay. Sleeping.”

Lucy’s expression softened. “You’re a good one, Miles.”

He felt heat rise to his neck. Looked away for a second. “Just… didn’t want her to be alone.”

Tim’s voice came through, quieter now. “You’re doing good, kid.”

Miles nodded. “Thanks.”

Lucy leaned closer to the camera, her voice softer than before. “She’s lucky to have you there.”

His smile turned gentle. A little raw. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

On the screen, Lucy and Tim exchanged a look he couldn’t quite read.

Then Tim said, “Take care of her.”

Miles didn’t hesitate. “Always.”

He ended the call and set the phone down, staring at the darkened screen for a long moment — his reflection faint against the black glass.

He glanced at Celina — still asleep on the couch, her face turned toward the back cushions, the blanket rising and falling with her breaths.

“Always,”

he whispered again, just for himself.

Tim set the phone down on the nightstand.

Lucy was already pulling her hair up, settling against the pillows. “They’re so doomed,” she said.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “In what way?”

“In the absolutely going to fall for each other but won’t admit it until it hurts kind of way.”

He grunted. “Sounds familiar.”

She smirked. “You were worse.”

“I was careful,” he corrected.

“You were emotionally constipated.”

Tim snorted, then sobered.

“He really cares about her.”

Lucy’s smile softened. “Yeah. She’s not easy to let in. And he didn’t even knock.”

They were quiet for a moment.

Then Tim added, “She’s scared. But he makes it easier.”

Lucy nodded. “Like someone else I know.”

He gave her a look.

She leaned over and kissed his shoulder. “It’s a compliment, Bradford.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t move away. “If he hurts her—”

“He won’t,” Lucy said gently. “He’s already in too deep.”

They both looked toward the phone like it might light up again.

“Good,” Tim said finally. “About time someone saw her.”

Lucy squeezed his hand under the blanket.

“They see each other.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Late Night, Low Battery, Long Looks 

Celina woke up feeling marginally better, but every part of her felt bruised.

Not just sore — bruised . Like the fever had wrung her out and left her hollow, like her body had finally slowed down enough to feel everything at once.

Her head ached. Her throat was raw. Her limbs ached in that heavy, dull way that made everything feel like too much effort.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst was the sticky note on the table beside her.

You’re stronger than you think.
I’ve got you.
— M.

The handwriting was familiar. Slanted. Fast. Like he always wrote notes in motion — like the words were coming out faster than he could keep them in.

She stared at it for a long time.

Didn’t pick it up. Just looked at it, as if the message might change the longer she sat with it. Her fingers hovered before they finally reached out and traced the ink, soft and careful. Like touching it might make it feel less real.

She should’ve been annoyed.

He’d taken over her space, her kitchen, her quiet. Slipped into her life like it was easy — like he hadn’t asked permission and didn’t think he needed to. But all she felt was a sharp ache in her chest that made her want to cry. She folded the note slowly, creasing it right down the center, and walked to the shelf where her notebook sat — the one with tabs and receipts and reminders she pretended to need. She slid the note into the back pocket.

Right next to the others.

She wasn’t sure when she’d started collecting them.

The first few had been easy to ignore. A joke. A phase .

But somewhere between "Don’t forget lunch today" and "You’ve got this — even when you don’t feel like you do," she'd stopped throwing them away.

And now?

Now she couldn’t.

She lingered near the shelf for a moment, notebook in hand, thumb resting on the worn corner of the cover.

Then, slowly, she sank onto the edge of the couch — blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, the quiet of the apartment pressing in like a held breath.

She opened the back pocket of the notebook.

The sticky notes weren’t neatly arranged. They were tucked in haphazardly — some creased, some curling at the edges, a few smudged from being handled too many times.

She pulled one out.

"Leftover pasta in the fridge. Don’t fight me — just eat it."

The corner was stained with what looked like sauce. She remembered rolling her eyes at it. Pretending she wasn’t touched. But she’d eaten it. Every bite.

She unfolded another.

"You don’t have to do everything alone."

That one had landed too close. She remembered leaving it on the counter for a full day before finally sliding it into the notebook without a word.

Another.

"The coffee tastes better when you’re around. (I won’t admit this again.)"

That one made her throat tighten. Her eyes skimmed each note like they were made of glass. Little pieces of him — of care, of comfort, of a thousand things they hadn’t said out loud.She didn’t know when it had started meaning something.

When he had started meaning something.

But now, sitting there with her knees tucked up and a stack of sticky notes pressed between her fingers like they were sacred, she couldn’t pretend it didn’t. She swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in her eyes. And then, as if her body couldn’t hold any more of it, she pressed the notes back into the pocket and shut the notebook with trembling hands.

Because if she let herself feel all of it now —

she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop.

She had just slipped the last note into the back pocket and closed the notebook when she heard the soft sound of footsteps behind her. She startled slightly, spine straightening. Miles stood in the doorway, two mugs in hand, hair slightly messy, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“I made coffee,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t know if you’d want some.”

She nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He crossed the room, setting one mug on the table beside her. His eyes flicked to the notebook in her lap, then back to her face. He didn’t ask. She tucked it under the blanket beside her like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

He didn’t call her on it.

Just sat down across from her, nursing his own cup. The silence stretched. Not awkward, exactly — but full. Heavy. Like there were too many things floating between them they didn’t know how to name yet.

“You sleep okay?” he asked, finally.

“Yeah,” she said. “Better.”

He nodded. “Good.”

She took a sip of the coffee — hot, just the way she liked it. Probably on purpose. Her throat ached, but the warmth helped.

She didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

Because if she did, she was afraid he’d see it — the softness in her chest, the storm she’d just shoved back into a notebook. So instead, she stared into her mug like it could anchor her.

And Miles?

He let her.

Because he knew whatever she wasn’t saying — she would. Eventually.

And when she did, he’d still be sitting right there.

Celina made it to the precinct later than usual, sunglasses on, hair pulled back, and an oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. She looked better. But still not great.

Lucy caught her by the coffee machine, leaning casually against the counter, eyes sharp and unrelenting.

“Hey,” she said. “You look… better.”

Celina shot her a look over the lid of her travel mug. “Thanks for that.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “No fever today?”

Celina shifted, suddenly interested in the drip of the coffee machine. “No. Just tired.”

Lucy didn’t press — not immediately.

Her voice softened, just enough. “He took care of you, didn’t he?”

Celina didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The way her grip tightened on the mug. The way her eyes flicked away.

Lucy smiled, just a little. “He’s a good one.”

Celina bristled. “He’s my—”

“Roommate,” Lucy finished for her, grinning. “Yeah, I know.”

Celina glared. “Shut up.”

Lucy took a long, smug sip of her coffee. “You don’t fool me, Celina.”

Celina muttered something under her breath and walked off. But Lucy didn’t stop smiling.

Because for the first time, Celina hadn’t corrected her .

She’d just walked away.

And that said more than any confession could.

Tim walked up behind Lucy, coffee in hand. He took one look at Celina and gave her that gruff, no-nonsense stare that made rookies rethink their entire lives.

“You look like hell warmed over,” he said.

Celina groaned. “Not you too.”

Tim didn’t flinch. “He called me, you know.”

Her stomach flipped. “Miles?”

He nodded. “Checked in after you went to sleep. Said your fever broke. Said you were out cold.”

Celina blinked. Swallowed hard.

Lucy’s smile turned soft around the edges. “That’s sweet.”

Tim grunted. “It’s… something.”

There was a beat of silence — not heavy, but full. Celina stared at the floor. At the way her shoes lined up unevenly. At the way her coffee rippled when her hand trembled just slightly. The words stuck in her throat. Tim reached out, his big hand landing on her shoulder — steady, grounding.

“You’re lucky to have someone like that around,” he said, voice low, quiet enough that it didn’t carry beyond the three of them.

Not a tease. Not a lecture. Just fact. She didn’t know what to say.

So she said nothing.

But she didn’t pull away either.

And Tim didn’t need her to say anything at all.

She found him in the locker room hallway, halfway through switching out gear. His back was to her at first — broad shoulders, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, sleeves rolled like he’d been working through something just to keep his hands busy. When he turned, their eyes met.

Only for a second.

Then she looked away, fast.

“Hey,” he said, careful.

“Hey,” she echoed, too quickly.

The silence hung between them. She moved to the other side of the hall, pretending to dig through her locker like it was urgent. Like she wasn’t hyper-aware of the fact that he was standing right there .

“You feeling better?” he asked, quieter now.

She nodded. “Yeah. Fine.”

Another pause.

“You, uh…” His voice trailed off. “You saw the note?”

She didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

He waited. Hoped. But she said nothing else. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the locker door like it might give her an excuse to leave.

“Celina,” he said softly.

She shut the locker with a little more force than necessary. “I’ve got to grab paperwork.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the reason she was walking away, either. She didn’t look back as she turned the corner. Didn’t see the way his shoulders slumped. The way he stood there for a second too long, still holding the jacket he hadn’t finished folding. He let out a breath and ran a hand through his hair.

Then he turned, walked away, and didn’t chase her.

Not yet.

She didn’t say anything.

Just stood there, frozen in the threshold like if she moved, it might break something. Miles hadn’t noticed her yet. He was humming — softly, absently — and she caught the faintest trace of it now, carried on the air between them. It was familiar, in the way things became familiar without asking permission. In the way he had. He set the mug down carefully, like it mattered.

Like everything he touched here mattered.

And for some stupid reason, that made her throat burn. She didn’t want this to be a thing. Didn’t want him to be a thing.

But the apartment didn’t feel right without him in it. Didn’t feel like hers anymore unless he was in the room. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

She wasn’t ready to talk about it. Wasn’t ready to look at him and say thank you for last night , or sorry I ran , or please don’t go . So instead, she cleared her throat — soft, but just loud enough.

Miles turned, startled. His expression shifted — from surprise to something gentler. Something careful.

“Hey,” he said, pulling out one earbud.

Her voice was rough. “Hey.”

And for a second, neither of them moved.

Then he offered a small smile. “There’s soup in the fridge. And real bread this time.”

She looked down. Nodded.

“Thanks,” she said, barely audible.

He didn’t press her. Didn’t ask where she’d been all day or why she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

He just nodded once. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”

And as he disappeared down the hallway, the silence wrapped around her again — familiar, yes. But lonelier than it had been the night before.

He didn’t notice her right away. His head was tilted slightly, brow furrowed in that quiet way he got when he was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere miles away from the kitchen, from the mug in his hands, from the girl standing just out of reach behind him.

Her.

The thought curled around her ribs too tight. She wondered if he was thinking about her — about last night, about her falling apart and letting him see it. About the lullaby. The fever. The hand she didn’t pull away from. She hated how much she wanted to know.

Hated how much she was afraid to find out.

Because what if he wasn’t thinking about her at all?

What if he was just here because he said he would be?

What if this was all in her head?

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She couldn’t look at him. Not yet. Not when her heart felt like a lit fuse in her chest, waiting for the next spark to set it off.

So she turned away — slow, careful — and padded down the hall like nothing had happened.

Like her world wasn’t tilting a little every time he was in it.

She cleared her throat, and he jumped, nearly dropping the mug.

“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling out one earbud. “You trying to kill me?”

She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe.”

He grinned. “You’re feeling better, then.”

She shrugged. “A little.”

He set the mug down and leaned against the counter, studying her like she was something he was trying to figure out.

“You need anything?” he asked, voice low, careful.

She shook her head. “No. Just… tired.”

His eyes softened. “Long day?”

She shrugged again. “Long week.”

He nodded like he understood. Because he probably did. His gaze lingered, just a second too long. She felt it — warm, steady, patient — and it made her stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with being tired. She shifted her weight, suddenly too aware of everything — of how close he was, of how soft his voice had been, of the way her name might sound if he ever said it like it meant something.

But he didn’t push.

He never did.

That was the problem.

He gave her space. Let her pretend. Let her be quiet and closed off and prickly without taking it personally. It made her want to cry. Instead, she forced a tight smile and turned away, mumbling something about getting changed.

He didn’t stop her.

But as she walked down the hallway, she could still feel his eyes on her back.

Like he was watching.

Waiting.

Like maybe he knew exactly what she wasn’t saying.

He gestured to the couch. “Want to sit?”

She hesitated. Then crossed the room and sank into the cushions, tucking her legs under her. He followed, settling on the opposite end.

The space between them felt too big and too small at the same time.

She picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her hoodie, anything to keep her hands busy. He sat with one arm draped over the back of the couch, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, but far enough that it didn’t touch her.

Didn’t force anything.

It was infuriating. And comforting. And confusing. The silence stretched, soft and heavy. Not awkward. Not really. Just full. Like there were too many things unsaid sitting between them, crowding out the air.

She cleared her throat. “Thanks. For the tea. And… everything.”

He looked over, eyes steady. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know,” she said. But her voice cracked a little on the second word.

She hated that. He didn’t comment on it. Just gave her that look — the one that made her feel seen in a way that was both unbearable and impossible to turn away from.

“I meant it, you know,” he said after a moment.

She blinked. “Meant what?”

“The note,” he said simply. “All of it.”

Her chest ached again. That now-familiar, terrifying warmth.

She looked down at her hands. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I know.”

She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek.

“I’m used to being alone,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on a water ring on the coffee table. “Even when I wasn’t.”

Miles didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Just waited.

“I’ve never had someone… stay,” she added, barely louder than a whisper.

His fingers twitched where they rested against his leg, like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t know if he should.

Then, softly: “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

That made her look at him — really look at him. His expression was open, steady. No pressure. Just truth. She hated how much that unraveled her. Because part of her wanted to believe it.
Wanted to let herself lean into that quiet promise.

But another part — the part that remembered too much, trusted too little — pulled back.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, her voice cracking at the edges.

He offered her a small, sad smile. “Me neither.”

And somehow, that helped. They didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there — side by side, alone but not.

The silence didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Just… full of things not yet said.

She wanted to ask him why he stayed.

Why he kept leaving notes.

Why he cared so damn much.

But the words lodged in her throat, thick and unmovable. Because asking meant admitting she needed to know.

So instead, she stared at her hands and said, “Thanks for… you know. The tea. The soup. Everything.”

Miles didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her like he was reading every line on her face.

Then his voice, soft as ever: “Anytime.”

And he meant it. She felt the promise in it — quiet, unwavering, and far too dangerous.

Because if she let herself believe it…

She didn’t know who she’d be without it

She let out a shaky breath, her fingers twisting the edge of the blanket she’d pulled off the back of the couch.

“You’re easy to be around,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

His brows knit. “Easy?”

She shook her head, frustrated at her own words. “I mean—comfortable. Like it’s… safe.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “That’s good, right?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t know how.

Because yes , it was good.

But it was also terrifying.

Safe wasn’t something she was used to.

Safe had strings.

Safe had stakes.

And Miles — Miles was becoming both.

He didn’t push. Just shifted slightly, resting his arm along the back of the couch, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the quiet offer in it.

“I don’t mind being the safe one,” he said, voice low. “If that’s what you need.”

Her throat tightened. For a second, she almost told him everything — about the silence in her childhood apartment, about the way people always left, about how she’d taught herself not to rely on anyone just to survive.

But instead, she just whispered, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Miles looked at her, steady, unwavering.

“I’m not.”

And somehow, that scared her more than anything.

He leaned back, studying her. “You know I’m not trying to take over your life, right?”

She snorted. “Says the guy who leaves sticky notes like breadcrumbs.”

He grinned. “Guilty.”

She bit her lip. “Why?”

His smile faded. “Because… I want you to know you’re not alone.”

The air between them thickened, words unspoken, questions unanswered. She hated how much she wanted to believe him. Because if she believed him, it meant letting go of every wall she’d built.
It meant letting someone stay. And that had never ended well.

“I don’t… do this,” she said quietly. “I don’t let people in.”

Miles didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. “I know.”

Her eyes flicked up to his. “Then why are you still here?”

He held her gaze, steady and soft. “Because you let me stay.”

She blinked, and for a terrifying second, she thought she might cry.

So instead, she scoffed and looked away. “You’re impossible.”

Miles chuckled. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all week.”

She huffed a laugh despite herself, wiping at her eyes before anything could fall.
“I’m still not throwing out your notes,” she muttered.

He smiled, not smug — just warm. “Good. I’ve got more where those came from.”

Their eyes met, and something in her chest twisted.

She looked away first.

“Goodnight, Miles,” she said, voice small.

“Night, Celina.”

She stood, blanket trailing behind her like a shield. Her heart thudded in her chest, too fast, too loud. She didn’t look back as she walked down the hall. Miles watched her go, the quiet settling around him like a second skin.

He wanted to follow.

Wanted to ask what she was thinking.

But he stayed put.

Because he’d promised himself he wouldn’t push.

Not tonight.

He leaned back against the couch, letting the silence wrap around him. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut.

He stared at the space she’d just left — the shape of her still warm in the cushions, the blanket trailing like an echo.
And he whispered into the room, barely a sound:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Even if she wasn’t ready to hear it.

He let out a slow breath and reached for a sticky note.

“Sleep well. You’re not alone. — M.”

His handwriting was a little messier than usual, like his hands were too full of feeling to stay steady. He stuck it to her door — careful, quiet, like the words themselves might wake her.

Then he stepped back. Turned off the light. And let the darkness wrap around him,
soft and steady,

like hope whispered through a wall.

Celina found the note in the morning. It was stuck to her door, a little crooked, like it hadn’t wanted to stay but hadn’t wanted to fall either. She plucked it off gently, fingertips brushing the paper like it might bruise.

“Sleep well. You’re not alone. — M.”

Her chest tightened.

There it was again — that feeling she couldn’t name, soft and sharp all at once.

She stared at the handwriting until the letters blurred. Then she folded the note slowly, deliberately, like it meant something sacred. Slid it into the back of her notebook, right alongside all the others. She didn’t know when she’d started needing them.

Needing him.

But somewhere between the soup and the lullabies, between the sticky notes and the silences,
she had. And the scariest part?

She didn’t want to stop.

She stood in the doorway, staring at the couch where he’d slept the night before.

The blanket was still folded. The pillow still held the faint shape of his head.

It felt empty without him there.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know how to be okay with needing someone.

Didn’t know how to let herself want someone and not run the other way.

But maybe she didn’t have to figure it out today. Maybe, for now, it was enough that he’d shown up. That he hadn’t asked for anything.

That he’d stayed.

And that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: You’re Always Here

Celina padded into the kitchen with sleep still clinging to her eyes, one sock on and the other forgotten somewhere near the edge of her bed. Her hoodie hung off one shoulder, and her hair was a half-hearted bun at best — but she didn’t care. Not this morning.

The apartment was still. The early kind of quiet, where the city hadn’t quite woken up yet. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak from above them, like the building itself was stretching into the day.

There was already a mug of coffee on the counter.

Not hers. But for her.

Still hot.

Still waiting.

She blinked at it, brow furrowing slightly. It wasn’t the gesture that got her — it was how expected it had started to feel. Like part of the routine. Like she didn’t have to ask anymore.

She wrapped her hands around the cup, holding it close, the warmth seeping into her fingers before it ever hit her chest.

