Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You never knew that working in a forensic lab could be so busy. Maybe it was because the personnel of this lab consisted of three people, you included, but you couldn't catch a break. Not to mention that the other scientists that worked with you weren't even molecular biologists, for the most part. Both of them focused more on magic or alchemy, and the only thing they did in the lab was interrupting your work with the occasional explosion.

Surprisingly, the city's main police department can't afford more employees. You thought, but you were grateful- after all, not many positions as well paid as this one would accept a person fresh out of college. You have worked in a lab before, of course, but you were used to the long waiting periods when you waited for this to boil and for that to dry up. Not like that was any different here, but there was so much more to do than in a university lab. Your eyes were strained after a long day of staring into a microscope, and the occasional stomach growl reminded you of the fact that you haven't eaten since 8 am.

It was around this time, about 4 pm when you were the busiest when the door of the lab burst open. A man, who must have been well in his 40's, wearing a long beige trenchcoat stormed in, marching right up to you. He walked in with such a sense of self-importance, that you couldn't even bring yourself to tell him to uphold the lab protocol and wear a lab coat.

When he got close enough, you felt yourself getting hit by a strong smell of coffee and the cold, crisp air of the city night.

"I will need you to analyze these two samples, as quick as possible-" He handed you two zip lock bags.

The sudden movement sent another wave of the cold outside air your way. Only then, when he had time to properly look at you, did he freeze.

"-You're not doctor Wasabi, are you?" He stated, rather than asked- after all, that much was obvious.

You shook your head.

"Well. That's awkward. I apologize, mx..?" "Doctor Y/n Caramel."

He looked you up and down, and it has felt as if his cold blue eyes burned through your skin. It made you very uneasy, and you couldn't bring yourself to look up at the man.

"I'm detective Almond." he introduced himself.

His voice has gone softer, and less demanding, now that he realized he isn't talking to dr. Wasabi. It was much easier to tell now, that his restless demeanor was hiding a very tired man underneath.

Perhaps if you dared to look at his face for longer than two seconds, you would notice his dark eye circles, and his hair, way messier than it probably was in the morning.

"Now, I need these hair samples analyzed. I need to know how many people are these from, ideally, if any of them match with THIS SAMPLE-"

he pulled out another ziplock bag from his pocket.

"and I'll need this sample check for any connection with this DNA profile" he handed you a small piece of paper with some data scribbled on it.

"I will need it as quick as possible."

You took the samples from his hands, pondering for a while before laying them down on a table next to you.

"You seem to be in a rush." "I am."

His answer was firm and impatient. "Can you have the results ready by tomorrow?"

You froze for a second, before looking up at him, to check if he was joking or not. He didn't seem to be.

"Tomorrow?"

Almond nodded.

"I... these are collected from a crime scene, correct?"

He nodded again.

"Look... sir." You ran your hand through your hair. "From what I understand, you want me to do DNA fingerprinting, right?"

"Yes. Could you get to the point, doctor?" Almond growled impatiently.

"Right! Right. So. DNA analysis takes weeks, if not months. I can...I mean I could do rapid DNA analysis only if the evidence you bring is directly sampled from a suspect here, you know, at the PD, but that isn't the case here. I don't even know if the samples are. ya know. usable. "

You blurted out, using your hands for all sorts of unnecessary gestures.

Your eyes were glued to the floor, which gave you a chance to examine Almonds shoes. They were brown wingtip oxfords- quite worn, but in pristine shape. He must have been taking good care of them. He didn't say anything for a while, and that was what made you look up.

He was no longer glaring at you, instead, he appeared to be in deep thought, his hand resting on his chin, and with his brows furrowed, he stared at the samples. It seemed that he was burdened by this fact. You quietly watched him, using this as an opportunity to take a proper look at him.

He did look worn out, and like he had many sleepless nights behind him, explaining the strong smell of coffee. In the morning, Almonds hair must have been fixed in a sleek and elegant hairstyle, because you could tell that there was some residue of product in his hair, but now it was falling onto his face. In some places, it was particularly messy. Probably from resting his head on his hand, you reckoned. His whole head was entangled with strands of silver. It looked quite nice, and you caught yourself admiring his appearance.

Almond didn't seem to notice your blatant staring, but you got embarrassed anyway. What am I thinking...? As if you were afraid that he could hear your thoughts in the silence, you spoke up:

"Well! I. I mean. If you're ok with not having the DNA analysis done this instant, I could still do the rest of it for you!"

