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“You have absolutely gotta be kidding me,” Tim mutters, squinting through the windshield to try and see even a few feet out.
“Tim,” Lucy sighs. “Just find somewhere to pull over. It's not slowing down.”
He lets out a matching sigh, but it sounds more like a frustrated groan, even though he knows she's right.
The snow had come on quickly, halfway through their long drive back to Mid-Wilshire.
It never snows here, but of course, the one time an undercover case takes them down windy mountain roads and backroads Tim has rarely seen in all his years in California, the sky opens up like some kind of huge screw you.
It definitely doesn't help the screw-you factor that this is the longest he and Lucy have been alone together since Vegas, since… Chris, since she got back from UC school.
They've navigated it well today, but there's a tension there, lingering in between them, and honestly, he'd kind of been counting down the minutes, measuring the miles, until he could get a little space from her.
But the snow has other plans, of course.
***
“I honestly don't think I've ever been this cold.”
A turn-in into an empty parking lot of a diner seemingly long since abandoned just to wait out the snow had turned into half an hour. And then an hour. And now almost three, and the truck’s engine has been off for most of that time, just to make sure they have enough gas to get back, whenever that feels safe enough.
Hers are the first words they've spoken in almost ten minutes. It's not uncomfortable silence, but it's definitely the quietest they've ever been in a vehicle, even in those early days when they were still sizing each other up.
“I can turn the truck back on for a while if you—”
But she's already shaking her head. “I'd rather be cold than waste what little gas you've got left.”
“If that op hadn't been so far away,” he mutters, and they've definitely been working together too long because he can basically hear her eye roll.
“It's not like anyone could have predicted it would snow like this. And we just made big headway on the case.”
It's quiet again, because she's not wrong, and they both know it.
He reaches back behind the passenger seat and roots around for a minute before pulling out an old Dodgers shirt and holding it out toward her.
“I really, really don't wanna talk about baseball, Tim,” she sighs, but it's the closest to a teasing tone he's heard from her all day, maybe all week, so he just rolls his eyes.
“To help keep you warm.” It won't do much, and honestly, it probably smells like the gym, but her UC outfit wasn't meant for warmth, and it definitely wasn't built for snow.
“Thanks,” she whispers, and their fingers brush as she takes it. It's the most they've touched all day, somehow, and he tries not to focus on it too much.
Instead — worse, the worse choice — he watches her drape the shirt over her legs, the fabric dragging across her thighs.
He clears his throat, the sound loud in the cab of the truck, and it pulls her focus to him.
“You okay?”
It's quiet, and he's not sure how to answer. Because he's not, in a ton of ways, but now is absolutely not the time.
So he nods and then gestures out the window behind her. Somehow, the snow is building up, frosting the windows and almost locking them into some ironically bad version of a winter wonderland inside the truck. “It's really coming down out there.”
“It's like we're snowed in.” Her voice is nearly a whisper, and if he hadn't spent years memorizing the tone, the timbre, of her voice, he'd almost miss the spark of wonder that she lets seep into the sentence.
He raises an eyebrow when she turns back toward him. Normally, he'd tease her for the awestruck tone, but something about the faint blush that traces her cheeks feels like it's teasing him instead.
“It's silly,” she laughs, “And given real-world evidence now, I'm definitely reevaluating, but I just always thought it might be a little romantic to be snowed in somewhere, with someone.”
He wants to laugh, but the noise gets caught in his throat, and somehow, it turns into a smirk. Like clockwork, he watches her roll her eyes when she catches it.
“Trying not to take offense that you're definitely reevaluating that theory now,” he says, shifting a little in his seat to stretch his back. If it lands him a fraction closer to her, well.
“Stop,” she groans, another eye roll implied. “I just never realized it would be this cold, is all.”
He nods. There's a fine dusting of goosebumps on her skin, and he knows, he knows he shouldn't let himself focus on them.