A folded dish towel sat next to the sink — her laundry, she realized distantly. Folded. Her hoodie, even, was missing the wrinkle it usually had down the front.
Someone had taken the time. Again.
And it wasn’t her.

Miles’ door was cracked. She could hear the muffled sounds of his Spotify Discover Weekly through the wall — something with soft drums and sad lyrics, of course. He always said he didn’t read into the vibe of his playlist, but she didn’t believe him.

She didn’t peek in.

But she didn’t walk away either.

Instead, she stood there for a second longer, bare toes curling against the tile, the mug warm in her hands like a secret. A reminder. A ritual. Something real and quiet and his.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

Lucy 👑: Miles made you coffee again didn’t he. you two act more married than me and tim and we’ve actually kissed

Celina rolled her eyes and replied only with a middle finger emoji — but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.
Technically, he already had moved in. That wasn’t the point.

She looked back toward his door. Still cracked. Still humming.

She stood there, holding that cup of coffee like it was proof of something she couldn’t say out loud.

That he was here.

That he always was.

By noon, Celina was back at her desk, typing up case notes like she hadn’t almost cried over a mug this morning.

The coffee had worn off. The ache in her chest hadn’t.

Lucy dropped into the chair across from her without warning, balancing her cup with the reckless grace of someone who’d never spilled anything in her life. “So, we’re doing cozy now?”

Celina didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“Too late,” Lucy said, already grinning. She gestured toward Celina’s hoodie — the navy one, slightly oversized, with a faint bleach mark on the cuff. “Miles’ hoodie again?”

“It’s soft.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Celina made a face but didn’t rise to the bait. Lucy sipped her coffee, calm as ever, gaze annoyingly perceptive.

Then, quieter: “You okay?”

Celina’s fingers hovered over the keys, case notes blurring slightly on the screen. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Lucy tilted her head. “You let him in, you know.”

Celina blinked. “What?”

“You let him in.” Lucy’s voice had shifted — less teasing, more careful. “I just hope you don’t figure that out too late.”

Celina opened her mouth to respond — to deny it, to push, to deflect — but didn’t get the chance.

Sergeant Grey’s voice cut through the bullpen like a well-timed plot twist: “Chen. Juarez. You’re riding backup tonight — joint patrol until 0200.”

Celina looked up sharply. “Sir—”

“Not a request,” Grey added without pause, already halfway through another folder. Then, with the ghost of a knowing look: “You two work well in pairs.”

Tim coughed into his coffee near the whiteboard like he was choking back a laugh. Lucy smiled into her cup. Celina stared at both of them like they were in on some private joke.

And across the room, Miles stood at his own desk, leaned slightly against the edge like he hadn’t heard something strange at all. His eyes flicked to hers. No surprise. No hesitation.

Just a small nod.

Like it was normal.

Like this was easy.

Like she wasn’t actively short-circuiting in real time.

And somehow…

That might’ve been worse.

The joint shift was quiet.

Not in a bad way — no tension, no awkwardness — just... quiet.

They drove the usual routes, checked the usual alleys, cleared the usual calls. No drama. No high-speed chases. Just the sound of tires humming under the streetlights and the occasional crackle of dispatch over the radio.

Celina tapped her fingers against the passenger door. It was something she did when she was thinking — or when she was pretending she wasn’t.

Miles didn’t say anything.

A song came on the radio. One of those mellow indie tracks he usually skipped. This time, he let it play. The lyrics drifted in the background — soft piano, slow harmonies, something about staying even when it’s hard.

Celina shifted in her seat.

“You okay?” he asked finally, voice low.

She nodded once. “Just tired.”

He gave a small hum in reply. Nothing else.

But when she reached for the coffee in the console and her fingers brushed his, neither of them moved for a second too long.

She pulled her hand back first.

The silence after wasn’t heavy. Just full.

The precinct shift was long. Uneventful. Cold. The kind of night where the radio barely crackled and even the streetlights looked tired. Celina kept her gaze on the road most of the time, and Miles didn’t push. They didn’t talk much in the car.

But when they got home, everything felt… quieter.

Stiller.

Celina flipped the light switch by instinct.

Nothing.

She frowned, tried another.

Still nothing.

“I think we blew a fuse,” she muttered, already stepping out of her boots.

Miles appeared behind her, dropping his keys on the counter. “Great. Add it to the list of things this place is trying to kill us with.”

“I swear if one more thing breaks—”

“I’ll sue the landlord for emotional damage,” he offered.

She snorted. “Please. We’d lose.”

He started toward the hall closet. “I’ll grab the—”

“It’s already out,” she called, cutting him off.

The old camping lantern sat on the coffee table, right where she’d left it after their last attempt at reorganizing the storage bins. She clicked it on, the low yellow light flickering to life and casting long shadows across the living room. They sat with it between them.

No TV.

No hum of the fridge.

No Lucy yelling across the bullpen or Tim’s low drawl giving orders through the comms.

Just them.

Celina pulled her knees up beneath her, wrapping Miles’ hoodie tighter around her body. The cuffs covered her hands. Her fingers idly traced the rim of her now-cold coffee mug — the same one from this morning.

There was a chip in the ceramic near the base. She hadn’t noticed it before.

Miles didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t try to fill the space with easy words or force her to laugh.

He just stayed.

He leaned back against the opposite cushion, legs stretched out, fingers tapping once against the side of the lantern. She could feel his presence like gravity — steady, warm, close enough to reach.

She didn’t look at him. But she could feel his gaze flick to her. Once. Then again.

And for the first time all night, she let herself breathe.

Because sometimes silence wasn’t heavy.

Sometimes, it was just… safe.

The power outage turned the apartment into a cave of warmth and flickering shadows.

They sat on opposite sides of the couch, the lantern dim between them, their outlines soft and golden. No hum from the fridge. No distant sirens. Just quiet.

Celina had tucked her legs under herself, blanket wrapped tight around her knees. Her hair had fallen out of its bun somewhere between the door and the couch, and now it hung loose over her shoulder.

Miles leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the top of the couch. Not close enough to touch her. But not far, either.

She cleared her throat. “Have you ever lived alone?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I mean, before this. Roommates, partners, whatever.”

He shrugged. “Not really. Always had someone around.”

She nodded, eyes still on the lantern.

“I used to think I liked being alone,” she said, voice quieter now. “But maybe I just didn’t like anyone enough to stay.”

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t rush her.

Didn’t make it lighter than it was.

And maybe that’s why she kept going.

Somewhere between the silence and the stillness, between the soft buzz of the lantern and the steady hush of the world outside their windows, Celina spoke.

“I never have to ask.”

Miles looked over.

She didn’t meet his eyes. Kept hers trained on the faint flicker of the lantern between them, the way the light caught on his wrist, the fabric of the hoodie she was still wearing.

“You’re just… here,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “You always are.”

His brow furrowed just slightly. “Would you rather I wasn’t?”

She shook her head, too quickly. “No. That’s not what I meant.”

The silence thickened for a second. Then he leaned forward, forearms on his knees, eyes catching the edge of hers in the glow.

“What did you mean, then?”

She exhaled, slow and careful, like the words would come out wrong if she rushed them.

“I think…” she hesitated. “I’m just not used to that. Someone who shows up. Even when it’s nothing big. Even when I don’t say anything.”

Her thumb rubbed over the chipped rim of the mug in her lap.

Miles tilted his head, just slightly. The corners of his mouth curved. “I can leave a mess next time, if it helps.”

She looked at him then — just briefly — and her lips twitched into a half-smile.

“You’re annoying.”

He leaned back, hands behind his head now, smug as ever. “You’re welcome.”

She rolled her eyes and set the mug on the table.

But she didn’t move away.

And neither did he.

They sat closer than usual tonight.

The couch wasn’t big — but it wasn’t that small either. Usually, there was a cushion’s worth of space between them. Tonight, there wasn’t. Not really.

There was space.

But Celina didn’t take it.

At first, it was subtle. Her knees turned in his direction instead of folded up like usual. Her arm rested along the cushion beside him instead of curled close to her chest. She didn’t seem to notice. But Miles did. And when she let herself lean — just barely — toward him, her shoulder brushing his… he noticed that too.

She didn’t move back.

She could have. The contact wasn’t an accident. Not really. And when she let herself stay there, shoulder against shoulder, hoodie sleeve brushing his, something shifted in the air. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

The glow from the lantern softened the room around them, stretching long shadows along the walls. It felt like they were in a snow globe. Like if they breathed too hard, it would all shatter.

Miles flexed his hand once, then stilled it. His knee was touching hers now. Just barely.

He couldn’t remember the last time silence had felt like this.

Not heavy. Not awkward.

Just… charged. Waiting.

And then, as if her body decided before her mind did, Celina’s head dropped onto his shoulder.

Not forcefully. Not dramatically. Just slow. Careful. Like a question. Like she was bracing for him to flinch or shift away.

He didn’t.

He didn’t move at all.

His heart was pounding — embarrassingly so — but he stayed still. Stayed solid.

Let her rest there. And maybe, just maybe, let himself feel the way his chest tightened. Let himself realize how much he liked the weight of her leaning on him. The way her breathing steadied beside his.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking down to the curve of her cheek.

She didn’t look tired anymore.

She looked safe.

The couch creaked softly beneath them.

Celina shifted again, tugging the blanket higher. Her legs were curled against the cushions now, knees just brushing his thigh. The hoodie — his hoodie — swallowed her whole.

Miles didn’t move.

Her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to fight it — the pull of exhaustion, the quiet, the comfort. Then her hand dropped to the couch between them, just barely grazing his.

She didn’t pull back.

Neither did he.

The lantern buzzed once and flickered, casting shadows across the floor. It was so quiet he could hear her breathing. Slow. Steady. She blinked once. Then again.
And then, like gravity won, her head dipped sideways — gently, carefully — until it landed against his shoulder.

Miles froze.

Not because he didn’t want it.

Because he did.

More than he should.

But he stayed still. Let her lean. Let the silence wrap around them.

She let out a soft breath — almost a sigh. He turned his head slightly, just enough to see the crown of hers resting against him.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t want the moment to end.

She fell asleep like that.

Right there — curled up against his side, head tucked beneath his jaw like it belonged there.

At first, Miles didn’t move because he didn’t want to wake her. Then he didn’t move because he couldn’t.

His shoulder had gone a little numb, but the rest of him was on high alert — locked in place by the weight of her, the smell of her shampoo, the way her fingers had drifted lower until they brushed against his thigh and stayed there, unconsciously.

The kind of touch that wasn’t planned. The kind you remember anyway.

She mumbled something in her sleep — low and barely formed. It sounded like his name.

Miles closed his eyes for a second. Just one.

This didn’t mean anything.

It couldn’t.

She was tired. The lights were out. The power was out. The universe was playing tricks on him, giving him softness he hadn’t asked for and couldn’t keep. Still, he stayed. He let his hand rest on the back of the couch, fingers curling slightly behind her shoulders. Not touching her — not quite. But there.

Close enough that it felt like something.

He told himself not to read into it.

Told himself she’d wake up, stretch, laugh it off.

And he’d let her. He always did.

But still — he stayed.

He didn’t look at the clock. Didn’t reach for his phone. Didn’t shift, even as his whole body protested.

Because the truth was:

He liked the silence when she was in it. He liked the weight of her trust.

And he knew — deep down, in the way you know things without saying them — that this moment was something they’d both pretend hadn’t happened.

Later, she’d probably avoid his eyes.

Later, he’d probably crack a joke and change the subject.

But for now —

She was asleep. And he was staying.

Like always.

Across town, the porch light buzzed softly against the evening chill. The city stretched out quiet below them — not asleep, but settled. Lucy leaned against the railing of Tim’s porch, mug in hand, eyes distant.

“She’s changing,” she said quietly.

Tim didn’t look at her. Just took a sip of his coffee, the kind she always said tasted like motor oil. “Yeah.”

Lucy’s eyes didn’t leave the skyline. “Because of him.”

That got his attention. Tim glanced over, not surprised — just thoughtful.

“He’s solid,” Tim said simply.

“She’s not good at letting people in.”

“Neither are you,” he said, voice lower now.

Lucy didn’t argue.

She stared into her mug, watching the steam rise slow into the night air. She blew on it absently, lips twitching into something almost-smile, almost-sad.

“I just hope she figures it out before it’s too late.”

Tim didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he shifted slightly, stepping in just a little closer, shoulder brushing hers.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

And Lucy didn’t move away.

When Celina woke up, the lantern was off.

The apartment was still — the kind of still that made you forget sound existed. Only the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of old floorboards reminded her the world hadn’t stopped.

Miles was gone.

His door closed. Lights off. No footsteps.

But it didn’t feel empty.

Her body ached from the angle she’d fallen asleep in, neck stiff, blanket bunched awkwardly around her. She blinked slowly, trying to remember when exactly she’d drifted off — if she’d said anything. If she’d moved.

The warmth from where he’d been was gone. But something of it lingered.

She stood, the blanket trailing behind her like a forgotten thought. Her gaze flicked toward the counter. No new note. No fresh coffee this time. She didn’t blame him — it was early. Or maybe late. She didn’t check. On instinct, she crossed the kitchen and opened the drawer by the fridge.

The sticky notes were still there — tucked beside the pens and mismatched batteries, in the spot he always left them.

She stared at them for a long second.

Then pulled one free.

The pen felt too heavy in her hand. The silence too loud. She started to write something.

Stopped.

Tore the note in half.

Started again.

This time, she didn’t overthink it. Didn’t try to make it sound like a joke. Didn’t try to hide behind sarcasm or smirks or safety.

Thanks for always being here.

That’s all it said.

She didn’t sign it.

Just stuck it to the coffee pot — the same one he used every morning — and walked away before she could change her mind.

He found it the next morning — half-asleep, still rubbing his eyes, expecting just coffee.

The apartment was quiet. Early golden light slanted through the kitchen window, casting streaks across the countertop. He reached for the coffee pot out of habit, already planning to text Celina if she forgot to refill the water again.

And then he saw it.

The note.

A sticky square of yellow pressed flat against the glass. Her handwriting.

Careful. Small. Slanted slightly to the left like she’d rewritten it more than once.

Thanks for always being here.

That’s all it said.

No signature. No joke. No sarcasm.

Just that.

Miles stood there for a second too long, fingers hovering above the counter like touching it might make it disappear. He smiled to himself — slow, involuntary. The kind that started in his chest and spread outward, soft and dangerous

Then, without a word, he peeled the note from the pot. Folded it once. Then again. Slid it into his wallet, right behind his driver’s license — like it belonged there. Like it was proof of something real.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Because maybe — just maybe — she was starting to stay, too.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: One Sock on the Couch

One sock.

Miles’ sock.

Gray, with a faded stripe near the ankle and just enough stretch in the fabric to say it had been through things. It was balled up and abandoned on the edge of the couch like it lived there now.

Like he did.

Celina stared at it for a full minute before saying anything. Not that there was anyone to say it to.

She picked it up between two fingers like it might be radioactive.

“Gross,” she muttered — like that could explain the way her chest tugged just a little.

It wasn’t the sock.

It was what it meant.

Miles had gotten comfortable. Sloppy, even. Leaving socks out, leaving cabinet doors cracked open, leaving his toothbrush on the sink like he forgot it wasn’t just his bathroom.

He was starting to live here.

Not just crash here.

Not just take up space on the lease.

And somehow… that didn’t feel bad.

Just dangerous.

She stared at it for another second. Then dropped it on the back of the couch like it wasn’t still echoing in her chest.

There were now three mugs in the sink.

One was hers.

The other two? Miles’.

She recognized them easily — the blue one with the chip on the rim, and the obnoxious thrift store mug with a little cartoon dinosaur wearing sunglasses. He’d brought it home one day, held it up like a trophy, and declared it “vibe-accurate.”

She told him it was cursed.

He used it every day after that.

Now it sat in the sink, empty, tilted at a dramatic angle like it had made some sort of point and was now resting.

She leaned on the counter and stared at it.

Miles wasn’t even home right now. And still, his stuff was everywhere.

A hoodie draped over the back of the chair, sleeves twisted like it had been shrugged off in a hurry. His keys on the hallway table, half-covering the mail she still hadn’t sorted. A pair of his socks — different from the one she found earlier — balled together and barely tucked behind the arm of the couch.

And then there was the sticky note.

Still clinging to the fridge like it belonged there, even though the paper was curling at the edges now. The same one he’d written a few days ago in Sharpie:

Buy more oranges. You’re scurvy-adjacent. — M.

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth betrayed her. She smiled. Small and involuntary.

And that —

That was the problem.

Not the socks. Not the mugs. Not the cartoon dinosaur or the oranges or the hoodie that smelled like his cologne.

The problem was that it all felt… normal.

The problem was that she didn’t want to throw any of it away.

She was lying on her side when he came in — face half-buried in a throw pillow, hair a disaster, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands.

Miles stopped in the doorway and blinked at her. “You okay?”

“Long shift,” she mumbled, voice muffled by fabric.

He didn’t press.

Just disappeared for a minute.

She didn’t move. Just listened — the soft creak of the hallway floorboards, the low sound of the linen closet door opening, the rustle of something being pulled down from the shelf.

He came back with her favorite blanket.

The one with the worn edges and the fading stars.

The one she never admitted was her favorite — but somehow, he’d figured it out anyway. Without saying anything, he draped it over her legs — gentle, careful — like he did it all the time.

She sighed into the pillow. “You’re getting too good at that.”

“At what?”

“Reading me.”

He grinned, easy and a little smug. “I am a detective.”

She grabbed the throw pillow and chucked it at him. He caught it without flinching.

And didn’t leave the room.

Didn’t say he had things to do.

Didn’t walk away like he had somewhere else to be.

Just sat down on the edge of the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t need to.

He stayed anyway.

Later that day, they ended up back at the precinct — different cases, same lunchroom.

Celina sat on the far bench, poking half-heartedly at a sandwich she didn’t really want. The bread was too dry, the lettuce too limp, and her thoughts too loud.

Across the room, Miles was at war with the vending machine. He tapped it once. Then twice. Gave it a look like he was considering arresting it for obstruction.

Behind them, the door creaked open.

Sergeant Grey stepped in, grabbed a manila folder from the breakroom shelf, then paused. Looked between them. One eyebrow arched, just slightly.

“You two always this synced up now?” he asked, tone neutral — but the smirk tugging at his mouth gave him away.

Celina’s eyes flicked up for a second, then immediately dropped to her sandwich.

Miles didn’t even blink. “Habit.”

Grey stared at him for a beat.

Then nodded, amused. “Right.”

He walked out without another word, boots heavy on the tile.

The vending machine finally thunked and gave up a granola bar.

Miles caught it one-handed and didn’t look over.

Celina sat very, very still.

“Habit,” she repeated under her breath, cheeks warm.

Like that explained anything.

Like that made it okay.

She poked at her sandwich again, but she was definitely not hungry anymore.

Back at the apartment that night, Miles had a shift.

Celina didn’t.