Almond turned his attention to you and looked from the samples back at you. That is a very elegant tie.... you thought, avoiding his gaze once again.

"Is that so..? "

"Yeah! I um. It won't be 100% accurate, though, and could be hardly used as evidence in court, because, ya know, not 100% reliable, but... " you ran your hand through your hair again. "but I can just... it's called comparison microscopy. If it goes well, I could be able to tell from how many people do they come from, their approximate age, sex and race and... stuff."

Your willingness surprised even you. This would require you to sacrifice a lot of your precious time to just stare into a microscope for several hours straight.

"It'll be very approximate though."

"Hmm." Almond pondered. "I didn't know you could do that..? " He lifted an eyebrow.

"Ah. That's probably because you didn't have a qualified person to do that here before, haha. But now you're looking at one!" You awkwardly pointed at yourself and grinned at him. Almond chuckled. You were embarrassed at what fool you were making of yourself, but you did like the sound of his chuckle.

You repeated your gesture of running your hand through your hair.

"All right. All leave it to you, kid."

He nodded and walked out, with the same resolve he strutted in here, his trench coat waving dramatically behind him as he left. It took you a few seconds before the smell of coffee disappeared and you realized you were staring at the door.

"Awh danGIT, you STUPID, IDIOT-" You facepalmed and kicked one of the drawers nearest to you. "Are you seriously going to do an EXTRA amount of work that you haven't done in YEARS just because a man LOOKS NICE?" You yelled at yourself. "Not to mention he called you kid as if you weren't an adult with a DOCTORATE... " you grumbled, but you started sorting through the hair samples. You had a lot of work to do.

You inhaled deeply before knocking.

To your surprise, when you went to hand in the analysis at the front desk, they told you that the detective is still in his office.

So now you were here. Still wearing your lab coat and your glasses pushing up the mess that was your hair. He better be grateful for this, I stayed up wayyy to late. Clearing your throat, you knocked again.

Almonds raspy, tired voice invited you in. Upon peering in, you were invited by a warm light of his desk lamp that the whole office was submerged in. The ever present smell of coffee that followed Almond wherever he went, was quickly explained upon glancing around the office. There were disposable coffee cups lying everywhere, including his desk. He seemed to be almost buried behind a pile of said cups and many case files, from behind which he glanced up at you.

His head was resting on his left hand, while his other hand was frozen mid-movement, having just picked up one of the files.

"Oh. It's you."

He muttered and finished the movement, throwing the file on top of one of the random piles.

"I uh. I got your results. "

You approached his desk and layed your files next to his hand. He nodded absent mindedly, as he seemed to be deeply immersed in his work.

You could have just left then, but upon seeing the concerning amount of coffee cups laying round Almonds office, you couldn't restrain yourself.

"You shouldn't say up so late... sir. "

His deep concentration was cut off by this sentence, and he looked up at you. It was a curious glance, and after a few long seconds, Almonds calm expression changed to an amused one.

"Hm. Is that so..? "

The detective leaned back in his chair.

"Last time I checked, it is well after your work hours, doctor. Should you really be the one to remind me...? "

You felt your face getting hot. You tried to at least fix your awkwardly messy hair to straighten yourself up, but it had the opposite effect.

Almond let out a soft chuckle, only attributing to your face getting even redder than it must have been before.

"I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine. "

He stated kindly, but firmly. The soft expression ,that your awkwardness has brought out, faded slowly from his face, getting replaced by his usual, exhausted one.

"You should get some sleep though, okay, doctor? "

You nodded and managed to smile a little. "Will do. Good night, detective."

"Good night." 

hoooo okay!! first chapter is out!! lmk if i should continue using the you or if i should switch to y/n :)

Chapter Text

A few weeks had passed since you first met Detective Almond. You were slowly settling into a routine—or at least as much of a routine as Dr. Wasabi’s antics would allow.
However, that routine was about to be rudely interrupted.

It was still dark outside when your phone rang. The soft, orange glow of the streetlamps seeping through the blinds felt feeble compared to the oppressive blue glare of your phone screen. Fighting the urge to hang up, you picked up, clearing your throat.
“Mm, hello?”
“We need you.”

