Page 20 of Cross the Line
Time to move. Before he did.
The apartment lay silent except for the storm and occasional creaks as the building settled. Hopefully he was still asleep.
Cold hardwood bit into my bare feet. The place smelled musty. Old paint and someone else's cooking. Service-assigned housing. Bottom of the barrel. Furnished units issued through the department's standardized allocation system, complete with administrative letters and impersonal fixtures screaming bureaucratic efficiency. I'd lived in worse. Not by much.
Water pipes groaned as I turned on the shower. Cold only. The shock pulled a sharp breath from my lungs. I didn't adjust the temperature.
In the small bathroom mirror, my reflection showed dark circles. A faint bruise forming along my ribs where my sparring partner had landed a solid hit. Hadn't noticed during the match. Hadn't felt anything except the rhythm of my fists connecting. The clarity that came with controlled violence.
The coffeemaker was the only appliance I'd bothered bringing from my old place. Single-cup. Utilitarian. Black brew steamed in my ceramic mug as I leaned against the counter. Watched droplets streak down the window. The building across the narrow street was barely visible through the downpour. Its windows dark except for one where someone else was awake too early. Moving like a shadow behind closed blinds.
My knuckles were slightly raw. Skin reddened despite the hand wraps I'd worn. I flexed my fingers around the warm ceramic, feeling the pull of tightened tendons. Boxing wasn't just exercise. It was maintenance. Necessary release. The only place where pressure could build and dissipate without consequence.
Bitter and scalding on my tongue. Outside, the storm intensified, drumming like impatient fingers. Another day in this cramped apartment. Another day with Carlson, his too-loud voice and cologne filling every corner. Another day of pretending his presence didn't grate on me.
Rain fell harder now. Drops smacked with increasing urgency. I refilled my mug. The second batch always tasted better. I settled onto one of the kitchen stools and savored a rare moment of peace before the day's demands.
A door creaked open down the hall.
Footsteps padded across hardwood. He usually slept until the last possible minute. Rushed through his morning routine in a flurry of muttered curses about being late.
I didn't turn. Kept my shoulders from tensing as his footsteps hesitated behind me. Gaze fixed on the window.
"You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." A pause. "Storm."
One word. Like we were rationing them between us.
I made the mistake of turning around. Carlson stood in the kitchen doorway. Hair mussed from sleep. Wearing nothing but black boxer briefs sitting low on his hips.
My throat went dry.
Without his carefully styled hair and tailored clothes, he appeared younger. Vulnerable. A long, lean torso with just enough definition to suggest strength without bulk. A faint trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband.
He yawned. Stretched his arms overhead. Completely unselfconscious. The movement pulled his frame taut. Highlighted smooth planes of chest. A thin silver chain glinted around his neck, catching what little light filtered through the storm-streaked window.
I forced my attention back to my drink. Took a deliberate gulp, almost choking. Welcomed the distraction.
Carlson made a noise, half-grunt, half-sigh, and shuffled toward the coffeemaker. He moved differently in the morning. None of his usual performative grace. Just a man, sleep-warm and unguarded, reaching for caffeine.
Close enough that I caught his scent. Clean skin. Faded traces of whatever product he used in his hair. No cologne yet. This was Carlson before he became Detective Carlson.
My body reacted without permission. Heat crawled up my neck. Pooled low in my stomach. I shifted on the stool. My grip tightened around the ceramic.
He filled his own mug. Added sugar, too much. Leaned against the counter opposite me. Rain drummed steadily overhead. Lightning flashed, briefly lighting the kitchen in harsh white.
"Bad one." His gaze stayed on the window.
I nodded. The forecast predicted storms all day. Our shift would be miserable. Wet scenes. Irritable witnesses. Paperwork dampened by weather.
He sipped. Throat working as he swallowed. A droplet clung to his lower lip before his tongue darted out to catch it. I turned away. Fought a surge of warmth.
I rose abruptly. Liquid sloshed over the rim of my mug and burned my hand. Didn't flinch. The sting was clarifying. A reminder to get my shit together. I retreated to the living room.
The couch cushions were firm. Unyielding. I set my drink on the scratched table and flexed my fingers. Watched them tremble slightly. Something felt wrong. Too hot. Too aware. Too responsive. To him, of all people.
Carlson. With his perfect face and calculated charm. The Service's golden boy who'd crashed and burned. The man who flirted with everyone like breathing. The last person who should trigger this in me.