For the first time in days, she was alone. No boots in the hallway. No Spotify playlist bleeding through the bathroom wall. No stupid dinosaur mug on the counter.

At first, it felt like a gift — silence, space, the remote all to herself. She curled up in her usual corner of the couch, blanket half on, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, and queued up something she didn’t have to think about.

She stretched out. Took up the whole couch. Even ordered takeout without checking what he wanted first.

Freedom.

Except—

Two hours in, she caught herself glancing at the door every few minutes.
Just out of habit.

Three hours in, she found herself picking up her phone.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for longer than it should’ve.
Then she typed:

u said u’d pick up oat milk?

She didn’t need it. Not really. There was still half a carton in the fridge.

But she watched the message sit there anyway.

Read. Typing…

Nothing.

She didn’t follow it up. Didn’t send a “never mind.”

She just… waited.

Not for the milk.

Not really.

For him.

Because maybe the worst part wasn’t the silence.

Maybe it was how loud the apartment felt without him in it.

It was after midnight when he came in.

Celina had already turned off the TV. The apartment lights were dim — not out, but soft, like she hadn’t fully decided whether she wanted to sleep or just sit in her feelings a little longer.

She didn’t get up. Just listened.

The front door opened. Closed.

Keys dropped into the bowl by the entryway.

Boots off. Soft footfalls.

Then the quiet clink of the fridge opening.

She stayed on the couch, pretending to be half-asleep.

A few minutes later, she heard a soft shuffle near the kitchen — and then the fridge opened again. Something was placed on the shelf. No words. No commentary.

She waited until he was in the shower before getting up.

There, on the top shelf of the fridge, was a fresh carton of oat milk.

Next to it — taped to the lid with a neon pink sticky note from her own stash — was his handwriting.

“Don’t know what kind. Hope this is the dramatic kind you like. — M.”

She stared at it for a long time.

Smiled. Then almost cried.

She put the milk in the door like it didn’t matter.

But she kept the note.

She found the note again the next morning.

Still taped to the carton. Still stupid. Still annoyingly charming in his handwriting that always slanted down like he was rushing but still wanted to make it neat.

“Don’t know what kind. Hope this is the dramatic kind you like. — M.”

She stared at it for a while. Thought about letting it go.

Instead, she peeled it off, grabbed a pen from the junk drawer, and flipped it over.

Wrote in small, careful letters:

“It was. Thanks for remembering I’m dramatic.”

Then, after a pause, she added:

“Don’t forget your sock.”

She stuck it to the cabinet above the coffee mugs — his cabinet, technically. The one he always opened without thinking.

Then she walked away.

And she didn’t check if he saw it.

Didn’t peek around the corner.

Didn’t ask.

But she noticed, hours later, that the note was gone.

And the sock was, too.

Tim tossed the remote onto the coffee table and leaned back against the couch, a hand already reaching toward Lucy’s foot under the blanket.

She didn’t look up from her phone.

“Chen?” he asked.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve reread that text three times.”

“It’s not a text.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then what is it?”

She flipped the screen toward him.

A photo of a sticky note. Celina’s handwriting.

It was. Thanks for remembering I’m dramatic. Don’t forget your sock.

Tim squinted. “That looks like something you’d write to me if I pissed you off and you were trying to be flirty about it.”

Lucy smiled. “Exactly.”

He blinked. “Wait — is that to Miles?”

She nodded, smug. “He left one first. About oat milk.”

Tim stared at her. “That’s practically a proposal in roommate language.”

“I know,” she said, tossing her phone to the side and curling up closer to him. “They’re such idiots.”

“They’re us,” Tim said.

She rolled her eyes. “No. We were emotionally stunted. They’re worse.”

Tim didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled her legs into his lap and adjusted the blanket like it was muscle memory.

“You’re gonna interfere, aren’t you,” he said.

“I’m not not gonna interfere.”

He grunted.

Lucy smiled into the silence.

Lucy caught her in the locker room the next morning — all quiet floors and fluorescent buzz.

“You look twitchy,” she said, casually pulling her hair into a ponytail like she hadn’t just launched a grenade.

Celina scowled at her reflection in the mirror. “Thanks.”

Lucy leaned against the locker beside hers, arms crossed, tone entirely too casual. “Miss him?”

“What? No.” Celina slammed the door to her locker with unnecessary force. “I just—he left a sock on the couch again.”

“Scandalous.”

Celina spun to face her. “Shut up.”

Lucy didn’t flinch. Just smiled, sharp and knowing.

And the worst part?

Celina did miss him.

She hadn’t realized it until Lucy said it out loud, like a secret someone else found before she could bury it.

But instead of answering, she yanked her hoodie over her head and walked out.

Lucy let her go.

Didn’t press.

Just watched the door swing closed. And behind Celina’s ribcage, tucked somewhere under her heartbeat and pride, the tiny truth sat waiting.

With teeth.

The bullpen was unusually quiet for a Thursday.

Celina was reviewing body cam footage at her desk, headphones in, barely registering anything. She hadn’t seen Miles since morning briefing — not that she was checking. She wasn’t. A shadow passed across her screen.

Tim Bradford.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there with a cup of coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other.

She tugged one earbud out. “What?”

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are,” he said, calm as ever.

Celina blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Sure you do.”

She sat back in her chair, arms crossing defensively. “Is this about Lucy? Did she tell you to say something?”

“Nope.” Tim sipped his coffee. “Didn’t need her to.”

Celina opened her mouth. Closed it. “Whatever you think is happening—”

He held up a hand. “Not my business.”

She stared.

“But,” he added, “if someone started leaving notes and oat milk in my fridge, I might consider unpacking what that means.”

Celina scoffed. “We live together. It’s a shared fridge.”

Tim nodded slowly, like he was giving her space to believe her own lie. “Right.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “Just… don’t miss the thing because you’re too scared to look at it.”

Celina didn’t respond.

He walked off, not waiting for one.

And for the rest of the shift, her stomach wouldn’t settle.

Miles came back late.

Celina was still awake — curled on the couch with a blanket half over her legs and the TV remote untouched beside her — but pretending she wasn’t waiting.

She looked up as the door opened. He looked tired. Not wrecked, just… worn in that quiet, after-midnight way. Hair a little flat. Shirt slightly rumpled. Keys tossed into the bowl without looking.

“You forgot your sock,” she said casually, nodding toward the armrest.

It sat there — clean now, folded once, perfectly balanced like an offering. She’d washed it. Left it out like a dare.

He blinked at it, then smiled faintly. “I always leave something behind.”

“Obviously.”

He picked it up and tossed it in the laundry basket by the hallway.

Didn’t break eye contact.

Didn’t move toward his room yet.

“So,” he said, with a crooked little half-smile, “you’ll have to keep letting me back in.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t tease.

Just looked at him like the weight of that sentence had landed somewhere she wasn’t ready to admit existed.

And she didn’t say no.

Didn’t laugh it off.

Didn’t look away.

She didn’t need to.

Celina couldn’t sleep.

She wasn’t tossing or turning — just… awake. Mind humming. Nerves steady but frayed, like they were waiting for something.

She got up quietly. Didn’t bother with the lights. Padded into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. The oat milk was still there — dramatic and unopened.

She shut the door, grabbed a glass of water, and tugged on the hoodie hanging off the back of a chair.
Didn’t think about which one it was until she was already wearing it.

His. Of course.

She stood in the glow of the fridge light for a moment too long.

Then she heard the floor creak behind her.

Miles.

Hair messy. Shirt rumpled. Eyes still adjusting to the dark.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Just stared for a second — at the hoodie, at her, at the time of night.

“Oh,” she said, swallowing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to steal it.”

He shook his head once. “You didn’t.”

They stood like that for a breath.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He nodded again.

She thought he might leave it there. Might walk away. But instead, he stepped past her, grabbed a banana from the counter like it was any other night, and said—

“It looks better on you, anyway.”

Then walked off, biting into it like he hadn’t just rearranged her entire ribcage.

The next night, they were back on the couch.

No TV this time — just background noise from the city and the occasional creak of the floor above them. They weren’t even pretending to watch anything.

Celina was curled into her corner. Miles sat next to her, one leg stretched out, fingers absently flipping through a half-folded newspaper someone had abandoned.

She should’ve said something.

About the hoodie.

About the note.

About how easy it was to keep pretending until it suddenly wasn’t.

“About the oat milk—” she started.

He looked over, alert in that quiet way of his. “Yeah?”

She froze. Her mouth opened, then closed. She redirected.

“I just… liked the note. That’s all.”

He tilted his head, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You’re welcome.”

And then neither of them said anything for a long time.

But their knees stayed pressed together.

And that —

That said enough.

Later that night, the apartment was quiet again. Almost too quiet.

Celina moved through the hallway barefoot, half-asleep but restless. No TV. No background noise. Just the steady hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old floorboards.

She passed by his door.

The light was still on.

Music playing low — something acoustic, soft, the kind of song you only listen to when you’re thinking too much and pretending you’re not.

She hovered there for a second.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t speak.

Instead, she reached out slowly — fingers ghosting toward the edge of the doorframe. Not to open it. Not to make her presence known. Just to feel something. Something that proved he was still here. Still close. Still... his.

Inside, she could hear him shifting. Maybe reading. Maybe lying awake too.

He didn’t see her.

But still, she whispered — soft and mostly to herself:

“You’re everywhere.”

And for once, she didn’t sound annoyed. Didn’t sound sarcastic or tired or ready to fight it.

Just scared.

Because he was.

Everywhere.

In her kitchen. In her couch cushions. In her laundry. Her coffee mugs. Her playlists. Her patterns. Her habits. Her head.

And she didn’t know who she was without that anymore.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: The Silence After the Laughter 

Celina was sprawled across the couch like gravity had finally won, one leg thrown over the armrest, her phone barely balanced in her hand. The light from the screen flickered soft across her face, the only thing cutting through the early evening dim. Outside, the city buzzed and blinked like nothing had changed — but in here, it felt suspended.

The door creaked open.

Miles stepped inside, jacket dusted with rain and two paper bags in hand, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth.

“They were closing early,” he said, toeing off his boots. “I might’ve promised we’d make the food worth it.”

Celina didn’t look up right away. Just hummed. “We?”

“I mean, I can eat both orders if you’re gonna be weird about it—”

She sat up just enough to snatch the top bag from his hand before he could finish, expression neutral except for the tiniest twitch of a smirk. “You talk too much.”

He grinned, unabashed.

And for just a second — just one — she let her eyes linger. Not on the food, not on the bags, but on him. The raindrops still clinging to his hair, the little crease by his eye that only showed up when he smiled like that. Like it was easy. Like it was for her.

She looked away fast. Back to the takeout. Back to safe.

But her heart had already betrayed her — rising like it recognized something.

She just wasn’t ready to name it yet.

They ate on the floor.

No table, no TV, no distractions — just two cartons of lukewarm stir-fry balanced on a worn coffee table, the flicker of candlelight from a half-burned jar on the windowsill casting everything in soft gold. The power hadn’t come back yet. Neither of them mentioned it.

Miles sat cross-legged, chopsticks in hand, squinting like he was performing surgery. And failing. Celina watched as he dropped a piece of tofu for the third time in five minutes. It bounced off the edge of the box and landed in his lap.

“Seriously?” she asked, laughing as she leaned over to grab a napkin. “You’re a disgrace.”

“It’s strategic,” he said, not missing a beat. “I’m lowering your expectations so you’ll be more impressed later.”

She raised a brow, unimpressed. “Bold of you to assume I had expectations.”

He stuck out his tongue, shameless. Childish. But the grin that followed was anything but — that soft, crinkly-eyed kind he saved for moments like this. The ones that didn’t mean anything.

Except, they did.

She burst into another laugh — loud, sharp, real. The kind that cracked something open before she could stop it. It filled the apartment for a moment, bounced off the walls like it belonged there.

And then it lingered. She clapped a hand over her mouth too late.

Because the moment after the laugh felt too quiet. Like someone had turned the volume down and she could suddenly hear her own heartbeat in her throat.

Miles looked over at her — not grinning now, not teasing. Just… watching. Like he’d heard it too.

She didn’t meet his gaze.

Didn’t dare.

Because suddenly the space between them didn’t feel like a floor.

It felt like a line.

And she wasn’t sure which side she was on anymore.

It wasn’t a big moment.

No lightning bolt. No swell of music. No grand declaration like in the movies.

Just her looking at him. Him looking back.

And for the first time, neither of them looked away.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Something had shifted — not loudly, but definitively. Like the floor had tilted a few degrees beneath them and neither was sure whether to lean into it or try to pretend it was still level.

The laughter had faded, but something else was there now — quiet, fragile, unfinished.

It buzzed beneath her skin.

Celina’s thumb brushed the edge of the takeout container, but her eyes didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because his were still locked on hers, soft and a little stunned, like he hadn’t meant to end up here either.

Her heart thudded once — too hard, too loud.

Miles opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

The moment stretched. Tightened. She blinked — and the spell cracked just slightly, like glass held too long in a trembling hand.

Still, he didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

But whatever it was — whatever had almost happened — hung in the air like the last note of a song no one was brave enough to sing.

The air changed.

Just like that.

They cleaned up in quiet.

The storm rolled in slow.

At first, just a distant rumble beyond the apartment walls — the kind you could almost ignore if you tried hard enough. Celina didn’t.

She stood by the window after they cleaned up, arms crossed, eyes tracing the glint of water running down the glass like it might spell something out. Miles was still in the kitchen, the clink of dishes soft behind her.

Thunder cracked, low and close this time. She flinched.

“Didn’t peg you for the thunder-jumpy type,” Miles said gently as he came to stand behind her.

“I’m not,” she muttered. “Just… caught off guard.”

“Mmhm,” he said. Not buying it, but not pushing either.

Lightning flashed, bright and uninvited. Her reflection flickered in the window.

A beat passed. Then two.

“Wait here,” he said, already walking toward his room.

She blinked. “What—”

But he was already back, holding his phone and a little portable speaker. The kind she forgot he even owned.

“You don’t like the quiet,” he said. “Not when it’s like this.”

He was right. And it annoyed her more than she wanted to admit.

He pulled up a playlist. Something soft. Familiar. Safe.

Then, without ceremony, he offered his hand. “Dance with me.”

She stared at him. “You’re serious?”

“Come on. It’ll distract you. Plus, I’ve been told I have moves.”

She raised an eyebrow. “By who?”

“Myself. Just now.”

And maybe it was the rain, or the way the lights flickered low, or the fact that he was smiling at her like this wasn’t weird — like it could be simple — but she took his hand.

Carefully. Slowly.

They swayed, barely moving. Just enough to call it dancing. His hand found the small of her back. Hers hovered near his shoulder, not quite resting.

The music did most of the talking.

Somewhere between verses, he started singing along — softly, like he didn’t mean for her to hear.

She did.

“I’d stand in the storm if it meant I could keep you warm…”

Celina froze.

He kept going, not noticing — or pretending not to.

“Even the silence feels softer with you in the room…”

And that was it.

That was the moment she stopped pretending this wasn’t something.

That she wasn’t already halfway gone.

She leaned in slowly, head against his shoulder. His arms adjusted around her like it was muscle memory.

The storm cracked again. But it couldn’t touch her.

Not here.

Not with him.

And it wrecked her.

Because it wasn’t about the voice — it was the comfort in it. The way he made the room feel smaller, safer. Like she didn’t have to brace for something bad just because the thunder cracked again.

“Why do you always do that?” she asked, voice barely there.

“Do what?”

“Make things easier.”

He looked at her, really looked, like the question deserved more than a joke.

“Because you let me.”

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

So instead, she let herself lean in. Just slightly.

Head resting against his shoulder. Eyes closed.

The storm kept going.

But for a while, it felt like it couldn’t touch her.

Back at the precinct, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in their usual too-bright, too-awake glare.

Lucy passed Nolan in the hallway on her way back from debrief, file in one hand, coffee in the other. She didn’t slow down — just glanced at him sidelong and said, almost idly,

“You ever watch people fall in love in real time?”

Nolan blinked. “Uh. Can’t say I have. Is that… a thing people do?”

Lucy didn’t answer right away. Just sipped her coffee and shrugged like she hadn’t just dropped a conversation bomb.

She stopped by the open blinds near the bullpen, half-concealed by the glass.

Her eyes flicked toward the desk where Celina sat — posture too straight, eyes locked a little too hard on the case file in front of her like it was hiding state secrets. She tapped her pen against the table, jaw tight, foot bouncing under the desk.

Across the room, Miles leaned against the edge of a filing cabinet, half-listening to whatever Tim was telling him. But his eyes kept drifting.

Just a glance. Then another.

Every thirty seconds, like clockwork.

Nolan followed her gaze. Watched for maybe five seconds before realization hit.

“Ah,” he said, slow. “Yeah, okay. That tracks.”

Lucy smirked, the corner of her mouth tilting up like she knew it would click eventually.

“Took you long enough.”

“You think they know?”

She hummed. “Oh, absolutely not.”

“They’re detectives,” Nolan said.

Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. And yet.”

He snorted.

“Call it rookie intuition,” she added, then took another sip and walked off — like she hadn’t just narrated the quietest love story in the room.

It was supposed to be normal.

Just the couch. Just them. Like always.

Celina lay across the cushions, head resting lightly in Miles’ lap. He barely blinked anymore when she did that. It had become a habit — like the coffee, like the notes, like the way she always left her phone on his charger.

His fingers hovered near her temple, absently playing with a loose strand of hair. The TV was on, low and forgettable. Background noise for something that was starting to feel like a routine neither of them wanted to name.

She shifted — just a little — trying to get more comfortable, curling slightly toward him.

He looked down. She looked up.

Too close.

Her hand rested against his thigh. His eyes flicked to it, then back to her mouth — and before either of them could stop it, before logic or Rodge or literally anything could pull them apart—

She moved.

Or maybe he did.

Either way, their mouths met.

Not clumsy. Not rushed. Just… unplanned. Slow. Searching. It wasn’t a peck.

It wasn’t nothing.

It lasted longer than it should’ve — just enough for her fingers to tighten slightly on his jeans, just enough for him to breathe out against her cheek like he didn’t know he’d been holding it.

Then it broke.

Sharp. Clean. Like a snapped wire.

Celina shot upright, nearly knocking knees.

They stared at each other.

Her lips parted like she was going to say something — a joke, a denial, a sorry — but nothing came.

Miles opened his mouth too.

Still, silence won.

She stood too quickly, brushing nonexistent lint off her sweater. “I—I’m gonna go fold laundry,” she said, voice too even to be real.

He just nodded.

And when she disappeared into her room and shut the door behind her, Miles leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and finally exhaled.

Because that hadn’t been an accident.

And they both knew it.

Miles didn’t move.

Not even after the door clicked shut behind her.

He sat there, spine tense, the air still electric around him like the ghost of the moment hadn’t quite left. His hand twitched once, like maybe he thought she’d come back. Like maybe she hadn’t just fled the room like it was on fire.

Because it had been.

He leaned back, pressed both palms to his face.

What the hell just happened?

But he knew. He knew exactly what happened.

He’d kissed her.

She’d kissed him.

