Page 21 of Cross the Line
I pressed the heels of my hands over my eyes until sparks bloomed in the darkness.
Not him. Not now.
Being gay wasn't the problem. I'd known that part of myself since fifteen, hiding in the school library reading books I'd never take home. I'd accepted it long ago. Filed it where it couldn't interfere with my career. My reputation.
The problem was the wanting.
Wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant vulnerability. Wanting meant giving someone else power over you. The power to disappoint. To betray. To leave. I'd learned that lesson too well to forget it.
In the kitchen, Carlson hummed something under his breath. The sound traveled through the quiet apartment. I could picturehim leaning there. Half-naked and relaxed. Completely unaware of the chaos he'd just unleashed in me.
"You want some toast?"
Silence. Couldn't trust myself to respond.
Memories surfaced unbidden. Wright's face, twisted in guilt. The chief's neutral expression during the transfer meeting. Whispers that followed me to my new station. Rumors I'd never confirmed or denied. Took forever to fade.
Never again.
I'd kept my sexuality private for a reason. Mine alone. Acknowledged but contained. Like a fault line I'd learned to navigate. Before, I dated rarely. Opted for one-night stands with clear rules. Men who understood the boundaries. Most importantly, men who didn't share my division. Men who weren't under my skin before they'd even touched me.
Not men like Carlson.
Carlson, who swaggered through the station like he owned it despite being on probation. Carlson, who couldn't follow a single protocol without arguing. Carlson, who'd somehow made the girlfriend of a stabbing victim trust him in under five minutes the other day.
Carlson, standing in our kitchen in his underwear, making my pulse quicken like some rookie with his first crush.
Pathetic.
"Hey, you okay?" He appeared in the doorway. Mug in one hand. Concern on his face. He'd pulled on a T-shirt, but his legs were still bare. Muscled thighs on full display.
"Fine."
Sharper than I'd intended. The edge in my tone surprised even me.
He raised an eyebrow. "You look like you're about to murder someone. Should I be worried?"
I fixed my attention on the rain-streaked window. "Just thinking about the report Inspector Murphy wants by end of shift."
"At five in the morning?" Carlson snorted. "Sure."
He padded into the living room, silent against the worn hardwood. The couch dipped as he sat. Too close. The distance between us insufficient. Warmth radiated from him. Or maybe I was just hypersensitive to his presence now.
I stood abruptly. Needed distance. "I should get ready."
"We don't need to leave for over an hour." He stretched his legs out. Taking up more territory. Seemingly unaware of my discomfort. Or maybe perfectly aware and enjoying it. "You always this wound up?"
"You always this chatty?"
Regretting the engagement instantly.
He grinned. The expression transformed his face. Without his usual performative edge, his smile seemed genuine. Warm. Dangerous.
"Only when I'm trying to figure someone out. And you're quite the puzzle, Hawley."
I needed to leave. Now. The living room was suffocating. The air between us charged with something I refused to name. My pulse was betraying me. Responding to his proximity in ways I couldn't control.
"I'm going to change."