Less than an hour later, you were loading a precinct van with PPE and field kits.
“I just don’t understand—Forensic scientists haven’t done on-site work in over a decade.”
Dr. Wasabi scoffed. It irritated you.
After all, they had woken you up just a few hours after you’d finally managed to doze off, and you hadn’t even washed your face—let alone your hair, which was now falling into your eyes in sad, greasy strands.
Dr. Wasabi, who didn’t seem to care about personal hygiene nearly as much—if at all—remained unbothered.
“I told you this over the phone already. The crime scene is simply too large for the regular team to handle in time, before it becomes a serious biohazard.”
You sighed, resigned. It was too early to argue.

As you’re driving up to the address the PD gave you, you begin to feel uneasy. From the information you gathered, the building stands in a quiet neighborhood, seemingly abandoned. Its windows, void of glass, gape like empty sockets, and the grime streaked across the façade gives it a sickly, decayed look. The air feels heavy, thick with the scent of rot—too strong even for the cold morning. It is already surrounded by police vans, paramedics, and journalists, despite it only being 5 a.m.

CW:
As you get closer, it becomes clear that the abandoned look isn’t natural. You wish the grime streaks below the windows were caused by time and weather. The glass from the windows lies in an even layer on the ground all around the building. The tiny shards are coated in grime, which turns out to be ruby-red blood and flesh. They glisten in the sharp morning sun. They resemble pomegranate seeds.

You park alongside the vans. A man from the forensic team rushes over, face pale, clipboard in hand. He barely looks at you before pressing it into your chest—labels, sample sites, instructions. Bare bones. He mutters a few clipped words and vanishes before you can respond.

You suit up. The chemical plastic smell of your gloves and suit is familiar—an odd reminder of undergrad days spent in sterile labs, far away from the heat of the real world. You need to focus. You know it’s going to be ugly. You know you aren’t ready for this. You double-check the taping at your wrists. You try to ignore how awfully loud the suit is with every move you make.

You step in.

Your memories from that point on are a blur, supplemented only by the echo of your heartbeat—too loud inside your plastic suit. The building is a disaster zone. Chaos stitched together with blood and the sickly stench of rot. The stains, the glass, the torn bits of flesh—they all blend into one overwhelming sight. Your body starts overheating the second you step in. It’s not just the airtight suit or your nervous sweat—the entire building is humid, suffocating. Your glasses fog up. You blink and blink and can’t seem to see clearly. You never knew air could be sticky.

The walls are painted in red—not just splashes, but soaked through. The blood has dried in some places, fresh in others. Bits of tissue cling to the walls like chewed paper. The floor squelches underfoot. You're not sure what you're stepping on.

You reach the first evidence marker—a bright green flag stuck into what might be a rib or a piece of cartilage. You’re not sure. You don’t want to be sure. You reach out, your gloved hand shaking, and bag it.

A camera flashes. A crime scene technician takes a photo. The light blinds you. For a second, you see white.

Then more samples. More pieces. Unnamed, unshaped, too mangled to identify. You keep moving like you’ve shut something off inside you. You have to. You pull a molar out of a cracked plaster wall. The root is still red. You don’t think about it. You don’t think at all.

Around you, the scene moves like a hive—investigators, medics, crime techs all moving in practiced rhythm, faces drawn and empty. You think about how warm beehives are.

When your evidence pouch is full, you bring the samples to the collection box near the exit. You make that trip several times Each time feels like surfacing for air. Blood on the walls is nauseating. Blood in a vial, lined up in neat rows, is cold. Impersonal. A saving grace in the middle of chaos.

Firefighters walk past. One says something about checking for gas leaks. You don’t process it. You kneel to collect a clump of hair tangled in a heating vent. You bag it. Your hands are shaking again.

You check off another item on your list. Your handwriting is barely legible.

It feels like the stickiness has seeped through your suit and into your skin, down into your bones. Like it’s coating you in a thin, invisible layer of death.

You check another item off your list.

Someone is crying.
You shake off the thought that anyone could possibly survive this carnage.

When you finally collect everything you were assigned, you stumble toward the exit like something dead on its feet. Your legs move because they have to.

The instant you cross the threshold, the cold morning air slices through you like a blade. You gasp. Steam rises off your body in clouds. The stench clings to you.

A camera shutter clicks.

You don’t stop. You don’t speak. You keep your head down and make for your car, each step a desperate attempt to outrun the memory.
END CW

Immediately after reaching your car, you began peeling off your protective layers: overshoes, suit, mask—stuffing them into your bag—then gloves. You could feel the contamination and you did not want it to be anywhere near you anymore.