It hadn’t been a mistake. Not really. It had been slow. Too slow to call accidental. Too soft to call platonic. Too good to be something they could pretend didn’t matter.

He could still feel the shape of it — the breath she let out just before, the barely-there pressure of her hand against his leg, the way she didn’t pull away until they both realized what they’d done.

And God, her eyes after.

Like she’d just crossed a line she hadn’t meant to but didn’t regret either.

He sat forward again, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Rodge.

Timing.

Her.

He shouldn’t have let it happen. Should’ve moved. Should’ve said something.

But he didn’t. Because he wanted it.

Because it felt like something they’d been circling for weeks. And now?

Now he was just sitting there, haunted by a kiss neither of them were going to talk about — knowing damn well it wouldn’t be the last.

Not if they kept getting this close.

Not if she kept looking at him like that.

Not if he couldn’t stop remembering how it felt.

Rewind. Replay. Repeat.

Every. Single. Time.

That night, they passed each other in the hallway like they always did.

The apartment lights were low. Her shadow caught on the wall before she did. His door opened just as she stepped out of the bathroom, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like armor.

Miles stood there, still damp from his shower, hair curling at the ends. He didn’t say anything right away — just looked at her.

Just her.

Not like a roommate. Not like a friend.

Like someone he wasn’t supposed to kiss. Like someone he already had.

Celina met his gaze for half a second, then looked down at the floor. At her sock. At anything but him.

He broke the silence first. “Goodnight.”

Same tone. Same rhythm. Same words he’d said every night since they started this whole arrangement. But they weren’t the same anymore.

She nodded, lips pressed together. But her voice didn’t come.

Didn’t trust it to.

He lingered. Like he wanted to say more. Like maybe he would bring it up — the kiss, the way her breath had caught, the way her hand had stayed on his leg like she wasn’t ready to let go.

But she turned.

Didn’t run.

Just… walked away.

And he let her go. Didn’t stop her. Didn’t ask.

Even though both of them knew: that hallway would never feel quiet again.

She sat on the edge of her bed, arms wrapped tight around her knees, the blanket from the couch still draped over her shoulders like a ghost she couldn’t shake.

The room was quiet. But not peaceful.

Too many thoughts. Too many echoes.

She could still hear his laugh — warm and familiar and all over her skin like a fingerprint.

She could still feel the way he looked at her.

Not just the kiss — no, that would’ve been easier to categorize. It was before that. The silence. The way his hand stayed on her shoulder like it meant something. Like she meant something.

Like maybe he saw all the parts of her she kept tucked away — and didn’t flinch.

She dug her fingers into her sleeves.

Because it wasn’t just the kiss. It was that she let it happen. Wanted it. Let herself want it. Let herself need someone. And Miles?

He was starting to feel like need.

Like home.

And that scared her more than anything else.

Because he wasn’t hers. Not officially. Not yet. And she wasn’t free. Not emotionally. Not completely.

And still — she didn’t pull away. Her chest ached. Her throat burned. She buried her face in her arms.

Didn’t cry.

But damn, it was close.

Miles hadn’t turned off the light.

He hadn’t changed.

He just sat there — on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it had answers. Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, the weight pressing on his ribs would shift.

But it didn’t.

He replayed it again.

The kiss.

Quick. Unplanned. Accidental , if they wanted to lie to themselves. But it happened.

And for the briefest second — she didn’t pull away.

His hands had stilled the second her lips brushed his. The weight of her head still on his lap, the quiet between them still humming, the air still thick with whatever had been building for weeks. Months, maybe. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. It wasn’t even a real kiss, not really.

But it was enough to burn.

And she’d looked at him like— He squeezed his eyes shut.

He couldn’t even put it into words.

He didn’t mean to want this. Not like this. Not with her still technically with someone else. Not while she was still figuring herself out. Not when he wasn’t sure what she needed and didn’t want to be the one to ask for more before she was ready to give it.

But God, the way she looked at him.

The way her fingers stayed tangled in the hem of his sleeve for just a second too long. He ran a hand over his face.

Stared at the note she’d left him days ago — still stuck to the inside of his wallet.

“Thanks for always being here.”

He took it out. Held it between his fingers like it could explain anything. Like it could give him permission.

But the only thing it gave him was hope .

And that might’ve been worse.

He stood in the kitchen for longer than necessary.

The overhead light hummed low, barely illuminating the space. He didn’t flip it off. Didn’t move.

Just stared.

At the fridge.

At the sticky note still crooked in the top corner. Her handwriting — careful, small. Still there. Still untouched.

Thanks for always being here.

He hadn’t moved it. Not because he forgot. But because he couldn’t.

It felt like the only proof he hadn’t imagined this thing between them. That she saw it too. That maybe, just maybe, she’d already started falling long before that kiss ever happened.

But tonight?

No note from him.

No sarcasm.

No stupid comment about oat milk or oranges.

He didn’t want to clutter the silence with something that didn’t fit.
Not tonight. So he just stood there. Barefoot, hoodie rumpled, eyes tired. And whispered,

“Goodnight, Celina,” into the quiet.

Knowing she wouldn’t hear it. But hoping — praying — she felt it anyway.

Because the kiss may have happened by accident.

But this part?

The staying.

The hoping.

The aching ?

That was entirely on purpose.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Third Shift Therapy Sessions

They haven’t talked about it.

The kiss.

The almost kiss.

The maybe-it-was-an-accident-but-we-both-felt-it-anyway kiss.

Whatever category it falls under, it still clings to them like smoke after a kitchen fire — not actively dangerous anymore, but suffocating in how it lingers. Celina feels it every time she walks into a room he’s in, like her body clock readjusts itself to his presence, like her lungs have to work harder to breathe.

This morning is no different.

She brushes past him in the hallway, her shoulder almost grazing his arm. Her “Morning” comes out softer than she meant, and she doesn’t look up at him. Not because she doesn’t want to. Because she knows if she does, she’ll see it, that look he gave her the night it happened. The look that said it wasn’t just in her head.

Miles doesn’t stop her. He just nods back, voice low and even, the same tone he uses when they’re on patrol and things are steady. No coffee joke. No easy grin. Just that heavy silence filling the cracks between them.

Still, when he steps into the kitchen, he reaches for two mugs automatically. One for him. One for her. His hand hovers halfway to the creamer, hesitation flickering across his face before he curses under his breath and pours one cup down the sink. The sound of liquid hitting porcelain is too sharp in the quiet.

Celina pretends not to hear as she ties her boots at the front door.

At the precinct, it doesn’t get better.

Lucy only needs a single glance at them to put the pieces together. She’s always been annoyingly perceptive, but today her sigh is almost theatrical, the kind of long-suffering exhale that says she’s not going to put up with this for long.

“You two are unbearable,” she mutters, setting her bag down on her desk.

Celina straightens, defensive. “We’re fine.”

“You’re definitely not.” Lucy’s eyebrow arches, sharp and cutting. She glances at Miles, then back at Celina, like she’s playing some silent game of ping-pong with their nerves. “Tim, switch with me. I’m taking Miles tonight.”

Miles blinks, caught off guard. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Lucy’s tone leaves no room for argument. She adjusts her vest like it’s already settled. “You two clearly need a break.”

Tim, who’s been leaning against the corner desk with a file in hand, barely looks up. His brows flick once at Celina before he asks, “You good with me, rookie?”

Celina’s stomach twists, but she forces a nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

It’s a lie. Everyone in the room knows it.

And still, they all pretend it’s normal. Pretend this is just another night shift. Pretend there isn’t a ghost of a kiss hovering in every inch of space between her and Miles.

It isn’t normal.

It hasn’t been since that night.

The tension is obvious.

Has been for days.

Even if Sergeant Grey didn’t have eyes like a hawk, the way Juarez and Penn have been orbiting each other — too carefully, too distantly — would’ve given it away. Partners don’t suddenly forget how to stand near each other. They don’t stop finishing each other’s sentences, or quit laughing at inside jokes that used to annoy the hell out of everyone else.

Something happened.

Something no one’s talking about.

From his office window, Grey watches them filter into the bullpen with the rest of the night shift. Celina’s head is tucked low like she’s bracing for a storm. Miles’ jaw is locked tight, a muscle feathering each time he chews on the inside of his cheek. They don’t look at each other, not once, not even when they pass within arm’s reach.

It’s subtle, sure. But Grey didn’t survive thirty years in this department by missing the small things.

And whatever this is, it’s messing with their rhythm.

Rhythm matters in this job. Out there, on patrol, in the dark, you don’t get to fumble feelings. Not when someone else’s life might depend on you moving as one.

Grey exhales slowly, sets down the report he’d been reading, and drums his fingers once against the desk. He doesn’t like to meddle — at least, not more than necessary. But a crack in the foundation only spreads if you ignore it.

His eyes cut back to the bullpen, where Tim Bradford is sorting through case files with Lucy Chen. Solid. Reliable. Both of them sharp enough to notice what he’s noticed. He doesn’t miss the way Lucy’s gaze flicks toward Celina and Miles, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

Yeah. She sees it too.

Grey leans back in his chair, decision already made. His voice cuts across the bullpen, calm but carrying enough authority that conversations pause mid-sentence.

“Time to shuffle the deck.”

Heads lift. Chen and Bradford glance his way. Miles stiffens. Celina blinks like a deer caught in headlights. Grey steps out of his office, hands clasped behind his back.

“Bradford, you’re with Juarez tonight. Chen, you’re with Penn.”

No one argues. No one dares.

But Grey sees the way Celina’s spine goes rigid, the way Miles’ shoulders tense like a live wire. It only confirms what he already knows: something’s broken between them.

Well. He’ll give them a night apart. If it’s fixable, distance might help. If it isn’t… he’d rather find out now than out there on the street, when hesitation costs more than pride.

At roll call, the room quiets the second Grey steps forward with the clipboard. His presence has that effect — steady, commanding, no wasted words. Behind him, Lucy and Tim stand in their usual posts, both sergeants now. Both sharp enough to have already noticed what Grey has: their former rookies aren’t in rhythm anymore.

“Patrol rotations are changing this week,”

Grey announces, scanning the room. His tone leaves no room for debate, though a ripple of curiosity runs through the bullpen.

“Chen, Penn — you’re paired up.”

Lucy arches a brow at that, but says nothing. Her expression is neutral to most, but Grey catches the flicker of knowing in her eyes. Penn, on the other side of the room, goes rigid. His file lowers a fraction, like his hands forgot what they were doing.

Grey continues, voice even.

“Juarez, you’re with Sergeant Bradford. You’ll be running point on surveillance detail.”

The faintest pause. Celina’s head lifts, dark eyes flashing with surprise before she catches herself.

“Sir?”

Grey’s gaze pins her.

“Something wrong with that?”

Her back straightens instantly.

“No, sir.”

“Good. Briefing in ten. Move.”

The room exhales into motion — chairs scraping, boots scuffing, the low murmur of side conversations as officers filter out. But the tension hangs, heavy as smoke.

Tim leans toward Grey, low enough not to be overheard.

“You sure about this?”

Grey doesn’t answer right away. He tracks Penn down the hallway — shoulders locked tight, steps too precise to be casual. A few paces behind him, Celina trails with forced calm, her jaw set, the faintest crack in her armor showing through. Grey finally speaks, voice quiet but certain.

“Sometimes a little distance clears the fog. And if it doesn’t…”

His eyes narrow, more to himself than to Tim.

“…we’ll know what needs fixing.”

Tim nods once, lips pressing into a thin line. He doesn’t argue. He knows Grey’s right.

And as Lucy lingers by the doorway, gaze flicking after his old rookie, she knows it too.

“You’re not talking,”

Lucy says, balancing a stack of tote bags on one hip like she’s done this a thousand times.

“Which is always suspicious.”

Miles glances up briefly from where he’s crouched on the floor, rearranging a display stand of candles and coasters.

“I’m literally helping you open your shop.”

“Right.”

She shifts a plant pot two inches to the left, then back again, considering.

“And usually, when you help me, you narrate the whole process like you’re auditioning for HGTV. Today you’re just… brooding.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, not looking at her.

“I don’t brood.”

“You’re brooding. You’re broody.”

Lucy climbs onto the step stool, stretching on her toes to pin a promo poster. She tilts her head down at him, sharp as ever.

“Is this about Celina?”

That makes his hand still, the candle in his grip hanging mid-air. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t answer.

Which is, of course, an answer.

Lucy hops down, dusts her palms on her jeans.

“You two have a fight?”

“No.”

“Then what—”

“I kissed her.”

Silence.

Lucy blinks.

“I'M SORRY— YOU WHAT NOW?”

Miles swallows, sets the candle down too carefully, like even glass can sense the tremor in his chest.

“It wasn’t planned. I mean— it wasn’t even really a kiss.”

His voice drops, the words spilling faster, uneven.

“She was lying on the couch. We were laughing. And then I just…”

He trails off, eyes flicking away, caught in the memory.

..........

It had been late. Too late. The kind of hour where the walls of the apartment felt thinner, the quiet heavier.

Celina was stretched out on the couch, one sock half-off her foot, hair a little wild from the day. They’d been laughing about something stupid — Smitty, probably — until their laughter softened into breathless chuckles, and the room tilted toward calm.

He’d been sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch. When he turned his head, she was right there. Close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. Close enough that her laugh brushed warm across his cheek.

And then—without thinking, without planning—he leaned. Just a fraction. Just enough for the world to blur, just enough for her breath to catch.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not really. But his lips brushed hers, featherlight. Just a second too long to mistake for nothing.

When he pulled back, her smile was gone. Her eyes wide, startled. Neither of them spoke. The silence swallowed everything.

..........

Back in Lucy’s shop, Miles exhales hard, dragging himself out of the memory. He shrugs, pretending it means less than it does.

“It just… happened.”

Lucy stares, wide-eyed.

“AND?”

“And nothing.”

He forces a shrug, though his chest still feels like it’s caught in that moment.

“We haven’t spoken since. It’s fine. She’s fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

Lucy folds her arms, narrowing her gaze like she’s reading every line of subtext off his face.

“First of all, that’s a lie. Second, you’re both idiots. And third—”

Before she can deliver the finishing blow, his radio crackles, patrol assignments buzzing through. Lucy sighs, throwing her hands up.

“Of course. Perfect timing.”

She grabs her jacket.

“Go. Pretend you’re normal. Just try not to emotionally combust in public.”

Miles lingers at the door, hand resting on the frame.

“Thanks for letting me help,”

he says, soft. His eyes flick to hers.

“This morning, I mean.”

Lucy’s expression softens, just a little.

“Always.”

Celina shifts beside Tim on the rooftop, arms folded tight against the late-night chill. Below them, the city glows in fractured patches — headlights tracing lines of silver through darkened streets, storefront signs buzzing, streetlamps painting small circles of safety in the sprawl.

The city is quieter than usual. Or maybe just her head isn’t. Either way, she hates the stillness. It leaves too much space for thinking.

Too much space for remembering.

.....

That couch. That moment. His hands brushing hers. Her lips brushing his.

A kiss that wasn’t meant to happen.

One they still haven’t spoken about.

One she still can’t stop replaying.

.......

She presses her fingers against her arm, like maybe the pressure can ground her. It doesn’t. Beside her, Tim leans back on his elbows, gaze steady on the block below. His calm is frustrating, enviable.

“You always this twitchy?”

She stiffens.

“I’m not twitchy.”

“You are,”

he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.

“And you keep sighing. Every three minutes. I timed it.”

That drags a reluctant laugh out of her, short and rough.

“Didn’t realize I came with a stopwatch.”

“Lucy’s rubbed off on me,”

he says, smirking just enough to soften the words. Then he glances at her, expression shifting, serious without being sharp.

“You okay?”

Her eyes flick back to the street, watching a shadow move across the far sidewalk. She shrugs, feigning casual.

“Fine.”

Tim gives it a beat — that sergeant pause that says he isn’t buying it but isn’t about to hammer at the wall either.

“You don’t usually flinch like that unless someone’s living in your head rent-free.”

The words land heavier than they should.

She swallows, her throat tight.

“It’s not like that.”

“You sure?”

She finally looks at him. And there it is — that Tim Bradford expression. Calm, measured, but not indifferent. Never indifferent. That’s the worst part about him. He sees things. Doesn’t pry, doesn’t push, just… sees.

And it makes her want to spill everything.

So she exhales, the sound quiet, careful, like if she breathes too loud she’ll break something fragile between them.

“Is it possible,”

she murmurs,

“to miss someone when they’re in the same room as you?”

Tim’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, almost not. He shifts his gaze back to the street.

“All the time.”

"It’s missing them when they’re right in front of you. I used to feel that with Lucy — back when we were both too scared to say anything. She’d be in the same room, so close I could hear her laugh, see the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, and still it felt like she was slipping through my fingers. Like there was this invisible wall between us that I built myself. And the thing is—”

he swallowed hard, his gaze distant, soft —

“even now, even when she’s mine, sometimes I still get flashes of that feeling. Not because I don’t have her… but because I remember what it was like to want her so bad it hurt. To sit beside her and miss her like she was already gone"

The silence that follows isn’t suffocating this time. It stretches out, softer, almost steady. And for the first time all night, Celina doesn’t feel quite so twitchy.

Meanwhile, across town—

Miles drives. Lucy rides shotgun. The low hum of the engine fills the car, the radio crackles every now and then, and still the silence is thick enough to notice.

He’s never been the chatty type, not like Celina. But Lucy’s used to her chatter, used to commentary that fills the gaps, makes the ride feel alive. Next to him, the quiet is sharp, almost deliberate.

She lets it stretch for a few blocks, then finally breaks it.

“So…”

He glances at her, wary.

“So?”

She smiles, slow and knowing, like a cat batting at prey.

“Roommate tension?”

He grips the wheel a little tighter. Tries to keep his tone even.

“There’s no tension.”

Lucy raises a brow, unconvinced.

“There’s so much tension, Miles. The air in your apartment could combust if you both breathe at the same time.”

He exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

“It’s complicated.”

Lucy shifts, resting her elbow on the door, her eyes still sharp.

“She shuts down, doesn’t she? When things get too real.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The truth is in his silence.

Lucy softens, her voice dropping.

“She does that. I’ve known her a long time. It’s not about you.”

Miles stares at the road, but his jaw works, clenched against words he doesn’t want to admit. Finally, his voice is low, almost rough:

“That’s the thing. I want it to be about me.”

The confession hangs between them, heavier than the hum of the engine. He doesn’t look at her, just out the window, where the city blurs past in streaks of yellow and red.

Lucy studies him in profile. He’s steady on the wheel, steady in everything else, but his eyes — his eyes give him away.

She nods once, thoughtful.

“Then tell her.”

He shakes his head, voice quiet.

“She’s not ready.”

Lucy smirks again, though it’s softer this time.

“So wait until she is. But don’t pretend like you’re not already halfway gone.”

Miles’ grip on the wheel tightens just slightly. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t push back. Because she’s right. And they both know it.

The silence returns, but it feels different now. Not empty — charged. Like a storm hovering just out of sight.

