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i.
It’s less than an hour since they’ve been released from the station, cleared of all suspicions of involvement. Gil had watched as Jessica transformed from the vulnerable, broken, shellshocked woman he’d comforted in the interrogation room into one of New York’s elite social members, shoulders pulled back and spine straightening as if made of steel in the face of the whispers and murmurs of the officers staring her down.
How did she not know? She’s lying. How could she be so blind?
But she’d scooped her daughter up into her arms and taken her son’s trembling hand in her own and stood strong as the booking officer informed her that she couldn’t go home.
“Ma’am, it’s a crime scene. We won’t be done processing it for weeks.”
Gil had seen her bottom lip tremble, a flash of the exhausted, overwhelmed woman lurking just beneath the surface. He’d stepped in, hand resting on his duty belt.
“Mrs. Whitly—“
“Jessica,” she corrected with a soft smile. “Please.”
“Jessica,” he amended with a nod of his head. “Officer Marsh here is right, you won’t be able to go home for a while, not until we’re done processing the evidence.”
“Where am I supposed to stay? My children are exhausted. They need to sleep.”
He thought that she looked exhausted, too, but admired her strength and stubbornness to not admit it in front of her children.
“Is there anyone you can stay with? Family? Friends?”
“I don’t think anyone is willing to put up with us. Not tonight.” Her smile turned brittle and forced, voice terse. “We’re not exactly New York’s most popular family right now.”
“There’s a Radisson up around the corner,” he offered. “No paparazzi, no crime scene techs. It would be just for a few days.”
“The Radisson? Please, I—“
Gil arched an eyebrow and she swallowed down the last of her protests, hitching her daughter up onto her hip and sighing. “Yes, that would be fine.”
“I’ll walk you. It’s just a few blocks.”
“I don’t need an escort, Officer. I am perfectly capable of—“
He held his hands up in placation. This woman was a force to be reckoned with. “It’s standard procedure, ma’am. You’re still a person of interest.” He glanced down at Malcolm who was still trembling, but undeniably exhausted, eyes drooping as he leaned more heavily against his mother’s hip.
He softened his voice, keeping it calm and steady and gentle—soothing. “Let me help you, Jessica. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
She looked at her children, at the busy station and the murmuring detectives and officers, at the stacks of boxes containing evidence of the very crimes that had been committed under her roof by the man she laid next to every night, the man whose ring she wore.
Gil saw the way that steel-enforced spine of hers went limp, saw the moment the fight went out of her and the pride gave way to acceptance. In that moment, he thought she was at her most beautiful, her most impressive.
“Okay,” she said quietly, adjusting her sleeping daughter on her hip. “Okay.”
Gil nodded and squatted down to come face-to-face with Malcolm. “Hey kiddo,” he greeted softly. “I’m going to walk you and your mom and your sister to a hotel for a few nights, okay? You up for being brave a little longer?”
The trembling of the boy’s hand stopped as he nodded, eyes fixated on the man in front of him, nodding resolutely, looking much older than any boy had a right to at his age.
“There may be some people out there with cameras and they may shout at you and your mom, okay? But I’m going to protect you from them if you can protect your mom, okay?”
“How do I do that?”
Gil smiled. “You hold on tight to her hand and don’t let go.”
“Who’s going to protect you?” Malcolm looked at him appraisingly before nodding, answering his own question. “Me. I’ll hold your hand, too. Just in case.”
As he escorted the Whitly family out the back entrance of the precinct, narrowly avoiding a run-in with a ravenous hoard of press, he thought that he’d never felt safer or stronger as he did with Malcolm Whitly’s hand in his own. Not an overtly religious man, he’d never thought much on miracles or fate or destiny or the grand plan.
But here, on an empty street in New York with a family who had lost everything, he couldn’t help but feel he was exactly where he needed to be.
He tightened his hold on the young boy’s hand and marched onwards, ever vigilant, ever watchful. He would protect them, whatever it took.
