Page 19 of Flashpoint
"Hey." Aiden's voice is gentle. "Sleep if you need to. I'll get you home safe."
"I'm not sleeping. I'm resting my eyes."
"Sure you are."
The last thing I register before exhaustion wins is the low sound of the radio and the feeling of Aiden's jacket being draped carefully over me like a blanket.
I wake up in my own bed with no memory of how I got there.
Sunlight streams through curtains I didn't close, and there's a glass of water on my nightstand that I don't remember putting there. My boots are off,placed neatly by the door, and I'm still in yesterday's clothes minus my jacket.
A note on the nightstand in handwriting that's surprisingly neat for a guy who probably writes incident reports in crayon:
Didn't want to wake you. You mumbled something about accelerant patterns and then called me an idiot, so I figured you were fine. Drink the water. Text me when you're awake.
— A
P.S. Your neighbor thinks I'm your boyfriend now. I didn't correct her. Hope that's okay.
I stare at the note until the words blur. My throat feels tight.
Embarrassment that I passed out in his truck. Warmth that he got me home safely. Annoyance that Mrs. Anderson from 3B now has ammunition for her gossip network.
And underneath all of that, something soft andinconvenient that I don't have the energy to examine right now.
My phone buzzes. A text from Hazel:
Hazel: School visit in THREE days! Starting outfit planning now. I'm thinking navy and gray. Very professional, very couple-y.
Right. The school visit. The fake relationship. The reason any of this started in the first place.
I drag myself out of bed, every muscle protesting the four hours of sleep and three hours of crouching over evidence. The shower helps marginally. Coffee helps more. By the time I'm dressed in clean clothes and feeling semi-human, I've got a plan: drop the samples at the lab, check in with Captain Vasquez, and spend the afternoon reviewing everything I documented last night.
Normal investigator things. Things that make sense.
Not feelings. Feelings don't make sense.
Except nothing about last night felt fake. Not the way Aiden waited for hours while I worked. Not the way he brought me coffee and drove me home and apparently carried me to bed without making it weird.
The lines are blurring. The professional boundaries I've relied on are becoming less clear.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Aiden:
Aiden: You alive? Mrs. Anderson says hi, btw. She wants to know when the wedding is.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
I type back:
Me: Tell her spring. Good weather for outdoor receptions.
His response is immediate:
Aiden: I KNEW you'd come around. I look great in a tux.
Then, a second later:
Aiden: Seriously though. You okay?