Weary, you plopped yourself on the curb and leaned on your car. As your eyes unfocused on the concrete in front of you, you tried to pull yourself together, steadying your breathing. You felt lightheaded, and the murmurs of passersby dissolved into a distant hum.

The sickly sweet smell still permeated the cold air, though diminished now that there was some distance between you and the scene.

Gradually, the smell was replaced by something else: you didn’t even notice at first, but the air around you began to smell like coffee.

It takes a moment for you to realize you aren’t staring at the gray concrete anymore.

Brown, wing-tipped oxfords. You look up slowly to meet the icy blue gaze of their owner.

Sure enough, it was the detective, looking down at you with an unreadable expression. He was holding two steaming cups of cheap vending machine coffee, one in each hand.

“Are you quite alright, doctor…?” The detective’s voice was steady and calm—the opposite of how you felt.

You inhale sharply.
“I… will be.”
God, your voice sounds pathetic. You look away.

“It is quite a lot, isn’t it?” His voice stood out clearly amid the distant hum of the crowd—quiet, but grounding.
You must have looked truly miserable.

“Hm…” You go back to studying his shoes—the same pair he wore the last time you saw him.

He wasn’t wearing his trench coat today, giving you a clearer view of the layers beneath. No harness holster, either. Instead, his white collared shirt clung to his frame in a way that made you look longer than you meant to. It was crisp in cut, but wrinkled from wear, with a faint coffee stain just below the breast pocket—as though he'd noticed it, then decided he was too tired to care.
His pinstriped trousers looked impeccable from a distance, but this close, you could see faint creases where they'd been hastily thrown on.
There was something strangely calming in noticing this. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept either. Like someone still pretending everything was fine.
It made something in your chest ache.

“Would you like a coffee, Mx? I find that it helps.”
Without waiting for an answer, the detective sits next to you, offering one of the cups.
You get the feeling that his original plan was to keep both cups for himself, and he’s offering you one out of pity. You decide not to be coy and accept it.
The warm cup feels comforting in your hands—and you’d be lying if you said Almond’s presence wasn’t comforting as well.
For a while, the two of you sit in silence, sipping your coffee. You try to steal glances at him occasionally, but each time you meet his gaze, you feel the same uneasiness you always do.
It is you who breaks the silence.

“I’m not… This isn’t my job,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. Shit. “I’m just here to help out. Boost numbers. You know?”

No response. You don’t look at him. Instead, you hypnotize the cup in your hands. The coffee is starting to go cold.

“I am good at my job,” your voice catches in your throat. It sounds as though you are pleading. “This isn’t my job. Alright? I am—”

“Hey.”

He cuts you off, his tone unchanged.

“Nobody is accusing you of doing a bad job, doctor.” His voice softens a little as he says that last word. Or maybe you’re grasping at straws. He says it so casually, as if it doesn’t matter, but it feels like the first real acknowledgment you’ve received today.
“I saw you in there. You’re just as professional as the rest of us.”

Tears of embarrassment begin to well in your eyes. Despite his neutral demeanor, he is obviously trying to make you feel better. Pathetic.

“Everybody needs to collect themselves after a scene like that.”

“You didn’t,” you point out.

“Unlike you, I’m not clocking out yet.” You still don’t look at him, but you can hear him smiling.

“Cheer up, doc.”

When he left, you were surprised by how much you felt his absence. The warmth of his body—something you hadn’t even noticed—was replaced by the cold air.

Lord, you really need a shower.

Chapter Text

You stare blankly at your reflection in the mirror. You look at your hair, falling from your shoulders. It is the longest it has been in a long while, and you were proud of that fact.

It was also slick. Rotting. Infused with that putrid, sickly sweet air. No matter how thoroughly you washed it, no matter how many times you scrubbed it, you couldn’t be rid of it. It was always there, seeping into your brain, staining your hands, your clothes, your flesh. Nobody else could tell but you—but it was driving you crazy.

You pick up the scissors.

To your surprise, both of your coworkers are in the lab the next day—word of the huge incoming workload must have gotten to them. They both greet you heartily, as if you were some kind of celebrity. Which, it turns out, wasn’t that far from the truth.

Dr. Wasabi slaps a newspaper in front of you, and there it is: front page photo of a crime scene technician emerging from the hollow shell of a building, steam rising from their body. The sun catches them just right, making their white, steaming protective suit look like armor. It’s you—your eyes made to look much more merciless than you felt, thanks to the fogged-up glasses obscuring them.
You skim the headline and don’t bother reading anything else.