(And if he snuck back into the Whitly home and packed a bag for her and her children with a few essentials, grabbed The Count of Monte Cristo off Malcolm’s bedside table, and the stuffed rabbit he could only assume was the infamous Flopsie that Ainsley had been wailing for back at the hotel, that was between him and the crime scene techies who owed him.
And if he knocked on her hotel door one last time that night to drop off those things and Jessica Whitly looked at him for a moment like he was her knight in shining armor and pressed a kiss to his cheek that left his skin tingling, that was between him and the hotel security cameras.
And if he fought the urge to turn around every step of the way home and jog back to the Whitly family to offer his services as a nighttime vigil holder, that was between him and his heart.)
ii.
“Gil, take that ridiculous foam hat off. You live here for God’s sake. Those things are for tourists.”
“Yeah, but you’ve never been to the Statue of Liberty and you do live here, so that makes you a tourist.”
She wrinkles her nose and he can see her mounting her indignant response, can hear it in his head as clearly as if she’d spoken the words out loud, when he grins goofily at her, takes off the foam Statue of Liberty crown he bought at the gift shop and plops it on her head.
“Oh, Gil,” she splutters, taking the foam hat off and smoothing down her hair. His hand twitches with temptation and he it’s only the curling of his hand into a fist that stops him from reaching for her.
“Your loss,” he tells her, his hand low on the small of her back to guide her through the crowds of New York, eyeing an open spot on the stairs in the middle of Times Square. All around them thousands of tourists clamored to take pictures of the bright lights and the shining billboards, arms outstretched for selfies with the performers in the streets.
They take their seats on the edge of the steps and he likes the fact that he knows her well enough to know she considered wiping the seat down with the handkerchief in her purse before sitting down.
When they settle, though, their bodies are pressed together, shoulder to ankle. It should be stranger, he thinks, to touch her this easily, this frequently. But it’s like a compulsion he has, a feeling of being compelled to touch her until the itch beneath his skin screaming at him to do so settles.
(It’d be a lot easier to stop touching her like this if she didn’t keep looking at him like she needed it—him—just as badly.)
Jess nudges her foot against his and looks out over the crowd, observing the bustle of people with a tilt of her head. “I haven’t been here in years, not since Martin and I—“ She stops herself and it’s like second nature to him to reach for her, to squeeze her knee gently in support.
“I come here often,” he tells her, smiling at her raised eyebrow and look of surprise. “What? You can’t see me mingling with Elmo over there?”
She laughs and It shouldn’t matter in one of the loudest places on Earth, but he hears it above the din of the square.
He continues, hoping to offer an explanation of why exactly he brought her here. “Everything is loud here, bigger than life. Some cases, some victims, they stay with me longer than others. And I can’t sleep,” he admits. “Sometimes I just need to come here and let the city be louder than my thoughts.”
“I can’t sleep.” It’s a haggard admission that seems to be ripped from her throat. He tightens his grip on her knee and lets her speak, knows she needs to say this. “I keep thinking I should have known, that I could have done something. I’m sad and angry for the lives Martin destroyed and I worry for Malcolm and—“ She looks at him, desperate and ashamed and a riot of emotions, searching for the words to continue. But then he catches the way her eyes dart around nervously, the way her eyes linger on camera phones and the huddled group of tourists looking at them, and can feel her tense.
He reaches for her, unable to stop himself this time, and tucks her hair behind her ear, leaning forwarding to let his lips brush against the curve of her ear. “No one knows you here, Jess. It’s just you and me. Okay?”
His words settle over her like a warm, heavy blanket and she visibly relaxes and nods, slips her hand into his, squeezing gently.
“Okay.”
He slings an arm over her shoulders, pulls her closer against him and allows himself this one moment: a press of his lips against her temple, nuzzling his nose against the crown of her head.
They sit together, hand in hand, letting the sounds of the city overwhelm them.
iii.
He’s pretty sure the police handbook never covered this but he feels like he’s been doing everything off book since the moment he walked through the Whitly’s front door.
Besides, he’s starting to realize he’s unable to say no to anything Jessica Whitly asks of him.