The bullpen hums with the usual third-shift energy: the clack of keyboards, the drone of the vending machine, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights that never seem to stop flickering.

Celina drops into a chair at one of the desks, spreading a stack of forms out in front of her like the paperwork itself can shield her from what she doesn’t want to face. Her pen taps against the margin — too fast, too restless.

Across the room, Miles stands at the coffee machine. He stirs sugar into his cup, slow and deliberate, like concentration alone can keep his hands steady. He pours a second cup before he even realizes what he’s doing.

When he looks down at it, something tightens in his chest. He sets the mug aside on the counter, untouched.

Tim walks in, file in hand, heading straight for Celina.

“You missed a line here,”

he says, setting the folder down in front of her. His voice is steady, professional — but his eyes flick toward the abandoned coffee across the room. He notices. He always notices.

Lucy follows a beat later, carrying her own report. She stops short when she sees the two mugs, her lips twitching.

“Subtle,”

she mutters under her breath.

Miles shoots her a look.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,”

she replies innocently, but her smirk betrays her. She grabs one of the mugs and takes a sip, raising her brows when it’s just the way Celina likes it.

“Hm. Wonder who this was for.”

Celina doesn’t look up from her paperwork, but the tapping of her pen falters for half a second.

Tim leans against the edge of Celina’s desk, crossing his arms.

“You planning to keep pretending this is normal?”

Celina freezes. Slowly lifts her head.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not prying,”

Tim says evenly.

“I’m just saying — whatever’s going on, it’s bleeding into the job. And that’s not gonna fly.”

Her throat goes dry.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,”

Lucy cuts in, dropping into the chair opposite Celina. She jerks her chin toward Miles.

“He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. And you—”

she gestures at the pen, still clutched in Celina’s hand, tapping against the form again “

"—you’re about two seconds from drilling a hole straight through that paper.”

Miles shifts uncomfortably by the counter.

“We’re good.”

“No,”

Lucy says flatly, eyes flicking between the two of them.

“You’re not.”

Tim sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Third shift therapy sessions,” he mutters.

Lucy grins at that, sharp and amused.

“Exactly.”

She points at Celina. Then at Miles.

“So. Either you two start talking, or Bradford and I start assigning you therapy homework.”

Celina blinks.

“That’s not—”

“Not optional,”

Tim finishes for her, tone final.

The bullpen hums around them, officers coming and going, but for the four of them, the space feels locked, charged, like the whole world is waiting for someone to break the silence.

And neither Celina nor Miles does.

Not yet.

The vending machine hums, the coffee pot sputters, and then the door clicks shut.

Celina looks up just in time to see Lucy and Tim slip out — together — with matching not-so-innocent expressions. The kind that scream we did that on purpose.

Her stomach drops.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Across the room, Miles sets his cup down a little too hard on the counter.

“Classic Chen move.”

Celina exhales, running a hand over her face.

“Unbelievable.”

The silence that follows is worse than anything Lucy could’ve planned. It stretches, sharp and suffocating, until Celina grabs for the paperwork in front of her just to keep her hands busy. Her pen scratches against the page, too fast, too messy.

“Your signature’s crooked,” Miles says quietly.

Her head snaps up, incredulous.

“Seriously? That’s what you’re opening with?”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile, but not quite.

“Just saying.”

Celina drops the pen, crossing her arms instead.

“Fine. Say whatever it is you’ve been not saying all week.”

He leans against the counter, arms folded, the faintest edge of tension in his shoulders.

“I wasn’t the only one there, Celina.”

Her chest tightens.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this into some—”

She breaks off, biting her lip hard enough to sting. She shakes her head.

“It was a mistake.”

Miles doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

“Then why are you still thinking about it?”

That lands harder than she wants to admit. Her throat closes up, words drying on her tongue. The vending machine hums louder, filling the space she can’t.

Miles sighs, softer this time, running a hand over the back of his neck.

“Look, I didn’t mean for it to happen. I wasn’t planning it. But I don’t regret it.”

Her gaze jerks to his, startled.

His eyes are steady, calm in a way that makes her feel anything but.

“And I don’t think you do either.”

For a moment, neither of them moves. Neither of them breathes. And then the radio crackles from the bullpen, breaking the spell.

Celina grabs her jacket, the motion sharp, almost frantic.

“We should go.”

Miles doesn’t argue. But as he follows her out, the distance between them feels thinner. Fragile. Like one more breath might break it completely.

The shift ends in a blur of paperwork and routine, but the silence between them never eases.

By the time the sun is bleeding pale pink over the horizon, the bullpen is half-empty. Officers file out in pairs, boots heavy on the tile, laughter echoing down the hall. Celina shrugs into her jacket, tugging the zipper up like armor. Miles falls into step beside her, his own bag slung over his shoulder.

Neither of them speaks. Not in the elevator, not through the lobby, not until the crisp morning air hits them as the doors slide open.

The city feels different at this hour — softer, suspended. Like it hasn’t decided what kind of day it wants to be yet.

Celina heads for the car automatically. Their car. Home. She doesn’t even think about it until she realizes Miles is unlocking it first, holding the door open like he always does. Muscle memory.

Her chest tightens.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, sliding into the passenger seat.

He rounds to the driver’s side, drops into place, starts the engine. The silence stretches again, broken only by the low hum of traffic.

Halfway down the block, he exhales.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

She stares out the window.

“Doing what?”

“Pretending it didn’t happen.”

His voice is steady, but quiet. Careful.

Her fingers twist in her lap.

“Maybe that’s for the best.”

Miles glances at her, then back to the road.

“If it was nothing, why does it feel like something?”

Her throat works, but no sound comes out.

The city slips by outside — corner shops opening, delivery trucks unloading, streetlights flickering off one by one. The world is waking up, but inside the car, everything feels suspended, fragile.

Finally, she whispers,

“Because it is.”

The words hang there, raw and real.

Miles doesn’t push. Doesn’t smile. He just nods once, like he’s been waiting for her to say it out loud. They drive the rest of the way in silence. But this time, it isn’t avoidance. It’s acknowledgment. A truce.

Something they’ll have to face — later.

Together.

The apartment is still, washed in the pale grey of early morning. Shoes by the door, jackets hung — the routine is second nature by now, but tonight it feels heavier.

Celina mutters a soft “night” and disappears into her room, shutting the door behind her. Not a slam. Just careful. Too careful.

Miles lingers in the kitchen, staring at the counter like it might have answers. His hands curl against the edge of the sink, knuckles pale. He wants to knock on her door, wants to say more, wants to drag that fragile car-ride moment into something solid — but the words choke before they even form.

So instead, he reaches for the stack of sticky notes.

Pen to paper, quick, messy:

You don’t have to say anything. Just… goodnight.

He hesitates, then scribbles another line underneath.

P.S. Don’t forget your keys this time.

It’s stupid. Simple. Not enough. But it’s something.

He sticks the note to her door and heads down the hall to his own room, shutting the light off behind him.

Inside, Celina lies on her bed, staring at the ceiling, the ghost of his voice still echoing:

If it was nothing, why does it feel like something?

Sleep won’t come easy. She knows it.

Then she hears the faintest rustle — paper against wood.

She sits up, padding barefoot across the room. The note is crooked, ink a little smudged, but her throat tightens anyway. She reads it twice. Three times.

Her lips curve before she can stop them, a small smile breaking through the weight in her chest.

She doesn’t write back. Not tonight.

But she tucks the note onto her nightstand, where it catches the first streak of morning light.

And for the first time in days, the silence between them doesn’t feel unbearable.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Almost Something 

The note is still there when the alarm buzzes. Crooked on the nightstand, paper softened at one corner where she worried it in her sleep. Celina blinks at the ceiling first, like she can talk herself into pretending she doesn’t already know what it says. Then her eyes slide to the words anyway.

You don’t have to say anything. Just… goodnight.
P.S. Don’t forget your keys this time.

She reads it twice, the same way she sometimes rereads case reports—looking for something she missed. It’s ridiculous, the way her chest tightens over eight messy words written in the kind of block letters that always lean uphill like they’re trying to escape the page.

The apartment is quiet except for the low, steady sound of a coffee maker. She should get up. She doesn’t. She stares at the note until the smell of coffee starts creeping under her door, coaxing her into movement.

Bare feet on cold floorboards, hair still an unbrushed mess. The hallway light is softer than the one leaking through her blinds, pale gold and thin. She follows the smell to the kitchen.

Miles is already there, still in his undershirt, badge clipped to his belt but jacket thrown over the back of a chair. He’s halfway through making toast, half-awake, methodical like always. He doesn’t look up right away.

“Morning,” she says, voice still rough.

“Morning.”

He slides a mug toward her without looking, the same way he hands off evidence in the field—steady, deliberate, no wasted movement.

Steam curls between them. She can feel the heat against her palms before she even touches the mug.

“Didn’t forget your keys this time?”

he asks, a hint of a grin, trying it out like it might break the tension if it lands right.

“Miracle.”

She takes a sip, lets the bitter taste anchor her.

Silence, but not the kind that used to choke them. This one hums low, like the apartment is still deciding whether to trust them again. Her phone buzzes on the counter. She doesn’t have to look to know the name that lights the screen. Rodge.

Miles glances over anyway, eyes flicking to the phone, then back to his toast. He doesn’t say anything. He never does.

She flips the phone face-down.

“Spam,”

she lies. The word tastes like guilt.

He nods, and that’s somehow worse than calling her out.

They stand there, pretending to be normal, two cops sharing a kitchen and a silence that almost feels like peace. Almost.

The radio on the counter crackles to life with dispatch chatter from another precinct, a reminder that the rest of the city didn’t hit pause for them.

Celina leans her hip against the counter, fingers tapping the rim of her mug. The caffeine hits slow. Her heart’s already doing its own thing anyway.

“You working nights?”

she asks, because routine feels safer than truth.

“Yeah.”

He gestures toward the clock.

“Same rotation. You?”

“Surveillance detail with Bradford.”

She hesitates, then adds,

“Grey reshuffled again.”

“That figures.”

His mouth quirks.

“He likes rearranging the furniture to see what falls out.”

That pulls a soft laugh from her—the first real sound between them that isn’t a sigh or a swallow. He looks up at the sound, and for a second their eyes meet. It’s just long enough to remember everything they’re not talking about.

She breaks first, looking away toward the window. The early light bounces off the rain-slick street outside.

“Don’t forget your lunch,”

he says, nodding toward the counter where he’s set out a brown paper bag. Her initials are scribbled in the corner.

“You packed for me?”

He shrugs, suddenly self-conscious.

“You forget to eat when you’re anxious. It seemed efficient.”

She bites back a smile.

“You keep calling it efficient like that makes it less weird.”

“It doesn’t make it more weird,”  he counters, eyes steady.

Something in her loosens. For the first time in a week, she doesn’t feel like she’s holding her breath.

The drive is a study in neutrality. Traffic is thin, a wet silver ribbon under a low sky. The wipers make patient arcs. Her coffee goes from hot to warm to something she keeps holding because letting go of it feels like admitting her hands won’t know what to do.

Dispatch chatter bleeds quietly from the radio, the city muttering to itself.
Miles doesn’t put on music. Celina doesn’t ask him to.

At a red light he glances over, quick as a heartbeat.

“You don’t have to answer him right now.”

“I know,”

she says, and then, because he deserves an honest ounce:

“I will.”

He nods. No forgiveness asked for. None given. Just that steady way he has of accepting the moment for what it is.

“He’s decent,”

Miles says after a beat, as if she needs the reminder and as if he needs to say it.

“He is.”

Her throat tightens around the agreement.

The light turns green. The car moves. They don’t.

She watches the city slide by in fragments: a dog tugging its owner toward a puddle; a bakery window sweating sugar onto the glass; a woman in a red coat walking like she’s late to something that matters. Somewhere in there is the version of Celina who doesn’t complicate her life. She can’t spot her.

They turn into the precinct lot. The building sits there like it always does — concrete certainty, fluorescent promise. It should feel like a relief. It doesn’t. It feels like stepping onto a stage.

He parks. Kills the engine. The vacuum left by the silence makes her ears ring.

“Thanks for the ride,”

she says, absurdly formal, like they don’t live under the same roof.

“Anytime.”

He turns the keys in his hand, metal clicking on metal. For a second she thinks he’ll say more. He doesn’t.

They get out. Door thuds. Another door thuds. The day opens its mouth.

Grey clocks them the second they hit the threshold. He doesn’t move, just taps a pen against the corner of a file in a rhythm he probably doesn’t know he’s keeping. Bradford drifts at his shoulder like an answered question. Lucy’s perched on her desk with the casual grace of a cat that got the cream and the gossip.

“Morning, Juarez,”

Lucy sings. Then, with surgical innocence:

“Penn.”

“Morning,”

Celina answers, aiming for bland and landing somewhere near breathless.

Miles gives a two-finger salute he must have learned from watching too many cop shows as a kid. Lucy’s mouth twitches. Tim’s jaw doesn’t move, which means he’s clocked everything.

Roll call is the usual choreography: names, assignments, the low rustle of paper and zippers. Grey says “Penn and Juarez back together,” and it slides through the room like a stone parting shallow water. There’s no splash. There’s still a ripple.

Celina can feel Lucy’s gaze snag on her for half a second, a silent you good? She nods, a lie they both recognize. The relief that follows isn’t because she got away with anything; it’s because Lucy let her.

She and Miles take the window row. Their elbows share an inch of airspace. The distance hums like a live wire that hasn’t decided whether it wants to shock or light something up.

Grey’s voice evens out on the last logistics, then dips into that quiet that carries farther than a shout.

“Remember: rhythm saves lives. If you’ve lost yours, go find it before you clock out.”

He doesn’t look at them when he says it. He doesn’t have to.

Locker room quiet. The smell of fabric softener layered over sweat, like good intentions over reality.

Celina twists her combination, metal clicking into the old prayer. The locker swings open. Inside, someone has straightened her mess into polite stacks— her spare hoodie folded, extra socks rolled together. Miles. She knows the neat, square corners his hands make.

Her phone vibrates against the top shelf. She stares at the name until the letters blur: Rodge. She keeps staring until the buzz stops and the screen goes black, her own face ghosting back in the reflection — eyes already tired, mouth set like she can hold a line with it.

Lucy appears in the mirror, an apparition in black and navy.

“You’re doing the thousand-yard stare at your phone,” she says. “Either someone died, or someone wants to talk about feelings.”

“Funny.”

Celina drags a shirt from the hanger.

“Isn’t there a plant you should be watering at your store, or whatever?”

Lucy smiles with all her teeth.

“Already watered. With my tears.”

She softens, because Lucy always softens at the right second.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“I know,”

Celina says, grateful for the out and hating how much she needs it.

“I don’t even know what to tell you.”

“Then start with the small true thing,”

Lucy says, like she’s reading off a poster in a therapist’s office she would absolutely clown on.

“Those are the ones that don’t blow up in your face.”

Celina tugs the shirt on, the cotton cool against her skin.

“Small true thing: I’m hungry.”

Lucy barks a laugh.

“Iconic. Go eat. And—” her voice drops, one notch softer, “—I love you.”

“I know,”

Celina says, the words catching on a smile she can’t help.

“I love you, too.”

Lucy vanishes the same way she arrived — soundless, like a threat wrapped in friendship.

Celina closes her locker and leans her forehead against the cool metal for a second, a tiny, private benediction. Then she turns and walks toward the day.

At their shared desk, the universe arranges pens in threes: two blue, one black, the way Miles always sets them up. He’s already there, scrolling through overnight reports, mouth set in the concentration face that used to annoy her when they weren’t… whatever they are.

“Lunch is in your bottom drawer,” he says without looking up.

“You’re relentless.”

“Efficient,” he corrects. “And you forgot breakfast.”

“I had coffee.”

“That’s not food.”

“It is in New York,” she says, because banter is easier than truth.

He glances up, eyes doing that crinkle at the corners.

“We’re not in New York.”

She caves—smiles, small and involuntary.

“Fine. I’ll eat the lunch.”

“Attagirl.”

The word slips out and hangs there. It’s not patronizing when he says it, not from him. It lands like a hand pressed between her shoulder blades, steadying her into the next step.

She boots up her terminal. The screen stutters awake, all blue and promise. A form populates; another follows, fields waiting open-mouthed for answers. She can drown in this part when she wants to. Today, she can’t quite manage it.

“Ready?”

he asks, already standing, already moving in that forward line his body draws through space when a shift truly begins.

She locks her screen.

“Let’s go find our rhythm,”

she says, and it’s half a joke, half a prayer she pretends not to hear.

They head out together, the bullpen opening like a curtain, the city waiting in the wings with its usual list of demands. Behind them, on the desk, her phone lights and vibrates against wood — one quiet insistence that neither of them turns back to answer.

The bullpen looks brighter than it has any right to at this hour—fluorescents chewing through the last of the gray morning, polishing everything into a version of awake. Grey’s door is open, which means he’s pretending not to watch while he watches. Tim has that file-in-hand posture that reads as neutral to anyone who hasn’t served under him. Lucy is perched on the corner of her desk with her ankles crossed and an expression that could slice fruit.

“Penn. Juarez.”

Grey’s voice skims the surface of conversation and everything settles an inch.

“Car twenty-one. You’re together.”

The ripple that moves through the room is microscopic—paper rustles, a chair leg ticks against tile, someone clears a throat because silence feels too loud. Celina nods like it’s nothing. Miles answers “Yes, sir” with the kind of even calm that has gotten him out of a thousand bad moments.

Lucy’s eyes flick from one to the other and back, then she exhales a pointed little oh my god through her nose that only Tim catches. He doesn’t look at her, which is Tim for don’t.

“Surveillance grid stays prioritized,”

Grey continues, scanning his clipboard like the assignments are printed on the back of his eyelids.

“Domestic disturbances are spiking in the corridor off Magnolia—take the north half. Report anything that twitches wrong.”

“Yes, sir,”

Celina echoes, the words fitting her teeth like a bit.

Grey’s gaze lifts finally and pins them with all the patience of a parent who’s already counted to ten twice.

“Rhythm,”

he says again, quieter this time, like he’s tucking the word into their pockets.

“Find it.”

Lucy hops off the desk the second Grey turns. She waltzes straight into Celina’s path, smile too sweet.

“Funny thing about rhythm,” she says.

“Sometimes it sounds exactly like denial, but with better lighting.”

Celina blinks.

“Is this—are we doing metaphors now?”

“We’re doing honesty,”

Lucy says, and softens.

“You look less like you’re chewing glass.”

“I switched to gum.”

Celina lifts a shoulder.

“Sugar-free.”

“That’ll do.”

Lucy’s gaze slides to Miles, then back, sharpening just enough to count as a warning wrapped in love.

“Don’t hurt anyone you don’t have to.”

Tim appears like a shadow beside her, file tucked under his arm.

“Keys,”

he says to Celina, holding up a set. The tag reads 21 in black marker, the corners worn smooth by a thousand palms.

“Don’t come back with new dents.”

“Wasn’t planning to,”

she says. He gives her half a look—approval, expectation, something steadier than either—and moves on.