“The company could be worse,” she adds, and it sends a zing of heat, shocking against the cold, right through him.
“Yeah, guess so,” he whispers, hoping it'll help heat her skin all the same.
***
“Tell me warm things.”
It's been another hour, and while the snow isn't falling any heavier, Tim's pretty sure the white flush on the windows surrounding them weighs a ton. And now it's edging out the darkness that's falling on the day, and he can hear how tired Lucy is.
The air is heavy and his voice feels thick, sounds just as sleepy, as he clears his throat.
“Uh…” He pauses, lets his brain come back online from the easy silence they'd fallen into. “The wool pants in summer. The pavement after a long foot chase in July. The rookie long sleeves.”
He starts to add more, but her immediate laugh stops him, spreads something slow and warm through him.
“Wait, wait,” she laughs, almost a quick gasp. “So you admit the long sleeves were ridiculous and cruel.”
Her tone is mock-accusatory, but her disbelieving laugh is so familiar, so naturally warm he wants to bask in it. Reluctantly, he nods.
“But you still wouldn't let me turn on the air in the shop before lunch.”
He knows when he's been beat.
He shrugs. “I mean, in a roundabout way, I was just preparing you for this situation.”
She purses her lips, nodding slowly. It's easily five degrees warmer now than it was a couple of minutes ago.
“A Tim test years in the making, then.”
He nods confidently, cockily, like that was his plan all along. “What can I say,” he starts, shifting to face her more fully. “I was just that good of a training officer.”
“Right,” she laughs, drawing out the sound, that teasing tone back and warmer than ever.
“Warmer?”
Lucy nods slowly, her eyes still bright from laughter.
She's not any warmer, he knows. But this is that new thing they're doing now, letting silences linger, leaving things unsaid.
***
He hops out of the truck another hour later, when the snow has finally started slowing down some, to gauge the windy roads beyond them and check visibility.
It's a mistake, immediately, and futile at best, but he tries to keep as much cold air out as he can when he settles back beside her.
He just shakes his head as she watches him, too cold for a moment to process that they're going to be stuck here awhile longer.
His eyes are closed, and maybe that's why his other senses are so heightened, but Tim knows he’d feel the way Lucy slides closer no matter what. The old worn material of his Dodgers shirt is warm when she drapes it over his arms, leaning in close enough he can smell the perfume her current UC persona favors.
She tucks the material around him before settling back into her own space. She's still close, but she's been closer.
“You're freezing,” she whispers, a hint of worry, a dash of annoyance when he just scoffs.
“You're freezing,” he mutters, not his best comeback.
(He can absolutely hear her eye roll.)
“A shower so hot you get chills for a second when you get in.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn't make a sound as she continues.
“A bonfire when you've spent all day hiking out to the perfect camping spot.”
He opens his eyes, watching her quietly. She's tracing a nail along the glass of his back window, leaving a thin trail of condensation in her wake.
“You don’t like camping,” he whispers.
She smiles, shrugging.
“The rush of adrenaline when a shots fired call comes in, the sun on the steering wheel, and the press of the gas under your foot.”
He makes a shallow noise of agreement.
“Thought you'd like that one,” she says, and it's dark now, no streetlights nearby, but he can still see her smile.
***
“The beach on the longest day of the year, when the sun is so hot you might actually melt,” he whispers a little while later, warmer now, but the tension of the day catching up with him, pulling him closer to exhaustion.
“A long, slow pull of whatever that expensive whiskey you like is, how it burns as it goes down,” she counters.
“You're not a whiskey drinker,” he says, but it's just to fill the quiet, to keep himself awake.
“And you don't like the beach.”
He watches her for a long moment, the way she shifts and stretches her body, searching for comfort or warmth or sleep, he isn't sure.
“I wouldn't mind drinking whiskey on the beach,” he whispers.
Her nose scrunches in a familiar way. “No way,” she laughs. “You need something tropical for the beach. Something you can put an umbrella straw in.”
