The man feels something ugly twist deep in his gut.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Jennings snarls. “We’re not done. Not even close.”
The detective leaves, but the man does not. He stands there, watching the woman. She is utterly still, holding herself in that self-contained manner. Locking in her emotions through sheer force of will.
But he can see, no matter how she tries to hide it, she is trembling. It is cold in the precinct and she’s not wearing a jacket. Before he can stop himself, he’s reaching up to pull the sweatshirt over his head. He grips it tightly in his hands as he moves toward her, his measured strides eating up the distance between them. The logo on the front is a purple eagle, emblazoned with the wordsBALTIMORE RAVENS.
When he gets close, he sees the tears shimmering on the surface of her incredible eyes. She looks up at him through a fog of grief and horror. She does not see him. Not really. Her gaze goes straight through him — even as he reaches out and places the sweatshirt in her shaking hands.
“Put this on,” he tells her. “You’re shivering.”
He does not trust himself to say anything more. To do anything more. His chest feels tight as he turns and walks away. When he reaches the hall, he looks back in time to see the woman pulling his sweatshirt over her head. It is laughably large on her. But the sight of her wearing it makes some of the tension bleed out of his body.
She’s going to be okay.
Maybe not tonight, but someday.
The man is sure of it.
In fact, he plans to make sure of it — personally.
Purple sparks hit me. The vision changed yet again.
The third time the man sees her, his world starts turning again after six long years of stopped motion.
He’s tired. It’s been a long day. This time of year is always hectic. Halloween brings out the crazies in full force. He is eager to get home, take his dog for a run, and clear his head.
He is not particularly thrilled by the sight of the broken down car steaming on the dark block in a not-so-great stretch of town. He is even less pleased to see a female form bent over beneath the hood.
He flips on his directional.
He’ll help her, then head home.
She hears him coming. He’s halfway to her car when she ducks out from beneath the hood and rounds toward him. He sees nothing but legs, at first. Long, shapely legs, still somewhat tanned from summer, in a pair of denim cut-offs so sweet they make his cock twitch to life inside his jeans.
Christ.
What is he, sixteen? He really needs to get laid if he can’t make it through a traffic stop without getting hard.
His eyes jerk up to the woman’s face and he prepares to ask her the usual questions. But the words dry up before they leave his lips. His whole body locks in shock. And deep beneath his feet, the world — stagnant for six long, endless fucking years — starts spinning again on its axis.
Her.
It’s her.
He stares into a set of bottomless eyes, incapable of speech. She’s looking right at him, waiting for him to start. He knows he should be saying something, but he can’t seem to manage it. He watches her head tilt sideways in confusion; watches her hands curl into tiny fists at her sides, like she’s frustrated with him.
“Uh… Hi,” she says, clearly annoyed. “Can I help you with something, officer?”
That voice. Melodic as a song, even when she’s pissed.
She’s cute when she’s pissed.
He can barely hide his grin.
As he drinks in the sight of her, something inside him falls into place. Like a puzzle piece he’s been searching for without success, finally clicking in. Completing the whole picture.
Yeah, the man thinks to himself. She can help him with something.