They load out with the casual choreography of veterans: vests adjusted, radios checked, the automatic tug on the seatbelt that clangs the buckle against the door post. Outside, the air still smells like rinsed concrete; a low, stubborn drizzle stitches the lot to the sky.

Miles gets the driver’s side by unspoken agreement, not because she can’t handle the wheel but because last week she white-knuckled a twelve-hour double and he can read fatigue from a mile out. Celina slides into the passenger seat, drops her bag between her feet, and flips open her notepad like the ritual will keep her hands busy enough to deter her brain.

“Dispatch, twenty-one rolling,”

Miles says into the radio, voice going even, professional. The car answers with a tired engine note and a fan that insists on rattling for the first thirty seconds like it’s filing a complaint with HR.

They pull out. The city greets them with wet streets and the kind of morning where everything feels wrapped in gauze. The patrol computer blinks awake; calls ladder themselves down the right side of the screen—noise complaints, a suspicious vehicle that’s probably just a teenager napping, a neighbor dispute over where trash cans belong.

“Magnolia corridor?” Celina asks, stylus hovering.

“North half,”

Miles repeats Grey’s order, but his glance toward her makes it a question. You good?

She nods, checks boxes. Her reflection in the side window looks steadier than she feels. Her phone is a cold rectangle in her inner pocket, silent for once, but that doesn’t stop it from being there—the weight, the promise, the thing she’s not ready to open.

“You packed lunch?”

Miles says after a block, infuriatingly mild.

“I did,”

she returns, attempting prim.

“A very balanced meal, actually.”

“Let me guess,”

he says.

“Balanced like… two granola bars balancing each other.”

“Rude.” She flips a page. “Three.”

His mouth twitches and the car feels larger by an inch.

They take Magnolia slow. The drizzle isn’t enough to smear the paint into rainbow; it’s just enough to turn crosswalk stripes slippery and make tempers short. A couple on a stoop is arguing about a puppy. A teenager in a hoodie is attempting to sell candy for a fundraiser that definitely does not exist. A shop owner wrestles a metal gate up and swears in Spanish when it sticks; Miles glides them to the curb and hops out to help without thinking. The gate surrenders under two hands and a gentle hip-check. The owner says gracias and offers a pastry through grating that’s no longer there. Miles declines with a grin. Celina takes it with shameless delight and bites into something flaky enough to collapse into her lap.

“Dignity: zero,” she says around crumbs.

“Breakfast: achieved,”

he counters, checking mirrors, easing them back into the stream.

The first call pings—Unit twenty-one, respond to possible DV, neighbor states loud voices, no visuals, 418 West Bixby, third floor. The kind that can be nothing until it’s the worst thing, the kind that teaches your nervous system to sit up straight.

“Copy,” Miles says. The engine note shifts.

Celina tucks the pastry napkin away, checks the address against the map, runs the mental checklist that is both training and talisman: approach quiet, eyes on hands, listen for the thing beneath the thing. She says, mostly to herself,

“One knock, announce, step left.”

“Step left,”

he echoes, because they have said it a hundred times and muscle memory likes its call-and-response.

Their shoulders align a little more. The city outside is still damp, still busy, still pretending it isn’t a thousand little emergencies stacked inside other emergencies. Inside the car, the air changes. It’s not their air anymore; it belongs to the job.

“Third floor,” she says as they pull up. “No elevator.”

“Leg day,”

he says, because if you don’t talk, the silence starts to sound like fear.

The stairwell smells like bleach and last night’s cigarettes. Voices leak down concrete in broken pieces—male, female, the ragged cadence of two people trying to win and not remembering the rules. Celina’s pulse kicks up. Miles gestures—he takes the wall, she takes the hinge, the approach is midnight smooth even at nine in the morning.

He knocks once, authoritative but not aggressive.

“LAPD—Miles Penn and Officer Juarez. Mind opening up? Want to make sure everyone’s okay.”

Silence, then a muffled shuffle. A voice near the door that’s trying to sound casual.

“We’re fine.”

“Great,”

Miles says, like fine is a status you can write on a report.

“Can you open the door so we can confirm?”

A chain rattles. The door cracks. A sliver of a face appears—woman in her twenties, eyes red, jaw set. She clocks Celina over Miles’ shoulder and reflexively shifts the door wider.

“Can I talk to you?”

Celina asks, tilting her head toward the hallway.

“Two minutes.”

The woman hesitates, then nods and steps out, pulling the door behind her with the chain still on. Inside, a male voice mutters something that sounds like whatever. Miles’ posture adjusts by a degree; his attention slips through the crack and maps the room the way you map a shoreline—exits, edges, hazards disguised as furniture.

In the hall, Celina keeps her voice low.

“Neighbor called because they heard shouting. You okay?”

The woman’s laugh is a cough.

“He thinks I forgot about his stupid fantasy league draft. I told him to make his own calendar if it’s that important.”

“Does he—has he ever—”

Celina lets the sentence trail into a space the woman can fill without feeling led.

“No.”

A beat. Then, smaller:

“Not like that.”

“Okay.”

Celina nods.

“You want us to mediate? Or you want a breather and we’ll clear?”

A breath. The woman stares down at her own chipped nail polish like it might assemble itself into a resolve she can wear.

“Can you just… tell him to shut up about the draft?”

Celina’s mouth curves.

“That we can do.”

She glances back. Miles is already speaking to the man through the chain, patient and even, suggesting a timeout like they’re officiating a game neither wants to watch. The man grumbles, but his shoulders drop. The chain lifts. The door opens. No weapons. No shattered glass. Just a couch and two bruised egos.

Three minutes later, they’re back in the hall. The woman has a glass of water. The man has a promise to put the draft in his phone like an adult. It’s small, and also not small. It’s the kind of win you don’t brag about and keep anyway.

In the stairwell, Celina exhales. Miles bumps his shoulder lightly to hers without touching.

“Good call,” he says.

“Yours,” she counters.

“Team sport,”  he returns, and leaves it there.

They descend into light that looks a little less gray. The radio spits static into the car as they slide back in. Outside, the drizzle has decided to be rain again.

“Want music?”

he asks, already reaching without looking. He knows her answer.

“Yeah,”

she says, surprising herself.

“But not your sad playlist.”

“My playlist is not sad.”

“It’s acoustic dudes whispering apologies into a mason jar.”

He barks a laugh—brief, startled, unguarded—and for a moment the patrol car feels exactly like what Grey told them to find. Rhythm.

The rest of the day drips by in dispatch calls and bad coffee. Every time the radio crackles, their shoulders move in tandem; every time quiet stretches, one of them fills it with something small. The rhythm Grey wanted—there it is, tentative, stitched together from habit and the knowledge that neither can quite stop caring.

By late afternoon, the rain has burned itself out. They pull into the station lot, sunlight cutting gold through the smear on the windshield. Celina leans her head against the seat for a second before unbuckling.

“You okay?” he asks, same question he’s been asking for weeks.

“Yeah.” She looks over, forces a smile. “You?”

“Define okay.”

That earns him a quiet laugh. He grins, tired but honest.

Inside, the precinct smells like wet paper and printer toner. Lucy’s voice floats from somewhere near the evidence lockers, mid-story and mid-complaint, the soundtrack of the shift change. Tim’s low response hums underneath it. Grey’s door is still open; he looks up long enough to take their measure—two silhouettes that don’t quite fit apart yet—and then nods once, satisfied enough for now.

Miles stops by the coffee machine. Celina drops her incident forms on the stack for processing. When she turns, he’s already holding out a cup for her, half-filled, no sugar. The same way he made it this morning.

“Truce,” he says.

She takes it. “Truce.”

And that’s how they end the day: standing shoulder to shoulder under the same light, the city humming outside, pretending it’s just caffeine keeping their hearts awake.

The apartment smells faintly of soap and city water when she unlocks the door. Somewhere above them, a neighbor’s TV laughs at its own joke; below, a radiator hisses like an old cat. Miles drops his bag by the couch and kicks his shoes into line. Celina’s follow a second later, her laces still damp from the walk across the lot.

He moves toward the kitchen automatically. The rhythm is muscle memory now: jacket off, fridge open, kettle filled. The lights are soft, half the bulbs gone in the fixture above the sink, turning everything the color of dusk.

“You want tea?” he asks without looking back.

She hesitates in the doorway. “Yeah. Sure.”

He nods once, the way people do when they already expected the answer. The kettle hums to life. Steam fogs the window, smearing the outline of rain sliding down the glass.

Celina sits on the couch, pulls the blanket across her knees, and stares at the reflection of the kitchen light in the dark screen of the TV. Her phone vibrates against her thigh. Rodge.

A second buzz: You home yet?

She types Long day. Talk later? then deletes later and replaces it with nothing.

The kettle clicks off. Miles pours, sets one mug on the coffee table, and takes the chair across from her. No words. Just rain. Just the low sigh of the apartment breathing with them.

Finally she says,

“Lucy threatened therapy worksheets again.”

That earns a soft laugh.

“Of course she did.”

“She said you’d laminate them.”

He pretends to think.

“Probably color-code them too.”

The corner of her mouth tilts. It’s small, but it’s there. They drink. The tea is too hot, too bitter. Neither complains.

The show changes without either of them noticing. New laugh track, same actors. Celina stretches her legs out, blanket slipping to her ankles. Miles watches steam coil from her mug until it fades.

“You ever think we live in a sitcom sometimes?”

she asks, eyes still on the screen.

He raises an eyebrow.

“You mean the part where nothing serious ever gets solved in thirty minutes?”

“Exactly.”

She smiles, then shakes her head.

“Except we never get the cheesy background music.”

“Pretty sure the universe saves that for Lucy and Tim,”

he says, and the grin that breaks across her face is unguarded, real.

The rain outside thickens, a steady percussion against the windows. It feels like punctuation to the silence that follows. She curls her feet under her, the blanket puddling between them.

“Long day?” he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t need an answer.

“Yeah.” She traces the rim of her mug with one fingertip. “You ever feel like the job just… stays under your skin? Like even when you clock out, you’re still there?”

He nods. “You don’t turn it off. You just change the volume.”

That sits between them, true enough that neither tries to lighten it. The TV mutters. The clock ticks. Their shoulders ease at the same time, as if some invisible weight shifts from both of them at once.

Celina finishes the last of her tea and sets the mug down carefully beside his.

“Thanks,” she murmurs.

“For what?”

“For not trying to fix it.”

He looks at her then, really looks.

“You don’t need fixing.”

Something unsteady flickers through her chest. She swallows it, nods once, eyes back on the TV that neither of them is watching.

Outside, the rain keeps time. The rest of the city moves on.

The rain eases to a whisper, soft enough that the walls seem to breathe with it.
Celina lets her head sink deeper into the couch cushion. The lamp throws a circle of amber across the floor; everything outside of it blurs into quiet.

Miles has stopped pretending to watch the TV. His posture has loosened, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other resting near the blanket she’s gathered around herself.

Every few minutes she says something small—half a thought about the precinct, about Lucy’s latest shop project, about nothing at all—and he answers in murmurs. The spaces between words stretch longer each time.

Her voice fades mid-sentence. He hears the hitch of a breath, the sigh that follows.
When she shifts, the blanket slides, her hand falling into the narrow gap between couch and chair.

He reaches without thinking, meaning to move it back onto the cushion, and his fingers brush hers.

The touch stops both of them.

Her eyes flick open, drowsy, unfocused. She blinks once, sees their hands, doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t, either.

It’s nothing—barely contact—but it hums all the same. He can feel her pulse through the faint press of her skin, can tell the exact moment sleep reclaims her by the way the tension leaves her fingers.

He lets his hand stay there, palm up, her smaller one resting against it. Outside, a car passes, headlights painting a brief silver stripe across the room. He watches it fade, feels his own eyelids grow heavy.

Time folds. The sitcom laugh track becomes a low ocean.

He drifts.

Sometime near three a.m., the radiator clicks and the apartment exhales.

Miles wakes to the ache in his neck, to the dim light still burning, to warmth against his palm. Their hands are still joined, loose but deliberate, her thumb hooked over the side of his.

For a few seconds he just stares—half-disbelieving, half-afraid to move.

Then the rational part of him, the part that still knows what morning will mean, stirs.

He slides his hand free slowly, careful not to wake her. Her fingers curl once in the empty air, searching, then settle. He tucks the blanket higher over her shoulder, stands, and looks down at her.

The lamp’s glow turns the edges of her hair to gold. He reaches for the switch, hesitates, leaves it on low.

“Night, Juarez,” he whispers, more breath than sound.

The hallway is darker than he expects. His door clicks shut behind him, and the world goes still again.

The apartment feels softer in daylight, like it’s trying to pretend nothing happened. Steam from the shower threads down the hallway; the smell of coffee replaces the night’s rain. Celina stands at the counter, hair damp, holding the same mug she fell asleep beside.

Miles moves around her easily, too easily, like his body knows the choreography but his mind is still somewhere back on that couch. Every time they pass, a new detail threatens to pull him under—the imprint of her hand he still feels against his, the echo of her breathing when the world was quiet.

“Sleep okay?” she asks, voice low, almost shy.

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “You?”

“Fine.”

A lie, but a gentle one.

Their eyes meet across the rim of her mug. Neither looks away right away; neither stays long enough to make it a confession.

She turns toward the window, sipping coffee that’s gone lukewarm. Her phone buzzes on the table. Rodge.

Miles doesn’t move. He just watches the name flash across the glass of the screen, the small tremor in her fingers when she reaches for it.

She silences it, flips the phone face-down.

“Spam.”

He nods, the same way he did yesterday, the way that says I’ll let you lie if you need to.

The kettle hisses behind them, the clock ticks, the world goes on pretending.

They leave for the precinct together, the distance between them calibrated down to inches. The car smells faintly of rain and tea. He drives; she watches the city wake up—people with umbrellas, kids in backpacks, life continuing like it has no idea the world tilted in a small apartment somewhere above a corner store.

At a red light, her phone vibrates again. The sound cuts through the hum of the engine. She checks the screen, thumb hovering.

“You can answer,” Miles says, eyes still on the road.

“It’s nothing,” she murmurs.

“Okay.”

The light changes. They move forward.

Outside, sunlight hits a line of parked cars and flashes across the windshield like a camera flash. She blinks against it, heartbeat too quick. He catches the motion, says nothing.

By the time they reach the precinct, the coffee’s gone cold. She tosses the cup, grabs her bag, forces her voice steady.

“See you in there?”

“Yeah.”

He pauses, searching for something else to say and not finding it.

“See you.”

She pushes through the double doors, the hum of the bullpen swallowing her whole. Her phone rings again. She doesn’t have to look this time; she knows the rhythm of it, the way it never stops until she answers.

She exhales, thumb hovering over the screen.

When she finally answers, the voice on the other end is soft, careful, too familiar.

“Celina?”

Rodge’s voice fills her ear, calm and careful, and she’s already halfway across the lot when she hears it.

The rain’s started again—thin, silver lines cutting through the glow of the streetlights. Her focus narrows to the sound of his voice, to the weight of everything she hasn’t said yet.

A horn.

Tires against wet asphalt.

She turns—headlights flooding the frame—

Miles shouts her name.

The phone slips from her hand, a burst of static, then nothing but the screech of brakes.

Cut to black.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Two Plates, One Bedside Table 

Light. Noise. The world tilts.

The horn is still inside her bones when the hand hits her shoulder—hard, hauling her back so fast the breath leaves her chest in a startled, ugly sound. Asphalt rushes past under the toes of her boots; her phone skitters across wet concrete, spinning once like a coin. The car swerves, brakes screaming, the hood missing her by a miracle and an inch.

She lands on the curb on her hip and palms, pain blooming bright and dumb. For a second the sky is just white and buzzing. Then Miles’ face cuts into the light — too close, too pale, eyes wide in a way that makes her stomach try to climb out of her body.

“Celina.”

His hands are on her shoulders, already checking, already cataloguing.

“Hey—hey, talk to me. You with me?”

“I’m—” breath— “I’m okay.”

It comes out wrong, wobbling, like the word forgot how to stand. The driver—mid-40s, soaked, shaking—stumbles out of the car, apologies spilling.

“I didn’t see—she just stepped—oh my God, are you okay—”

Miles doesn’t look at him yet. His fingers move down her arms, gentle but relentless, like he’s trying to memorize the fact that they’re still attached. Palms scraped. Jacket torn at the shoulder. Hip already throbbing. Nothing that won’t heal. But his voice won’t stop saying her name.

“Penn?”

Tim’s bark from the doors. He’s already moving, Lucy right behind him. Grey’s silhouette holds the threshold like the building itself came to watch.

“I’m fine,”

Celina says again, stronger, because the panic on Miles’ face is somehow worse than the horn was. She tries to sit up. He steadies her with both hands, breath coming too fast.

“You almost—” He swallows the rest like it tastes like metal. “Don’t move yet.”

The driver hovers, frantic, rain needling the space between sentences.

“Should I call—do you need—”

Lucy’s there in a second, voice calm enough to land the whole scene.

“Sir, stay by your car for me, please. Deep breath. We’re okay.”

She crouches, looks Celina in the eye.

“How many fingers?”

“Two.”

Celina flinches when Miles grazes the scrape on her palm.

“Ow. Okay, three. Rude.”

“That’s my girl,”

Lucy mutters, relief loosening her shoulders by a degree. To Tim, low:

“She looks clipped, not hit.”

Tim nods once, eyes flicking over the street, the driver, the angle. His voice drops to the register that makes civilians calm down and rookies stand straighter.

“Ambulance anyway. She’s not walking this off just because she says so.”

Miles exhales like permission. “Copy.”

He’s already got his radio up, already rattling off the location, the status, the thing they all know: minor, but we’re not guessing.

Somewhere under the curb, her phone is still on the call, Rodge’s voice a small, stunned echo.

“Celina? Celina—what was that? Celina?”

She stares at the wet rectangle of glass.

“I dropped it,” she says, as if that explains anything at all.

Miles hears the voice. For a fraction of a second something moves across his face —there and gone, tucked away because triage wins. He picks up the phone, presses it into her scraped hand like it’s a necessary pain.

“Tell him you’re okay,”  he says, and the steadiness in it is the kind of love you don’t say out loud.

She puts the phone to her ear, fingers shaking.

“I’m okay,”

she tells Rodge, and the words land truer now, even with her palms bleeding.

“I’m okay.”

Sirens approach. The world decides not to end.

ER bright is different from precinct bright—cleaner, meaner, less forgiving. Celina sits on the gurney with a paper blanket over her knees and the clean sting of antiseptic eating the dirt out of her skin. A nurse with kind eyes and ruthless hands rinses gravel from her palm; Celina swears quietly into her elbow.

“Good news,”

the nurse says, efficient.

“No stitches. Steri-strips and a lecture.”

“I love a lecture,” Celina mutters.

“You’ll hate this one,”

The nurse replies, deadpan.

“Don’t walk into traffic.”

Lucy snorts from the corner, half-trying not to. Tim’s posted by the curtain like a mostly-patient gargoyle, already texted Grey the preliminary: conscious, stable, no head strike, minor soft-tissue, cleared X-ray, waiting for discharge.