“Wow, uh… that’s certainly something,” you manage to get out. You’re not sure how to feel—you’re still trying to pull yourself together after witnessing the scene, and you don’t much appreciate reminders. “They managed to make me look quite imposing, huh.” You chuckle.

“You look crazy cool,” Wasabi grins. “But that’s not all.”

The exchange of looks between your colleagues that follows that statement unnerves you. The conspiratorial nature of it makes you feel like whatever else they want to show you is going to make you look less cool.

Dr. Morgan pushes her phone in your face, and it takes a moment before you can fully register what you’re looking at.

It’s a snapshot of two people sitting on a curb, their backs to the camera. One of them is hunched forward, while the other seems more relaxed, leaning back and looking at the hunched figure intently. You recognize Almond immediately, his sharp gaze fixed directly on you—because the hunched figure is you, greasy hair and all—his expression focused and intense, like he’s assessing the damage your fragile emotional state took.

A gurgle of a laugh escapes your throat. “Consulting...? More like consoling.”

Your attempt to make light of the situation is met with amused grins.

“Or more like courting.”

Dr. Morgan chimes in, which sends both of them into hysterics. You briefly wonder if they’ve inhaled too many toxic fumes.

“Har har.” You roll your eyes, hoping your face isn’t getting red. “You guys are schoolchildren. I had a breakdown. The detective pitied me.” Aaaand your face gets red. You feel a deep sense of embarrassment—not so much for the courting comment, but for admitting to being weak.

Your words don’t have the desired effect of calming your rowdy colleagues down, so you just let them get it out of their system while you delegate sample sections for them to analyze. Surprisingly, they listen, and get to work.

Working with a team wasn’t as bad as you initially feared. While their rowdy attitudes and constant teasing weren’t always productive, you found yourself appreciating it—finding comfort in it. It took your mind off the incident, and the vials of blood ceased to be anything other than clinical samples to be analyzed.

Another perk of their presence reveals itself when you’re jolted awake from your deep focus by Dr. Morgan’s loud snap next to your ear.

“Hey, Mx. Absent-Minded! We’re going to Sammy’s. Care to breathe real, clean, cigarette-fume-filled air for a change?”

Sammy’s was a run-down, dingy, greasy diner next to the station. It was only still in business thanks to hungry cops, who frequented it for its convenient location. Thanks to their patronage, employees of the PD paid half price for everything. The original prices on the faded menus had been permanently crossed out with Sharpie, replaced by the discount—there was no one left to pay full price.

You usually avoided it. The clientele were mostly uniformed officers—a nasty, arrogant, macho bunch that made you queasy. They took up twice as much space as a normal person should, like they owned the place. Their rowdy conversations and condescending attitudes toward a jittery, messy scientist felt oppressive.

Because of this, you often went without a warm lunch. You weren’t much for meal prepping either, so your midday meal usually consisted of a hot chocolate and a sandwich from the vending machine in the station lobby.

Wasabi and Dr. Morgan offering to come with you made the whole experience seem more bearable.

“A warm meal would be nice,” you admit.

So, the three of you head out—delayed only by your unsuccessful attempt to convince Dr. Morgan to take off her lab coat outside the lab.

Soon, you’re greeted by the warm light spilling from the diner. It’s just a once-yellow cube of metal and big glass walls, squished between the police department and another admin building. Built into a narrow alley, it’s short and squalid. The yellow paint peels from the frame, and streaks of grime stain everything beneath the rundown Sammy’s sign. The glass walls are foggy with condensation, but you can make out blurry blue figures crammed inside.

Before you can hesitate, your companions open the door and drag you in along with them. Warm, humid air hits you in the face—filled with the delicious smells of coffee and syrup, and the less-pleasant, heavy scent that always permeates the air anywhere with a high concentration of people, all breathing in an enclosed space.

The three of you stand out in the crowd of uniformed officers, despite the PD employee IDs hanging from your necks and you know it. The conversation inside the diner remains lively, but you can feel and see the stares some of the officers give your little group. You try to ignore the nagging feeling of being ridiculed when someone laughs at an something thats surely unrelated to you. Before you can cocoon yourself in a heavy coat of anxiety, you get pulled into a booth by Dr. Morgan. Neither Wasabi or Morgan seem to be bothered by the atmosphere of the room: in fact, your coworkers stare back at the officers with equal superiority.

As soon as you sit, a short, stout lady in a Sammy’s apron appears at your table, pad and pen in hand. You made a mental note of the fact that she looked like a server, like she was never meant to be anything else. You felt an immediate feeling of fondness, despite not knowing her. Her name tag reads Tessa.