Somehow, he can see it — the sun, the sand, some fruity drink in the husk of a coconut shell. The image is warm, but just blurred enough at the edges he knows it's out of reach.
“Okay,” he says. “What happens once you have your tropical umbrella’d drink?”
“You just… sit,” she says, her eyes tracking over his face.
“You just sit?” He asks, and immediately he knows she'll tease him for not getting the beach, for thinking it's kinda gross, and for still hating the feel of the sand beneath his feet.
“You relax,” she clarifies, laughter in her voice. “You let the sun soak in and the sand gets everywhere and you just enjoy it.”
“Sounds kinda boring.” He's just goading her, a tease and they both know it.
“Sounds kinda warm,” she says, and yeah, that's better.
She punctuates her sentence with a yawn, and he's reaching for his keys before he can stop himself.
“Tim,” she whispers, more alert but still groggy, “it's pitch black out there, we're still —”
He shakes his head, cutting her off. They're still stuck here for now. “I know. I'm just gonna let the heat take the chill off for a couple minutes before it gets too much colder. A few minutes won't empty the tank.”
Even without the snow, the temps drop quickly up here in the dark, so they listen to the quiet hum of the engine and he watches the moonlight play through the window, against her hair, as she warms her hands in front of the vents.
“Warm?” He asks quietly, a few minutes later. He'd warmed the old Dodgers shirt in front of his vents before handing it over to her. But this time instead of draping it over her legs, she'd shrugged it on, and heat had flared inside him as she'd straightened it out and pulled her hair free of the collar.
“Mhmm,” she murmurs, quiet and still. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and even though it's nearing midnight and past freezing, he lets his mind wander to flushed cheeks and sun-kissed skin on the beach, Lucy too relaxed to do anything but smile over at him.
“You wanna sleep?” It's the safest question he can think of, honestly.
“You won't make fun of me for passing out? Take a picture and plaster it on some shirts?”
He rolls his eyes. “I'm a little nicer than that now.”
Lucy smirks, another yawn edging out. “Yeah, okay.”
“Seriously, get a couple hours. We're not leaving here until daylight anyway.”
She nods, pushing her seat back and reclining. The backseat is full of files and the recording equipment they'd used for her UC op, but even if it was clear he's not sure he'd survive telling her to get in his backseat.
“Still thinking warm thoughts?” She asks, even though the heat is warming the cab and every time she speaks, he feels warmer too.
“Oh, I'm currently on the beach,” he jokes.
“Yeah, me too,” she whispers. It's groggy, but teasing all the same.
When her eyes close, he doesn't look away, but he lets himself relax, lets the heat warm him through.
The truck idles another few minutes, but he turns off the engine before he lets himself close his eyes too. If he also lets himself slide a tiny bit closer to her in the dark, well… she's always been bright, warm like the sunniest days, and he's always been drawn to her.
***
(Tim dreams he’s on the beach, two sweet, tropical drinks in his hand, and sand beneath his feet. He walks for what feels like miles, the sun warming his skin, until he hears familiar laughter and a flirty, teasing voice.
He knows he should see blonde hair when he finally finds the source of the laughter, but he isn't surprised when he finds Lucy.
He feels warm all over.)
***
When he wakes up, his first thought is that he’s officially too old to sleep anywhere but in a bed. His back hurts and there's a probably permanent crick in his neck and for some reason, his right arm is asleep.
His second, third, hundredth thoughts are all of Lucy.
Lucy, whose hair is matted against his neck.
Lucy, whose steady breaths are tickling the neck of his shirt, lips just touching the bare skin the fabric brushes.
Lucy, who is sound asleep and burrowed against his chest across the console, like they’ve slept that way a thousand times, like it’s not solely for warmth.
The sun is just creeping up through the trees and around the bends of the mountains, and when he's eventually able to focus on anything but her, Tim realizes he's finally warm.
