Page 16 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

And fuck me, I wanted to touch her. Even while I was asking about Tramble. Even while her mouth was dropping bite-sized confessions between cookies like sugar-coated grenades.

“Not unless you count the bits of him my rose bush is still feasting on.”

“Either way, nature’s problem now.”

“At home. Baking. Murdering. Watching Bridgerton. Pick your fantasy.”

Should I have flagged that?

I glance back at the form. There’s a line for concerning behavior. I leave it blank. I shouldn’t. But I do.

I don’t want to be the guy who drags a woman through hell for having a dark sense of humor. I don’t want to be the guy who accuses her just because she’s strange. Just because she’s magnetic.

I want to be the guy she curls up against when the world feels too sharp.

Christ.

I lean forward, drop my face into my hands, and exhale through clenched teeth. I can still smell her, sweet and warm and just a little wrong. Like cookies baked in a haunted house. I bet her hair would smell like cinnamon if I tucked her under my chin. I bet she’d melt against me without even realizing it, trusting me.

I’d keep her safe. Wrap her in flannel and lock the door behind us. Not because I think she needs protecting, but because I need the world to know she’s mine to protect. And I’d hold her there. I would. I’d fucking shelter her from everything, even myself, if it came to that.

Even if it turns out she is dangerous. Hell, especially then.

Because there’s something about her, something cold and quiet and glittering underneath all that softness. Like she’s the eye of a storm and doesn’t even know it.

Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s what makes her so hard to walk away from.

I stare at the report again and try to find the thread of the damn thing.

Eventually, I write:

“Subject displays dry humor. Tone unclear at times. No indication of active threat at this time.”

A lie. But it’s a small one.

I don’t hit submit. Not yet. Instead, I sit there like a moron and imagine her leaning into me again. Just for a second. Just long enough to make me forget every oath, every dead-eyed briefing, every damn rule carved into my badge.

The Tramble report stares at me like it knows I’m full of shit. I finally hit save, then minimize the screen like that’ll make the guilt shut up.

I tell myself I’ll revisit it later, maybe after a coffee. Or sleep. Or a fucking lobotomy.

Instead, I open another file. Top right corner of my desk, half buried in old paperwork and unfiled warrants. Been meaning to look at it for weeks. Just never felt urgent.

Until now.

Case ID: MJ042419

Missing Person: Hank Johnson

Date Last Seen: April 24, 2019

Location: Eastwood neighborhood, midtown area.

Hank fucking Johnson. I remember this one now.

Guy was a real piece of work, assault charge, two priors for possession with intent, and a domestic violence conviction that got him two years inside. Big, mean, loud. Had the kind of face that begged for a backhand and the history to prove someone finally gave it to him.

Ex-wife was in rehab when he disappeared. Solid alibi. No one else close enough to care he was gone. No body. No leads. Case stalled out so long it started gathering dust in real time.

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