“Please, Gil. It’s this Dads and Donuts event they’re having at the school and I don’t know who else to ask.”
Gil didn’t need to hear anything else. If Malcolm needed him—if Jess needed him—he’d be there. “Okay,” he agreed, easily.
But Jess didn’t hear him, still wrapped up in her pitch to him. “It’s just that Malcolm’s been having a tough time at this new school of his. Honestly, I don’t remember children being this vicious when we were kids, Gil. And I was going to go anyway but then I thought about the kids teasing him if his mother showed up and—“
“Jessica!” He interrupted, grabbing her shoulders and directing her attention onto him and away from her speech. She looked startled and he grinned. “I said okay. Just tell me when and where.”
She beamed at him. “How does right now sound?”
He shakes his head after her. The woman is a force.
“Lead the way.”
__________________
When he and Jess arrive at the school, he’s assaulted with memories of his own childhood, his own experiences growing up. He wants to desperately ask Jessica what she was like as a teen. But this school of Malcolm’s—and he imagines Jessica’s as well—is nothing like the schools he grew up in. The disparity between them stops the question before it slips from his mouth.
But the feelings of unease, that he doesn’t belong in this school that probably costs more a month than he makes in three months, is erased when he catches sight of Malcolm across the cafeteria. The feeling in his chest is something eerily close to paternal affection and he knows he’s crossing a line by being here, by being this involved with this family.
He just can’t bring himself to care when Malcolm dashes across the room, practically skipping, with an excited, exclaimed, “Gil!”
Gil leans down and ruffles his hair, letting out a dramatic oof as Malcolm thuds into him. "Hey, kid. Heard there were some donuts around this place.”
Malcolm looks down, pulling away from their hug, smile vanishing. "Yeah, for--for kids and their dads."
Gil glances at Jess who looks distressed, hands wringing in front of her. He sighs and gets down on the kid’s level. "Hey, I know I'm not your dad, but that thing people say about cops and donuts?" He pretends to look around as if ensuring there are no eavesdroppers, like he's about to spill a big secret. Malcolm leans in, too, curious. Gil grins. "It's true. We just can’t resist ‘em. And I would be honored if you'd let me sit with you this morning and have a donut with you and your mom. If you want."
He's unprepared for the way the young boy throws himself at Gil, arms wrapping tight around his neck. "Thanks, Gil.”
He returns the embrace just as tightly, silently vowing to protect this boy, this family.
Just as Malcolm protected him.
iv.
“Thanks for doing this, Jess. I just wanted to get another set of eyes before I signed the lease. And, well, I don’t know anyone else who has eyes for real estate like you do.”
She laughs, tossing her hair back behind her. “Oh, Gil, really. You know how to flatter a woman. Yes,” she nods, looking at the building behind them appraisingly. “You picked well. And a second bedroom! My goodness, I’m sure that presents opportunities for you.”
Gil looked at her strangely, head cocked to the side. “Opportunities?”
Jessica looked down, flustered, fiddling with the straps of her bag. “Yes, well, if you meet someone or, well, I suppose if you have someone already, you’d have plenty of room to-to—What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Gil stared at her, dark eyes unblinking and focused completely on her, tracing over every tic of her face, every twitch of her hands, every dart of her eyes. She felt as though she were being inspected, interrogated.
She lifted her chin, cocking her hip to the side. “What, Gil?”
He stepped closer to her, a habit he’d developed without checking—not that he’d tried too terribly hard. Being in her presence was intoxicating, exhilarating. “You’re jealous.”
The effect was immediate: her cheeks flushed pink and she dropped his gaze, spluttering and mouthing a response without words coming out. He grinned.
Gotcha.
“Jess,” he murmured, finger and thumb hooking beneath her chin to direct her eyes to his. She sucked in a breath, eyes meeting his before flicking down to his mouth. Heat flooded his chest at the action, thumb rubbing softly over her chin before cupping her cheek in his hand. For a moment, it looked like she was going to pull away—a brief moment of hesitation—but she didn’t. Instead, she turned her cheek into his palm, eyes fluttering close.