The snow has stopped, and what little he can see of the slushy, muddy ground from his position tells him the roads are probably safe enough now.
But he can't bring himself to move.
His arms are wrapped around Lucy, fingers spread across the curve of her waist and tangled in her hair. He'd dreamt so surely of her, literally searching the sound of her out, that he shouldn't be surprised they found each other in the cold, through the dark.
He doesn't realize their legs are tangled together too until he tries to gently stretch and shift, jostling her just enough that he loses the heat of her lips against his neck as she slowly lifts her head.
His fingers trail along with her movement, dragging gently through tangled waves, until she meets his eyes.
“Hey.” His voice is a whisper, but it's rough, and her eyes fall to his lips for a fraction of a second before she seems to realize the position they're in.
She moves to untangle their legs, but all she does in her half-awake state is end up moving closer to him, and this time he's watching her lips as she forms a silent sound before looking back up at him.
“Morning,” she whispers, and the automatic way she reaches up to run a hand through her hair causes her fingers to tangle together with his.
His eyes fall to their hands, and on reflex — he swears, he couldn't stop it even if he wanted to — his fingers dig into the curve of her waist.
When he can meet her gaze again, she's closer.
(Her cheeks are flushed pink again and in his dazed state he genuinely can't tell if it's flush from the cold air, or the sun-kissed skin of a beach day, or something else entirely more real.)
“Tim.”
It's still a whisper, but it reverberates through him like a shout, and he feels like he's on fire he's so warm.
He's back in her apartment, back in an airplane bathroom, back on some imaginary sun-soaked beach, an inch from getting to kiss her again, when her phone rings from somewhere between them in the console.
“I—” she starts, her eyes dropping his gaze and lingering on his lips.
Her breath ghosts along his cheek, and he wants, he wants, he wants.
Ignore it.
It rings again, impossibly almost louder.
We're on a beach and you're laughing and nothing else matters.
For a second, he thinks he said it out loud. Or maybe she just reads him that well, because there's genuine regret in her eyes as she braces against his chest and pushes to sit up a safe distance away.
It's Tamara, and when his phone rings a minute later, it's Angela, wondering where they are.
***
“I always forget how fast the snow disappears.”
They're the first words they've spoken in almost fifteen minutes, halfway back down the mountain toward home. The road is still a little slick, but arguably less dangerous than any other situation they've been in in the last day, and her window is rolled down, blowing cool air into the cab.
For a night spent trying to keep out the cold, he's all too happy to let it diffuse some of the heat, the palpable tension that's built up, this morning.
“Never really sticks, I guess,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes on the road even as he feels her gaze on him.
***
“Thanks for…” Lucy's voice trails off on a quiet echo in the parking garage of Mid-Wilshire a little while later.
He just nods. They aren't going to talk about it, the almost-moment, the tension it's dredged them in again, not in any specific way, and definitely not here.
“Should've added the parking garage to our list of warm places. I always forget what a sauna this place is.”
She's showered and debriefed and she's in Lucy clothes again, but her cheeks are still flushed. He can't look away.
He lets her take the first steps toward her car, parked a couple of spots down before he finds the words he's been fighting back all morning.
“Hey,” he calls, and when she turns, he doesn't let himself step closer, but he feels warmer anyway.
“I just… I've gotta know. Being snowed in… was it what you always thought it would be?”
Was it romantic? He can't form the words, but she's always been good at reading between the lines.
Her smile is slow in answer, but maybe the brightest he's ever seen.
Lucy nods, holding his gaze for a long, quietly heated moment.
“Yeah, Tim. It was. And the company wasn't too bad, either.”
He smiles, lets it reach his eyes, and lifts his hand in a silent wave before she turns to go.
***
On the drive home, he lets the sunshine warm his skin.
The heat soaking in feels new, like hope, and he drives slowly to let the feeling linger.