Miles hasn’t sat down since they got here. He hasn’t left either. He stands next to the bed like gravity assigned him the post. His hands are clean now but the knuckles are raw where the skin scraped when he hauled her back. He keeps flexing them like he can’t convince them the emergency is over.

“You can sit,”

Celina says, voice softer than she means it to be.

“You’re hovering so hard the bed has stage fright.”

He blinks, as if remembering he has a body. Sits. Only then does she see the way adrenaline is still strafing his veins. It makes something inside her go very, very quiet.

“She’s fine,”

Lucy says, because Lucy is mercy disguised as sarcasm.

“We’ll staple her to a chair for 24 hours if that’s what it takes to slow her down.”

“Hot,” Celina says weakly.

Tim gives her the look that says you terrified me and I am choosing to process that privately. Then he glances at Miles with the fractional nod that means good save and don’t leave her side until I say so.

The nurse tapes the last strip across Celina’s palm and hands over a packet.

“Pain’s going to bloom when the adrenaline fades,” she warns. “Ice. NSAIDs. And if you get dizzy, you come back and make me lecture you again.”

“Yes, ma’am,”

Celina says, properly chastened for once.

When the curtain swishes and the room goes thinner, the space fills with the sound of their breathing; the ER chorus recedes. Celina looks at her hands, at the neat little white bridges making a path over torn skin. She looks up at Miles.

“Hey.” It’s barely there.

His eyes meet hers. Everything he didn’t say on the curb is right there in the blue of them.

“Hey.”

“I’m okay,”

she repeats, because he needs it, not because she does.

“You almost weren’t,”

he says, and it’s not accusation, just a fact they’ll both be carrying around for a while.

She swallows. Her throat tastes like metal and rain.

“Rodge was on the phone.”

“I know.”

A beat. She shifts. The paper blanket crackles.

“I need to call him back.”

“I know,”

he says again, and somehow that hurts less than anything else could have.

Lucy clears her throat, gentling the room.

“I’m going to go harass the discharge desk until they let us steal you,”

she announces, aiming for breezy and hitting steady. To Tim:

“Come help me commit paperwork crimes.”

They ghost out. The curtain breathes. Miles and Celina are alone long enough for the truth to get loud. He breaks first, voice careful.

“I keep thinking about your hand.”

She blinks.

“My hand.”

He lifts his own, turns it palm up, studies the raw skin across the knuckles.

“How it felt when you let go.”

The ER hums. A monitor beeps two beds down. Celina stares at his hand and remembers the couch, the lamp, the quiet. She remembers letting go, not because she wanted to, but because he did.

“I didn’t want to,” she says.

He doesn’t smile. But something behind his eye’s exhales.

Discharge comes with paperwork, a packet of gauze, and an exhausted nurse’s reminder that “minor” doesn’t mean “invincible.”

Lucy signs where she shouldn’t have to. Tim double - checks the date. Miles stands too close, again, like distance is still a thing he doesn’t trust.

Outside, dawn is a smear of silver over wet pavement. The air smells like bleach and morning. Celina steps into it and blinks at the brightness. Her hip twinges when she walks, a dull reminder that she’s still made of skin.

Miles hovers at her elbow.

“You sure you can—”

“I can.”

He nods but stays within reach anyway.

The ride home is almost silent. Wipers click across the windshield, slow and even. The radio is off. Her phone, freshly wiped of road grit, sits in her lap. Rodge’s name glows on the screen—missed calls stacked like accusations. She doesn’t touch it.

Miles keeps his eyes on the road. He drives slower than usual, careful on every turn.
At a red light, he finally speaks.

“You scared me.”

“I scared myself,” she says, small.

He exhales, long, like that’s the closest they’ll get to an apology.

When they reach the apartment, he parks instead of dropping her at the curb. Neither of them moves to get out. Celina stares at the dashboard clock.

“Thank you. For… you know.”

He gives a faint, crooked smile.

“Anytime you need a human airbag, I’m your guy.”

“Terrible joke.”

“Still true.”

She laughs, soft and broken, and that’s how the night finally ends.

The apartment is too still when they get home. Rainwater drips from their jackets, pooling by the door before either of them thinks to move.
Miles hangs his up first, methodical. Celina stands there, shoes half-untied, trying to remember what normal looks like.

“Sit,”

he says softly. Not a command — muscle memory from every time she’s been the one steadying someone else. She obeys without thinking, perching on the edge of the couch while he disappears into the kitchen.

Cabinets open, close, the refrigerator hums. She hears the rattle of the kettle, the clink of dishes — tiny sounds that fill the apartment until they almost sound like safety.
When he returns, there’s a plate balanced on one forearm, a mug in his other hand. Eggs, toast, sliced apple. He sets them down on the coffee table, careful not to jostle her scraped wrist.

“You’re doing the thing again,” she murmurs.

“What thing?”

“Feeding your problems.”

He meets her eyes, tired smile ghosting his mouth.

“Maybe I just like having proof you’re still here to complain.”

That earns a laugh — quiet, brittle, real. She eats a bite to humor him, and warmth spreads through her stomach in slow ripples.

They eat like that for a while: forks scraping plates, the clock ticking louder than it should. Every so often he glances up, checking her breathing, her color, the way her fingers move. Each time she catches him, he pretends he wasn’t.

When the silence starts to feel too heavy, she breaks it.

“You didn’t have to come all the way inside. You could've clocked back in to work.”

“You think I was gonna drop you off and hope you didn’t faint on the stairs?”

“I’m not fragile.”

“I never said you were.” His tone softens. “You scared the hell out of me. That’s all.”

The confession lands between them like another cup of coffee — too hot, hard to hold.

She looks down at her hands, flexes the one wrapped in gauze.

“I keep replaying it. The sound of the brakes.”

“Yeah.” His eyes flick away. “Me too.”

A long pause. The rain outside restarts, tapping against the windowpane.

Her phone vibrates on the table, Rodge’s name bright on the screen again. It feels heavier than the ceramic plate.

Miles doesn’t move to look, but she knows he’s seen.

“You can answer,” he says quietly.

She doesn’t.

“I don’t even know what I’d say.”

“Then don’t yet.”

He leans back, elbows on his knees.

“You don’t owe him the right words until you have them.”

She studies his profile — the raw line on his knuckle, the wet strand of hair still clinging to his temple — and wonders when he learned to talk like that.

“I should shower,” she says finally.

“Leave the dishes. I’ll take care of them.”

“Of course you will.”

She tries to make it teasing, fails.

“You always do.”

He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Someone’s gotta look out for you.”

She stands, the motion stiff, and touches his shoulder in passing — thank you without saying it.

He stays seated long after she’s gone down the hall, listening to the shower start, steam drifting through the half-open door.

When he finally looks down at the plates — two of them side by side — he doesn’t clear them right away. He just sits there, watching the condensation fade from the mugs until it’s gone.

The shower runs for a long time.

Miles hears it from the couch, the muted rhythm of water against tile, the occasional muffled clatter of a shampoo bottle. It’s strangely reassuring; proof of motion, proof that she’s still here.

When the pipes finally sigh and the water cuts off, the apartment goes silent again.
He stands, rinses both plates, and sets them in the dish rack, but his hands keep moving after the job’s done — wiping the counter, realigning the mugs, anything to keep the noise going.

Celina appears a few minutes later, hair damp, hoodie swallowing her frame. The bandage on her palm looks starker now against the dark fabric.

She moves slower than usual, but her eyes are clear. She stops when she sees him still by the sink.

“You don’t have to hover,” she says.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He lets out a quiet breath.

“Yeah. Maybe I am.”

For a second, the old rhythm peeks through—her half-smile, his unspoken answer — but it fades as soon as her phone lights up again on the table.

RODGE.

The name glows in the dim kitchen light, sharp and intrusive, as if it knows it’s not supposed to be there anymore.

She crosses the room and picks it up, thumb brushing the corner of the cracked case. Her pulse feels too loud.

Miles straightens but doesn’t say anything this time.

“I should take this,” she murmurs.

“Yeah.”

He steps back, giving her space, the way you do when something isn’t yours to hold.

She walks to the window, presses the phone to her ear.

“Hey.”

Rodge’s voice comes through immediately—breathless, frayed.

“Celina, thank God. Are you home? Are you really okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I heard everything —the horn, the brakes —then nothing. You scared me half to death.”

“I’m sorry,”

she says. It’s automatic, not wrong but not quite right either.

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

There’s a long pause on his end, the kind that carries too much weight.

“Is he there?”

Her eyes flick toward the kitchen. Miles has moved to the counter, rinsing a mug that doesn’t need rinsing.

“Yeah,” she admits quietly. “He drove me home.”

Rodge exhales, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.

“It’s always him, isn’t it?”

She closes her eyes.

“That’s not fair.”

“I’m not trying to be fair. I’m just — trying to understand.”

Celina bites the inside of her cheek until the taste of copper cuts through her nerves.

“There’s nothing to understand,”

she says, but the lie wilts halfway out of her mouth.

“I mean — there is. I just don’t know how to say it yet.”

“Then start with the truth,” he says softly. “Do you still want this? Us?”

She doesn’t answer. The quiet stretches, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the rain returning outside, a slow percussion against the glass. Finally she whispers,

“I don’t think I do.”

Rodge doesn’t yell. He just breathes out, low and sad.

“Okay.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No. It’s okay.”

His tone gentles, all sharp edges gone.

“I’d rather hear that now than keep pretending later.”

Her throat tightens.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Maybe not,” he says. “But maybe I stopped being right for you.”

She presses a hand to her forehead, the bandage brushing her temple.

“You didn’t deserve to hear it like this.”

“Maybe there isn’t a right way.”

He hesitates, then adds,

“Be careful, okay? You’ve got people who’d lose it if you didn’t come home.”

She swallows hard.

“I know.”

“Take care of yourself, Cee.”

The line clicks dead before she can reply.

The rain sounds louder when it’s over. She stays by the window, phone still in her hand, until her reflection blurs into the glass.

When she finally turns, Miles is still there, leaning against the counter with both hands braced on the edge. He doesn’t ask what Rodge said. He doesn’t need to.

“It’s over,” she says quietly.

He nods once, steady. “I figured.”

“Yeah.”

She wipes the heel of her palm under her eye, winces when it brushes the scrape.

“He deserves better.”

“So do you.”

She looks up, startled by the certainty in his voice.

“That’s not—”

“It is.”

He doesn’t move closer, just says it like a fact.

“You deserve someone who looks at you like I did when I thought I was about to lose you.”

The words hang there, raw and heavy. She doesn’t know what to do with them yet, so she nods, small, like she’s folding them away for later.

Evening slides in slow, the kind of pale gold that makes the walls look softer than they are.

She’s curled on the couch again, hair damp against the blanket, the gauze on her hand catching bits of light. The TV’s on mute — static images, no sound — because the silence tonight isn’t cruel anymore.

Every so often she glances toward the kitchen. Two plates still in the sink, two mugs on the counter, like proof that someone stayed.

She picks at the edge of her bandage, more fidget than pain. The air smells faintly of dish soap and rain through the cracked window. It smells like home, which she hadn’t realized until now is a word that shifts depending on who’s standing next to you.

Her phone buzzes once: a text from Lucy —

You okay?

She types back,

Getting there.

No embellishment. Just truth.

Then she reaches for the mug on the table. The sticky note still clings to the rim.

Rest. That’s an order. — M.

She folds it once, twice, tucks it into the back of her notebook. A tiny piece of something she doesn’t have a name for yet.

Miles stands by the open window in his room, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the hum of the city drifting in.

The adrenaline’s finally gone, leaving that hollow echo it always does. He looks down at his hands — faint red lines across his knuckles — and flexes them once, testing the ache.

He thinks about the moment her weight hit his chest when he pulled her back. How everything narrowed to a sound, a flash, her heartbeat hammering through both their jackets. How, when it stopped, he realized that fear isn’t always about losing someone — sometimes it’s about realizing how much you want them to stay.

Through the thin wall he can hear the TV flickering in her room, low enough that it could be a lullaby. He leans against the frame, head bowed, and lets himself smile.

Tomorrow, they’ll go back to work. They’ll sign forms and file reports and pretend the world didn’t tilt again. But tonight, there’s this: the sound of rain, the quiet between them, and the relief of being alive to feel both.

He turns from the window, clicks off the light, and leaves the door half-open.

The precinct is mostly empty by the time Lucy locks up her office. The lights hum overhead, half of them already dimmed for the night. Tim’s waiting by the coffee machine, the same spot he always ends up in when he’s thinking too hard.

She stops a few feet away, crossing her arms.

“You’re still here.”

“So are you.”

“I was finishing reports.”

He nods.

“Sure.”

He takes a sip of his coffee — it’s probably been cold for twenty minutes — and looks toward the window where rain streaks the glass.

“How’s Juarez?”

Lucy leans against the wall.

“Shaken. Sore. But she’s got people taking care of her.”

“Penn.”

“And me.”

Tim’s mouth lifts at that.

“You always did collect strays.”

“She’s not a stray,”

Lucy says softly.

“She’s just… figuring it out. Like we did.”

He sets the mug down, folds his arms.

“You think they’ll be okay?”

Lucy glances toward the bullpen — dark, quiet now.

“They will be. She’ll fight it, he’ll wait, and eventually they’ll meet in the middle. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Tim huffs a low laugh.

“Sounds exhausting.”

She smiles, stepping closer.

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

“I still don’t.”

For a beat, there’s just the sound of rain and the low hum of vending machines. Then Lucy reaches out, brushes her fingers against his. It’s casual, practiced, but the look they share isn’t.

“Come on,”

she says.

“Let’s go home before the night finds another way to fall apart.”

Tim nods, grabbing his jacket. As they head for the door, Lucy flips off the last light, the bullpen disappearing into the soft dark.

“Hey, Chen?” he murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“You did good tonight.”

She glances up at him, a tired smile ghosting her mouth.

“So did you.”

They step out into the rain together. The door swings shut behind them, leaving the precinct in quiet again — the kind of quiet that holds more promise than silence ever could. The building in that deep, peaceful quiet that only comes after chaos.

Across town, rain threads down another window — thinner now, softer.

Miles sits awake in the dark, watching the city blink itself to sleep. In the next room, Celina’s breathing evens out, steady and safe.

He closes his eyes, exhales once, and lets the quiet hold.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Small Spaces

The apartment wakes before they do.

Sunlight pushes through the curtains in thin, warm stripes; dust floats lazy in the air like it forgot it was supposed to settle overnight. The radiator ticks once as if clearing its throat. Somewhere outside, a delivery truck sighs and an early sparrow tries out a song like a question.

Celina blinks into it, the kind of waking where the shape of the room appears first and the reasons arrive after. Ceiling. Curtain. The soft scuff at the corner of the dresser where she bumped it last week. A small ache under her collarbone that remembers the curb more clearly than she wants to. She lifts her hand and the gauze flashes white, neat little bridges holding yesterday together.

The apartment smells like toast before she realizes why. The kettle hums, then clicks off, followed by the gentle clink of a mug against the counter.

She sits up too fast, winces, and breathes through it.

“Stay,”

Miles calls from the kitchen, voice pitched exactly in that not-bossy register he learned the hard way.

“Tea’s coming to you.”

She huffs a laugh.

“You learned to teleport?”

“Kitchen to doorway is basically a portal,”

he replies, and then he’s there, shoulder against the frame, two mugs in hand. Hair still damp from a shower. Soft t-shirt. Careful eyes. He offers her one like a peace treaty.

She takes it with her good hand. Steam kisses her face.

“What’s the damage this morning, doc?”

“Diagnosis: you’re terrible at sidewalks.”

He steps in, sets the second mug on her nightstand, and pretends he doesn’t see the little stack of folded sticky notes tucked under the lamp.

“Prescription: eggs, ice, and not walking into things while texting.”

“I was not texting,”

she protests, then grimaces.

“I was… emotionally compromised.”

He lifts a brow.

“By gravity?”

“By life.”

She blows on the tea and tests a sip. It’s perfect—strong, a little sweet, the way he makes it when he’s trying to bribe her into resting.

“You always make it taste like a blanket.”

“That’s because you refuse actual blankets unless you’re asleep,”

He says, deadpan.

“And even then you negotiate.”

“I like to be difficult.”

He smiles, and it loosens something in the room. He leans his shoulder to the doorway again and looks at her for a beat longer than he should, like he’s making sure the sun hitting her face is real, not something he invented around three a.m. to get through the hours.

“How’s the hip?”

“Annoyed with me,”

she says.

“But it’s not planning a mutiny.”

“Good. I’d hate to arrest your hip.”

“Paperwork would be wild.”

He shakes his head, amused, then lifts his chin toward the kitchen.

“I made food. It’s edible.”

“You always say that like it’s a surprise.”

“It is when you try to help.”

She gasps, scandalized.

“I can poach an egg.”

“You poach in the sense that you threaten water until it panics,”

He says, and she laughs — real, bright, the kind of sound that makes the morning tilt toward okay.

He retreats long enough to fetch a plate and returns with toast and the gentlest-looking scramble she’s ever seen. He sets the plate on her lap, careful of the bandage, and sits on the edge of the dresser like he’s trying not to disturb a skittish bird.

“Grey texted,” he says.

“Desk duty for you for forty-eight hours. He wants eyes on intake and witness statements. No field.”

Celina rolls her eyes like she’s not secretly relieved.

“He texted you?”

“And you,” Miles says, glancing at her nightstand. “Three times. You didn’t hear?”

“I turned my phone face-down on principle.”

She pops a piece of toast into her mouth.

“Desk duty’s fine. I can terrorize forms.”

“You’ll charm them into confessing,” he says. “Like always.”

They eat in comfortable silence for a minute. The sounds are small — the scrape of fork on plate, the thin chime of a spoon against ceramic when she nudges a tea leaf. The world feels manageable in here. Measured. Like everything that matters can fit on a bedside table: two mugs, a lamp, a little pile of notes she pretends not to reread, his hand when he picked one up last night and said nothing, just smiled.

Her phone buzzes once from beneath a sweater. She ignores it on purpose, the assertion surprisingly soothing.

“Lucy?” he asks.

“Almost definitely,” she says.

“She’s probably sending me a list of concussion-safe reality shows.”

“She’ll take your remote if you break the rules.”

“She’ll take my soul if I try to work a double,”

Celina says, then tilts her head.

“How are you?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again.

“Hungry.”

She snorts.

“I just fed you.”

“Still hungry,”

he says, and she knows that’s as close to I didn’t sleep because I kept seeing headlights as he’s willing to go at eight in the morning.

She sets the empty plate on the nightstand, shifts closer, and nudges his knee with hers.

“Thanks for the rescue.”

His gaze drops to the bandage, then back up.

“Anytime.”

A beat.

“Every time.”

Something settles on those words — quiet, heavy, good. She reaches for her tea to have something to do with her hands and finds a folded square taped to the side of the mug.

She peels it off, pulse doing a quick, ridiculous skip.

Eat first.
Then argue with me about desk duty.
— M

She looks up. He’s watching her like he’s not sure if he went too far.

