Page 12 of Dirty Sweet Cop

“I didn’t swoop.” The control cracks. Just a hair. “I walked through that door and saw you and something in me fucking broke, Winny. Something that’s been sealed shut for fifteen years. I looked at you and I knew. Not that I wanted to fix you. That I wanted to keep you. There’s a difference.”

“Keep me.” I laugh. It sounds broken. “Like a pet.”

“Like the woman I’m in love with.” The words land between us like something physical. Heavy. Real. “I’ve been gone for you since the moment I found you. The idea of you walking away—” He stops. Swallows. “That feels like failure. Not because I need to fix you. Because I need you. Just you. However you come.”

The hallway is too quiet. Too bright. I can hear the security system humming, the soft click of the cameras adjusting, the sound of our breathing.

I stand up. My legs are shaky. I pull my torn leggings up as best I can and walk to the bedroom. Grab my duffel bag from the closet. Start throwing things in—clothes, my toothbrush, the stuffed rabbit he tucked in there that first night without comment.

He doesn’t stop me. He watches from the doorway, arms crossed, jaw set, and says nothing.

I zip the bag. Walk past him. Down the hallway. To the front door.

My hand finds the handle.

His covers mine. Warm. Big. Gentle.

“Please.” One word. Raw. Wrecked. Not growled. Not demanded. Begged. “Please don’t go.”

I turn. He’s there. Close. Those dark eyes wet—actually wet—and his hand still on mine, and the toughest man I’ve ever known is trembling.

“Please, Winny. Stay.”

I drop the bag. It hits the floor with a soft thud.

He pulls me against his chest and holds me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear, and I bury my face in his shirt and breathe him in and tell myself this is enough. For now. This is enough.

seven

. . .

Clayton

I wait until evening. Until the house is quiet. Until she’s curled on the couch with a blanket and that look in her eyes—the one that says she’s still picking through the wreckage of yesterday, still trying to decide if what we have is real or just convenient.

I can’t sit. I stand by the window, arms crossed, watching the motion lights trip on and off in the yard as a cat wanders through. My security system. My cameras. My fortress. Built to keep her safe. Now it feels like what it is: a cage I constructed because I was too afraid to let her choose.

“Winny.” My voice sounds strange. Too careful. Too measured. “We need to talk.”

She looks up. Those honey eyes wary, guarded. She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Okay.”

I turn from the window. Face her. My heart is doing something irregular and painful behind my ribs. Fifteen years on the force. I’ve delivered death notifications. Held the hands of widows. Stared down the barrel of a gun without flinching. None of it prepared me for this.

“I’m going to give you a choice.” The words feel thick. Difficult. “A real one. Not the kind where I tell you what I want and you say yes because you’re scared or grateful or alone. A real fucking choice.”

She sits up straighter. The blanket falls to her lap. “Clayton⁠—”

“Listen.” I hold up a hand. Need to get this out before I lose my nerve. “Option one. I help you get your house in order. All of it. The mortgage, the insurance, the paperwork your parents left behind. I set you up with support services—financial advisor, grief counselor, whatever you need. I help you move back in. I install a security system that’s actually appropriate. And then...” I swallow. Hard. “Then I step back. Professional distance. I’m the detective who responded to your call. Nothing more. You get your life. Your freedom. No cameras. No me watching your every move. Just…you. Making your own choices.”

The living room is too quiet. I can hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. The soft click of the security system resetting. The sound of her breathing.

She doesn’t speak. Her eyes are fixed on my face, searching, and I can’t read what she’s finding there. For the first time since I met her, my cop instincts are useless. I can’t see through her. Can’t predict her. She’s a complete mystery, and it’s terrifying.

“Option two.” My voice drops. Roughens. The careful control starts to crack. “You stay. Here. With me. You let me keep you the way I’ve been keeping you—the cameras, the security, the following you to the grocery store and growling at anyone who looks at you too long. You take my last name someday. You let me put a ring on your finger and a baby in your belly and you let me breed you until you’re round with my kid, until there’s no fucking doubt in anyone’s mind who you belong to.”

The words come out raw. Filthy. Earnest in a way that makes my chest ache. This isn’t dirty talk. This is the truth, stripped bare and ugly and real. I want to claim her. I want to fill her. I want to see her belly swell with my child and know that she’s carrying part of me, that she’s tied to me in the most permanent way possible.

But I want her to choose it. Not because she has nowhere else to go. Because she wants me. Just me. However damaged, however possessive, however fucking terrifying I am.