“Hiya, guys. What can I get started for ya?” she asks with a smile, clicking her pen.

You watch Dr. Morgan order a club sandwich and a Coke, while Dr. Wasabi scans the faded menu, muttering under her breath, clearly indecisive. You order waffles and a milkshake, and as the small spark of anxiety flares over your “childish” choice, Wasabi lights up and orders the same.

Alright, my brain needs to stop being stuck in high school.

You’re soon drawn into a lively discussion: If the department had a bigger budget, who would you want to add to the forensics team?

Your first choice is a bioinformatician—they’d significantly speed up data processing. Wasabi retorts that you already fill that role, an accusation you fiercely deny.

“Just because I can use a computer unlike the two of you geriatrics doesn’t mean I’m an expert.”

Morgan grabs her chest in mock offense.

She believes that the best person to have on the team would be someone well versed in toxicology.

You counter that all three of you are skilled chemists—you don’t need another one.

Dr. Wasabi refuses to give a serious answer. She insists on hiring some green undergrad to use as a lab slave.

Before you get a chance to probe her for a serious answer, her attention is elsewhere. She nudges Morgan with her elbow, both their gazes fixed on the door behind your back.
„Whoa. The case must really be serious.“

“What…?” you ask, confused.

“Detective Almond is having lunch,” Morgan explains. “He doesn’t take breaks. Ever. Unless he’s really focused on a case. Then he does—so he can save energy to devote himself to it.”

As she says that, you immediately crane your neck toward the entrance. Sure enough—there he is. Storming in, marching up to the counter with the same determination he had when you first met. Hes much worse for wear than when you saw him yesterday, though. His eyes are glazed over, seemingly tuning out everything around him. His hair is neatly styled, his shirt clean—but those details only highlight the deeper undereye circles and the tension in his jaw. Before either of your companions can make a joke about your shameless staring, you get up.

“I’ll be right back. Give me… give me a second.”

You jog to catch up to him, as he leans down on the counter.

„Triple shot of espresso, if you’d be so kind.“ He aks the waitress quietly. His voice as a barely detectable rasp to it.

Before she can leave, you stop her.

“Add a latte to that order, please,” you say. You glance up at Almond. “It’s on me.”

He turns his gaze towards you, still leaning on the counter: hes almost looking over his shoulder to look at you. His eyebrows are slightly raised with an unspoken question.

Come on, Y/N. You don’t need to be blushing like a schoolgirl over a forty-year-old man looking at you.

Now that you’re close, you catch a faint whiff of beeswax. Hair product, you think.

“As a thank you,” you explain. “I’m paying you back for yesterday.” Your voice catches on the second sentence, making it sound breathy. Jesus. Calm down.

Almond chuckles, and it nearly floors you. It’s more like a low, melodic hum than a laugh.

“That’s very kind of you, Doctor.”

You muster up the courage to look up into his eyes. His expression, although still exhausted, softened. His gaze still has that intense quality, and your eyes drop back to the floor after a few seconds.

“But I can’t help but feel like I’m taking candy from a corpse.” There’s a smile in his voice. “The coffee you just got me costs twice as much as the one you got yesterday.”

“Well, I… I didn’t say I’m repaying you just for the coffee, sir.”

You shuffle your feet. Why is this so hard?

When you glance up, you see his head tilt curiously to the side.

“It was—the extra money I spent is for your… support. You helped. So… thank you.”

Your face is burning, and you can’t blame the warm diner air this time.

He smiles—a barely noticeable lift of the corners of his mouth. It’s weary, but genuine.

“Support, huh? I suppose that makes sense.”

He studies you with his intense, icy gaze.

Beat.

“New haircut,” he states. You nod.

It’s atrocious. You don’t own an electric razor, so the uneven pixie cut—generously called that—is especially bad in the back. You inadvertently run your hand through it.

“Looks right on you.”

Your face flushes. You try not to smile like an idiot. Fail. “Thank you, Detective.”

Before it gets more awkward, you excuse yourself. “My colleagues are waiting. I should… get back.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you, Doc. Take care.”
You try to not pay much attention to the new, raspy quality of his voice.

You pay for the coffees—and forget yours on the counter.

You return to your booth. You eat. You brush off your colleagues’ teasing.

You try to cope with the fact that you’re crushing on a man you’ve seen a grand total of four times.