“You’re incorrigible,”

she says, but she’s smiling, and he relaxes like a dock rope loosening.

“Efficient,” he counters.

“You can’t keep using that word to explain your feelings.”

“It’s my brand.”

“It’s a bad brand.”

“It’s a reliable brand.”

She tucks the note under the lamp with the others, neat and unceremonious, like it was always supposed to end up there. “I’m returning to work today,” she says, lighter.

“Desk dragon duty. You?”

“Ride-alongs and report hell.”

He stands, then hesitates.

“I’m driving you in.”

“I can—”

“You can,”

he agrees gently.

“But I’m still driving you in.”

She considers making it a bit, decides not to, and nods.

“Okay.”

“Fifteen?”

he asks, backing toward the door.

“I’ll bring anti-negotiation coffee.”

“Is that stronger than regular coffee?”

“By several poor decisions,”

He says, and she grins into her mug as he disappears down the hall.

When she swings her legs over the side of the bed, the hip complains and then thinks better of it. Clothes are a slow negotiation — soft things, easy waistbands, the jacket that doesn’t rub. She tucks another note into her pocket without looking at which one it is. It feels like superstition, or armor, or both.

By the time she ties her shoes, he’s back in the doorway again, holding out a travel mug and a look that can’t quite hide its inventory - taking.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Almost,” she says, then corrects herself. “Yeah. Ready.”

He steps aside to let her pass, and the morning makes room for them.

The morning outside feels almost unreal—too bright, too clean for what the last few days held. The air smells like rain that forgot to fall. Miles unlocks the car, opens her door first. It’s an old rhythm, not a grand gesture. She slides in carefully, one hand braced against the frame, muttering,

“I could’ve done that myself.”

“I know,”

he says, shutting the door with a soft click.

“Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.”

Traffic hums low along the street, the kind that blends into white noise. The city’s still stretching awake; bakeries are cracking their doors, buses coughing out diesel sighs. When the engine settles, so does the silence between them — comfortable, charged, unhurried.

Celina fiddles with the lid of her travel mug.

“This is weird,” she says.

“What?”

“Being fine.”

She stares out the window.

“Like, I should be shaken, or… I don’t know. Grateful montage music or something.”

He smirks.

“You want me to hum background score?”

“Please don’t.”

He hums anyway— three wrong notes of something that might once have been a movie theme —and she laughs, head falling back against the seat.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Therapeutic,” he corrects. “Doctor-recommended.”

Her phone buzzes in the cupholder. The screen flashes LUCY CHEN. She ignores it; it buzzes again instantly.

Miles tilts his head.

“You know she’s not going to stop until you answer.”

Celina sighs, slides her thumb across the screen. The text chain opens to a flood of messages:

Lucy: Tell me you’re alive.

Lucy: Tell me you’re not planning to come in early.

Lucy: Tell me you ate.

Lucy: Also Tim says “stop trying to die, rookie.”

Lucy: ❤️

Celina types back one - handed:

Alive. Ate. Not early. Tell Tim gravity started it.

Lucy replies instantly:

Atta girl. Proud of you. Now don’t trip on the way in.

Celina snorts, sets the phone face-down again.

“They’re very invested in my survival.”

“Shocking,” Miles says dryly.

They fall quiet again, but it’s lighter this time. He taps the steering wheel in rhythm with the radio’s low hum, a habit she’s learned means he’s restless, not impatient.

When they pull into the precinct lot, the sunrise catches the front windows, turning the brick gold. Celina hesitates before unbuckling. He notices.

“You sure you’re ready?”

She nods.

“If I stay home any longer, Lucy will bubble-wrap the furniture.”

He huffs a laugh.

“She’d do a good job.”

They step out together. Inside, the familiar bullpen noise hits — a comforting kind of chaos. Phones ringing, printers sighing, someone arguing gently with the vending machine. Sergeant Grey is already in his office, blinds half-open. His gaze flicks up, finds them instantly. Of course it does.

Celina straightens unconsciously. Miles feels the shift beside him: posture, heartbeat, the subtle on-duty switch.

Grey steps out before she can even make it to her desk.

“Juarez.”

“Sir.”

“Good to see you upright.”

“Feels nice, sir.”

He studies her a beat, eyes softening.

“Desk work until I say otherwise. We clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Penn,” he adds without turning, “don’t hover.”

Miles opens his mouth, closes it when Grey’s eyebrow rises.

“Wasn’t planning to, sir.”

Grey almost smiles.

“Good. Carry on.”

He disappears back into his office.

Lucy materializes seconds later, bright and smug, like she’d been waiting around the corner just for this moment.

“Desk duty!”

she sings, plopping a stack of forms on Celina’s workspace.

“Welcome back to hell’s paperwork.”

Celina groans.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Tim said to make sure you rest,”

Lucy says, winking.

“I’m taking that as a personal mission.”

Miles leans over the desk.

“You two rehearsed this?”

“Only the fun parts,”

Lucy chirps, then lowers her voice.

“Seriously — glad you’re okay.”

Celina’s expression softens.

“Thanks.”

Lucy pats the top of the file.

“Now sign these before Tim sees how messy your handwriting is.”

As Lucy saunters off toward Tim’s office, Miles glances down at Celina.

“You good?”

She nods.

“I’m good.”

Then, quieter:

“It feels normal again.”

“Normal’s underrated,” he says.

Their eyes meet for a beat too long before she looks away, pretending to read the first form. He exhales through a smile that no one but her catches and heads toward the break room.

She watches him go, the corner of her mouth tugging upward despite herself.

Desk duty sounds safer than it feels.

By the second hour, Celina’s handwriting starts slanting toward rebellion. She’s surrounded by towers of half - sorted witness statements and the whir of printers that sound like they’re sighing on purpose.

Lucy drops a jelly doughnut onto her desk like it’s an award.

“Bribe,” she says. “For staying seated.”

Celina eyes it.

“It’s powdered sugar.”

“Yeah,”

Lucy grins.

“That’s the best part — evidence.”

Miles passes behind them, file tucked under his arm, radio clipped to his shoulder.

“You two planning to start a bakery or finish the reports?”

Lucy mock-salutes.

“Multi-tasking, Penn.”

He shakes his head but the corner of his mouth betrays him.

“Desk dragons eat sugar, apparently,”

Celina mutters when he’s gone. Lucy leans in.

“He’s hovering.”

“I’m aware.”

“Like, full-on gravitational pull hovering.”

Celina shoots her a warning look.

“Don’t start.”

Lucy raises both hands.

“Fine. I’m just saying — if he shows up with a second doughnut, it’s luveeee.”

She winks and disappears toward Tim’s office, humming.

Left alone, Celina lets the quiet settle. Paper smells like toner and stale coffee. Every few minutes she hears Miles’s voice across the room — low, even, threading through dispatch codes. It steadies her more than she’ll admit.

At noon he reappears, holding out a take-out box.

“Lunch.”

She blinks.

“You’re supposed to be on patrol.”

“Lucy hijacked my half,”

he says.

“Said I was banned until I ‘fed the paperwork gremlin.’ Her words.”

Celina can’t fight the smile.

“She’s unstoppable.”

“She’s Lucy,” he says simply.

He perches on the edge of her desk, opens the box, and slides a fork toward her.

“Eat.”

She takes a bite, mostly to prove she can still follow orders.

“It’s good.”

He nods.

“Told the place to make it less spicy.”

“You remembered?”

“I listen sometimes.”

That earns him a quiet, genuine laugh. For a few seconds, the bullpen noise fades; it’s just them and the steam curling from the food.

Then her phone buzzes— a new email from Grey.

Subject: Patrol Rotation Next Week.

Her stomach tightens. She opens it.

Juarez/Penn – reinstated field partnership effective Monday.

Miles sees her expression change.

“Bad?”

She passes him the screen. He reads it, then looks up, a slow grin starting to form.

“Good?” she asks.

“Better than good.”

She raises a brow.

“You think Grey’s testing us?”

“He knows we work better together.”

She traces the rim of the take - out box with her fork.

“We used to.”

His voice drops.

“We still do.”

For a moment the air between them feels like the old rhythm —steady, certain. Then a phone rings, and the spell breaks.

He stands, gathering the wrappers.

“See you after shift?”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “After shift.”

He pauses long enough to tap the top corner of her desk — a small, familiar gesture, the same one he used to signal ready? before stepping out on patrol. Then he’s gone, swallowed by the corridor’s chatter.

She stares at the fingerprint he left on her coffee cup and exhales, realizing that “normal” still has his name written all over it.

The apartment feels like it’s been scrubbed of sound.

Outside, rain has finally arrived — not heavy, just a patient drizzle that whispers against the windows. The lights are low, kitchen warm. Miles stands over the stove stirring something that smells faintly like garlic and compromise.

Celina leans on the counter, hip propped, bandaged wrist balanced around a glass of water.

“You realize this is the third night in a row you’ve cooked for me?”

He doesn’t look up.

“That’s because you turn every pan into a hazard zone.”

“I make one small fire—”

“—and suddenly I’m head chef forever.”

He glances sideways, and she catches the half-smile tugging at his mouth. It feels like a conversation they’ve had a hundred times, except this one is softer — stripped of all the old defenses.

She watches the way his shoulders move when he works, the quiet precision that’s almost meditative. It used to make her crazy, how calm he stayed in everything. Now she thinks it’s the only reason she’s breathing easier.

“Lucy texted me,” she says, breaking the silence.

“That’s shocking.”

“She said, and I quote, ‘Don’t let Penn think he’s domestic just because he can use a spatula.’”

He snorts. “I’ll have you know, I’ve mastered the sauté.”

“You’re sautéing noodles.”

“Exactly.”

She shakes her head, smiling despite herself.

“How are they?”

“Chen and Bradford? Probably policing the world from their couch.”

“I give it two weeks before they host a double date and pretend it’s an intervention.”

He laughs quietly — the kind of laugh that comes from the chest, quick and genuine.

“They’d do it, too.”

Dinner ends up simple: pasta, salad, a loaf of bread that’s definitely store-bought but still warm. They eat at the counter, plates side by side, knees almost brushing. Every few seconds, she can feel the ghost of that earlier moment — the one where she’d fallen asleep against his hand — lingering between bites.

When the dishes are done, she catches him watching her dry her hands on the towel he left out. There’s nothing romantic in the gesture itself, but something in the quiet feels borrowed from a different life. The kind they might share if everything were simpler.

“Movie?” he asks, voice careful.

“Something dumb,” she says. “Lucy’s orders.”

“Right. Medical directive.”

He scrolls through the options until they land on a half-forgotten comedy rerun. She sinks into the couch, blanket over her lap; he takes the chair beside it, angled just enough to pretend they’re not occupying the same orbit.

The rain taps steady against the windows, syncing with the low rhythm of the TV.

Her body begins to soften into the cushions before her mind does. The warmth, the sound of his breathing — it all folds together into that gentle, in-between haze. For a heartbeat, she’s back in that earlier night: the faint touch of his hand, the way sleep stole her mid-sentence, the quiet security that followed.

She glances sideways. Miles is watching the screen, profile lit by the shifting glow. The space between the chair and couch feels wider tonight, like they both built it on purpose. Still, her hand itches — a small, stupid instinct to reach across the gap.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she slides her fingers beneath the blanket, presses her palm flat against her thigh, and wonders if he remembers.

Maybe he does. Because when the laugh track flares, he glances over — not at her, exactly, but toward that same space between them — then back to the screen, his jaw tightening just slightly.

Her heart stumbles. The memory hums through her like static: their hands, that tiny shared warmth, the way he whispered goodnight before walking away.

The moment passes, leaving the room quiet except for the rain.

She pulls the blanket higher, forcing a breath out through her nose, trying to steady the swirl inside her.

Across from her, he shifts — leans forward, grabs the remote, lowers the volume until the world feels smaller again.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, and it’s true enough.

They don’t talk after that. The silence isn’t empty; it’s suspended, careful. Between them lies a small, invisible line drawn by memory — the kind you don’t cross unless you’re ready.

When the credits finally roll, she pretends to stretch, covering a yawn.

“I’m going to bed before Lucy sends a wellness check.”

Miles stands too.

“I’ll lock up.”

“Night,”

she says softly, moving past him toward the hallway.

He murmurs it back, and for the briefest second, she feels the air shift — the same stillness that used to mean I’m right here.

She doesn’t turn around.

Inside her room, she exhales and smiles into the dark, because she’s starting to realize that maybe the space between them isn’t empty at all. It’s just waiting.

Lucy kicks the front door shut with her heel, juggling a bag of take-out cartons and her jacket.

“Okay,”

she says, toeing off her boots.

“Remind me why you refuse to order delivery like a normal person.”

Tim follows her in, still half in uniform, tie loosened, sleeves rolled.

“Because if we pick it up ourselves, it’s still hot.”

“It’s also a ten-minute detour,”

she fires back, but her voice softens halfway through.

“Fine. You win. Again.”

He sets the cartons on the counter, starts unpacking them with his usual precision—two plates, napkins squared, chopsticks aligned. Lucy watches, amused.

“You know, the rest of the world just eats out of the box.”

He looks up, faint smile curving.

“And miss the ritual?”

“Ritual. Right.”

She leans against the counter, studying him.

“You really have gone domestic.”

Tim arches a brow.

“You’re the one who bought matching salt and pepper shakers.”

“Those are decorative,” she says, mock-offended, “and they spark joy.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and the sound fills the apartment the way rain had filled Celina’s earlier. Lucy exhales, the stress of the shift finally unclenching.

For a while they eat in companionable silence. Outside, the city hums low, headlights sweeping their living-room walls. It’s quiet in that lived-in way that only comes after years of noise.

Lucy’s phone buzzes once on the table— Grey’s nightly report ping —and then again, a shorter tone. She glances at it, then smiles.

“Juarez texted. She says she’s on desk duty until Monday.”

Tim nods. “Good call.”

“She says Penn’s been hovering.”

“He always does.”

“She also says,”

Lucy adds, smirking,

“that you told Grey to give them space.”

Tim shrugs. “They needed to find their rhythm again.”

Lucy pokes at her noodles, thoughtful.

“You think they will?”

He studies her face, not the food.

“Yeah,” he says finally.

“People like them? They just need time. Sometimes it’s the small spaces that tell you the truth.”

She tilts her head. “Small spaces?”

He gestures vaguely—the couch, the kitchen, the half-folded blanket on the chair.

“The moments between everything else. That’s where you notice it first. The way you sit a little closer without meaning to. The way quiet stops feeling awkward.”

Lucy’s smile gentles.

“You’re getting poetic, Sergeant.”

He smirks. “Don’t tell anyone.”

She reaches across the table, steals his fortune cookie, and cracks it open.

“‘Home is where someone waits for you,’”

she reads, then looks up at him.

“Okay, that’s creepy accurate.”

Tim lifts his brows.

“Yours?”

She unfolds his and grins.

“‘You will receive unsolicited advice from a colleague.’” She taps the paper. “Grey.”

He laughs, the sound rolling easy through the room.

“Sounds about right.”

They clean up together, the way they always do — her humming, him stacking plates, the rhythm seamless. When she passes behind him to toss something in the trash, she presses a quick kiss to the back of his neck. It’s instinct, not performance.

“See?” she murmurs. “Small spaces.”

He turns, catches her waist with one arm, draws her close until their foreheads touch.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “They tell you everything.”

For a moment, the world narrows to the scent of take-out spice and the faint rasp of her laugh against his throat. Outside, rain threads down the glass, the same rhythm beating softly miles away against another window where two rookies are still learning how to stand near each other again.

Tim pulls back just enough to look at her.

“They’ll figure it out,” he says.

Lucy nods. “They always do.”

She turns off the kitchen light, and the apartment falls into that honey-colored darkness that feels like home.

Miles wakes to the kind of quiet that feels too deliberate— the refrigerator’s low hum, the faint patter of rain still clinging to the windows, and somewhere in the apartment, Celina’s door breathing open and closed with each draft.

He sits on the edge of the bed, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and waits for his heartbeat to remember it’s not still on shift.

Sleep never holds long these days. Not since the accident. Not since her hand in his —soft, trusting, unspoken.

He pads barefoot to the kitchen, the floor cool underfoot.

The clock on the microwave blinks 3:17 a.m. The whole city beyond the glass is washed pale by fog, traffic lights blinking slow through it. Everything looks softer at this hour—less complicated.

He pours a glass of water, takes a sip, then just stands there, watching condensation trail down the side. His gaze drifts to the fridge.

A single sticky note clings to it—one of hers, half-faded, corner curling from steam.
He recognizes the handwriting instantly: slanted, hurried, the way she writes when she’s multitasking.

The ink’s a little smudged, but the words are still legible.

Don’t forget your lunch, superhero.
— C

He huffs a quiet laugh. He remembers that day: she’d packed his sandwich wrong on purpose, swapped the labels, then left that note like an apology. He’d pretended to be annoyed and then kept it anyway.

He smooths the edge of the paper with his thumb, careful not to tear it.
Something in his chest loosens, the same ache that used to keep him company when she wasn’t around. It’s not sharp anymore — just familiar.

On the counter beside the coffeemaker sits a pad of blank notes and a pen. Habit. He tears one free, hesitates, then writes without overthinking.

You’re still my favorite kind of quiet.
— M

He stares at the words for a moment. Simple. Too simple.

But it feels right.

He leaves it where she’ll see it — in front of her mug, beside the tea canister. The same place she always reaches first thing in the morning.

The rain lightens to mist. Somewhere down the hall, she shifts in her sleep, a small sound that finds him even here. He glances toward her door, the glow from under it faint but steady.

“Night, Juarez,”

He murmurs, the words half-breath, half-memory.

He turns off the kitchen light. The apartment settles again, holding its own soft rhythm: fridge hum, rain hush, the sound of two people learning the same quiet in different rooms.

Outside, dawn begins to edge along the windows, thin and patient— the kind of light that doesn’t demand attention, only offers it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Misaligned Schedules 

The apartment’s clock blinks 6:03 when she wakes. It takes a second for her body to catch up — hip a dull reminder, palms no longer screaming, the thin throb of a bruise that’s already turned from angry red to something you can almost forget.

She listens first. Not because she’s afraid, but because there’s a new kind of quiet here lately—measured, considerate. A pot lid set down without clatter. The soft thud of a refrigerator closing with a hand still on it. The water in the bathroom shut off before the pipes complain.

Miles is home. Or — coming off shift, which is as close to home as either of them gets sometimes.

She pushes up, breathes through the small protest in her side, and pads into the hallway. The kitchen smells like the end of the night: coffee that’s lived a few hours already, toast, rain the door brought in on someone’s jacket.

He’s there at the counter, sleeves shoved to his elbows, hair damp, uniform shirt untucked like the day finally let go of him at the door. He’s writing something with that uphill, blocky handwriting and doesn’t hear her until she clears her throat.

He looks up. There it is—the microsecond scan his eyes do every time he sees her now: face, hands, posture. Okay. Alive.

“Morning,” he says, soft.

“Morning.” Her voice comes out scratchy; she finds a smile to soften it. “Did the city survive you?”