“We can’t do this,” she whispered, looking up at him, pleading. He didn’t know if he wanted her to agree and end this thing—this connection—between them now before they had a chance to get started or if she wanted him to light the fuse and set them on fire.
“We can, Jess.”
“But—“
His lips pressed against hers, fingers tightening in her hair and pulling her closer. There was no hesitation on her part, no denying the instant spark of heat between them. She opened her mouth under his, curled her fingers into his coat, and groaned at the taste of him.
Jess wasn’t sure she had ever been kissed so thoroughly and so gently before in her life. Gil took his time with her, alternating soft presses of his lips against hers with gentle, teasing nips and the occasional flick of his tongue against hers. She sighed against his mouth, rolled her body against his, lost in the feel of him and the feeling of finally.
A car horn blaring and a wolf whistle from the other side of the street brought her back to herself and she pulled away from him reluctantly and breathlessly. He leaned his forehead against hers, pressing a final, soft kiss to her lips.
“There’s no one else, Jess.”
She slipped her hand into his, feeling happier than she had any right to be, and leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked down the street. “There better not be,” she warned playfully, eyes flashing.
He laughed and lifted their joined hands to his mouth.
(A week later, he politely declined the realtor’s offer on the apartment. He had a different future in mind.)
v.
They’re laying in bed in the middle of the afternoon and neither one of them remembers the last time they had slow, lazy sex in the middle of the day, sunlight dancing over the bedsheets and the sweat on their skin.
This—and neither one of them has been brave enough to label whatever this is—is their norm: frantic stolen moments when the kids are at school, hurried encounters between shifts, and late night phone calls that leave them both breathless and aching.
Everything about Jessica Whitly intrigues him, a mess of contradictions: high class socialite with even higher-end booze in her liquor cabinet but just as likely to pluck a beer from his fridge and straddle him on the couch, desperate to kiss the taste of cheap beer from his mouth. He’s seen her cater events with caviar and calamari and then demand that they go get hot dogs on the corner at two in the morning when they’re both panting and satiated in sweat-soaked sheets.
He kisses her shoulder, teeth grazing over the smattering of freckles on delicate skin. “Same time tomorrow?”
Under his touch, she stiffens, rolls away and tugs the sheet up over her breasts. “Um, no, actually. I have this charity event for the Met tomorrow evening.”
“Need a date?” He slides his hands over her stomach, tries to pull her closer and against him. She resists, won’t sink against him like she normally does.
“No, no that’s alright. I’m used to doing these things solo.”
“You don’t have to do these things alone, Jess. What are you ashamed of me or something?”
His voice is light, but the question is real. It’s the one that’s been hanging between them for the last three months, the one he’s been too scared to ask between late night rendezvous.
Jess looks down, tracing the pattern on the sheets, sitting up and tucking her hair behind her hair. “Not ashamed,” she says slowly, carefully choosing her words. “I-I worry about the optics of it. Of us.”
“The optics,” he echoes dully, heart sinking.
She huffs. “Oh come on, Gil, you can’t think we can go on like this forever. My ex-husband tried to kill you for God’s sake. You’re the man who arrested him! How do you think that will play out on the front page of the tabloids, huh? And you’re a cop. You’re not exactly—“ She stops herself looking down, twisting the fine silk sheets in her hands.
“I’m not exactly in your social circles. I don’t belong here,” he says quietly, gesturing to the fine sheets and designer furniture and select art pieces.
He pushes the covers off and swings his legs out of bed, standing quickly to slip his pants and shirt back on, hair slicked back.
“Gil, wait, let’s talk about this. I just can’t risk—“
“I know, Jess. I think we both knew this had an expiration date on this. No matter how much we might wish otherwise.” He gives her a small, sad smile. “I’ll use the back entrance. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”
He leaves with a soft kiss pressed to her cheek, ignoring her soft pleas for him to stay.
“Goodbye, Jess.”
(Ten months later she receives an invitation to his wedding. The quickness doesn’t surprise her: Gil is a romantic, knows when it’s right and exactly what he feels. She wonders if he would have proposed to her if she had put faith in their relationship, in the strength of them. She locks away the invitation along with the rest of her aching, wanting heart and politely declines. She won’t watch him walk away again.)
And the one time they did.
Gil stands at the edge of her periphery, waiting. She’s shaking and trying to pour herself a tumbler of whiskey to calm her nerves but the crystal is clinking against the bar cart.
Malcolm is missing and in danger, Martin is pulling strings, and every painful memory of the past is being methodically plucked and pulled back to the surface, every wound torn open and bleeding once more.
“Jess,” he murmurs, taking another step forward the way he always does, the way he can’t help but do. He is caught in her orbit, drawn to her. He’d walked away all those years ago, had never expected to see her again. But the universe had other plans, drawing them right back together to heal the wounds of the past.
“I’m fine,” she insists. A deep breath steadies her hand and she finds the strength to pour a few fingers of amber liquid. She downs it like a shot that would make her socialite friends titter in shock.
His hand brushes over the small of her back, fingers dancing at the edge of her hip like he’s itching to turn her around. But he doesn’t grab her, just waits, lets the warm weight of his fingers linger against her: a comforting, ever-present strength.
“You don’t have to be so strong, you know,” he tells her softly.
Her bottom lip trembles, knuckles tighten until they’re white on her empty tumbler. “Yes I do.”
But her voice cracks on the last word and before he can blink she spins on her heels and presses herself against him, arms slipping beneath his wool jacket and clinging to him. Her nose presses against the soft sweater and inhaled deeply.
Safe.
With him—only with him—she feels safe. She allows herself to break against him, sobs for everything she never let herself grieve for.
“Gil,” she chokes out, clutching at him, suddenly desperate to be closer to him, to let him hold her up. She’s just so damn tired.
Gil doesn’t stumble under the weight of her, doesn’t coo and hush her. He holds her, soothes a hand over her hair over and over again, pulls her closer against him, and just says her name over and over again.
Jess.
She feels the press of his lips against her temple and she shudders, balls the fabric of his sweater into her hands and feels a rush of want.
She wants those lips pressed to her throat, to her breasts, to her thighs. She wants the warm, comforting weight of him pressed against her at night, guarding her against the terrors of her nightmares, her memories.
It’s easy—so easy—to ignore why she shouldn’t, why they didn’t work before, as she takes a deep shuddering breath and turns her face up towards his.
Gil looks down at her, brushes the back of his knuckles over her cheek. “Jess...”
She smiles at the caution in his voice and heard everything he isn’t saying: Are you sure? This is your call. I’m here for you.
Her answer is a simple one: Yes.
The first press of her lips against his is soft and tentative, like they can’t believe they’re finally allowing themselves to do this again after all these years. But then she sucks in a breath and he tightens his hand at her hip and pulls her closer and it’s a rush of tangled tongues and heady groans, desperate and filthy.
He touches her everywhere: gets his mouth on her neck and sucks the skin red, presses a reverent kiss to her pulse point, slips a hand beneath her designer shirt and strokes callused fingers over fine skin.
Jessica gives as good as she gets, pushes at his jacket and huffs in annoyance at his turtleneck.
“When did you start wearing these things?” She grouses, pulling at the fabric. “Very inconvenient.”
He kisses her cheek, her jaw, her forehead, her nose, and finally her mouth, softening their frantic rush. “I thought they made me look classier,” he admits with a blush. “I thought you would be proud to be seen with me in them.”
Her bottom lip trembles as she smooths a hand over his cheek and hair, shaking her head. “I was proud of being with you then, Gil. I was wrong back then. So wrong. I just—“ She takes a deep breath, lifts her mouth to his one more time in a soft kiss. “I just want you back in my life, however you want to be here.”
He pulls her against him, embracing her, tucking her head beneath his chin and kissing the top of her head.
“I’m right where I want to be.”