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Tim hefts the final box from the back of his truck and carries it into the house, adds it to the pile that is currently taking over his living room.
Well, no. That's not right.
It's no longer just his living room, he supposes. Not anymore. It's their living room now.
The thought makes him smile, sends a spark of excitement up his spine.
Today is the day Lucy is moving in.
Officially, that is. Because he can't remember the last time he and Lucy spent a night apart, that wasn't for work-related reasons.
And in the end, it was Tamara who orchestrated the whole thing.
She'd all but forced him and Lucy to have the discussion about taking the next step in their relationship and moving in together.
And okay... Fuck. No. That's not...
That sounds really bad and is not at all how he meant it to come off.
Of course he wanted to live with Lucy—probably had for longer than he is willing to admit to anyone but himself. That was always the direction their relationship was heading, and if it was just Lucy he had to consider in the decision, he thinks he would have asked her to move in with him a hell of a long time ago.
A few weeks back, Tamara sat them down, and she was nervous and fidgety. Which, in turn, made Lucy nervous and fidgety. He reached over, held Lucy's hand in her lap. Her leg stopped bouncing, and she visibly relaxed.
Finally, Tamara took a breath. "There are some friends from school that have a place together, and one of the girls is moving out. So they have a room opening up, and I think I want to take it."
"Tamara," Lucy said, her voice all quiet and concerned. She shot a look in his direction then and bit her lip. She looked unsure, like maybe this wasn't something she should say in front of him. "We talked about this. You don't have to go anywhere."
"I know, and I said I wouldn't stay here forever. I'm about to be a senior..."
Lucy nodded, understanding. "And it makes sense you want to move out on your own—live with people your own age."
"Exactly. The house they've got is really great—secure," Tamara said, like she thought that would soften the blow of her leaving.
When they first started dating, Lucy had confided that Tamara was concerned she was intruding in their relationship. That she even went as far as trying to get her own place because she was convinced Lucy wouldn't want her in the apartment anymore.
Which he thought was crazy. He knew Lucy and Tamara were a package deal long before they even started dating. He didn't need Lucy to tell him Tamara was family and that this was the first stable household she'd ever lived in, that she was welcome there as long as she wanted to call the place home. He never would have thought to ask Lucy to tell Tamara to leave.
If he were being honest (and let him be clear, he would never admit this aloud—not with the threat of his own life), he had grown quite fond of Lucy's puppy. She communicated with him exclusively in memes he didn't understand and he acted as if she exasperated him.
But, quite possibly, just maybe, he also thought of her as family.
"I know the lease on this place is up again soon. Don't renew it," Tamara said, then paused for what Tim could only assume was dramatic effect.
"Or do. Tim can move in here if that's what you want," she added in quickly. "Look, I need to get to class, but I promise I'll show you the house when I get back, okay?"
Tamara stood, and he and Lucy followed. Tamara pulled Lucy in for a hug, and when she stepped back, she said, "These are my friends, so no background checks, please." And gave them both a pointed look.
It was Tim who lifted a shoulder like he didn't know what she was talking about. "Can't make any promises," he said.
With a roll of her eyes, Tamara left for her class. But not before reminding them they had a lot to discuss and telling Lucy to keep him in check.
But there hadn't been much to discuss, really. Now that the topic had been broached for them, they both agreed it was the right time. So, after they helped get Tamara settled into her new place, they started sorting and packing what Lucy would take with her to the house.
And now that Lucy lives here, she has opinions about what they should do with the place or whatever.
And that's fine, because it's her place now, too, and he wants her to be comfortable here and feel like it is her home, not just that she's living in her boyfriend's house. And if they can achieve that without having to repaint every room, all the better.
So he'll take her couch over his. It's not like he was all that attached to the thing anyway.
And he'll let her fill the house with her plants and clutter and hang whatever pictures she wants on the walls. He's not opposed to it. He just hadn't got around to doing much decorating when he moved in.
He'll even take her mattress over his. Because hers is, arguably, the more comfortable of the two.
But he draws the line at her bed. There's no way in hell he's swapping his perfectly acceptable bed set for her rickety ass bed frame. It's a goddamn miracle that thing is still standing.
In all honesty, though, he thinks they've done a decent job of integrating their two styles together.
Like right now, Lucy is in the kitchen unpacking her boxes. Tim stops for a second and takes a moment to just watch her as she moves about the space, arranging dishware in the cabinets.
She's singing to herself—some song he's heard her singing before but doesn't know well enough to name. She's wearing a worn-out t-shirt and a pair of yoga pants. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, and the hairs that have come loose are sticking to the base of her neck, slightly damp with sweat after moving boxes all morning.
She's dressed down, completely casual and god, she's beautiful.
Lucy notices he's staring.
"What?" she asks, and brushes some hair off her face, wipes at her forehead like she thinks he's looking at her because she's got some mark on her face and not that she's fucking stunning.
She smiles at him then, turns and puts a couple of mugs in the cabinet above her. And no matter how many times she directs a smile his way, it never fails to make his stomach swoop.
Once upon a time, seeing Lucy's mismatched, mostly thrifted, brightly patterned dishes mixed amongst his plain white ones would have driven him batty.
But seeing it now, he finds he doesn't hate it as much as he thought he would.
He doesn't hate it at all, actually.
He quite likes it. It adds a feeling of warmth, he thinks, a vibrancy the space had previously lacked.
While her back is turned to him, he crosses the room to stand behind her in three long strides, places his hands on her hips.
"Babe." She says it like a warning. And it is. But it does nothing to deter him, and when he drops his head so he can get his mouth on her neck, he feels her breath hitch. His fingers dip dangerously low, teasing, past the waistband of her leggings. She sucks in a sharp breath.
"You're distracting me," she says with feigned annoyance. And yet, she leans back into him, tilts her head just so, to give him better access. The protest is weak at best.
He smiles against her neck, lets his hands continue to wander. "Maybe you could use a distraction."
Letting out a sigh, Lucy looks over at the mountain of cardboard in the living room, hands gripping the edge of the counter. "But unpacking..."
"Can wait," he murmurs, nuzzles her neck.
"There's still so much we have to do." But, honestly, more than anything, it sounds like she's trying to convince herself. She turns in his arms then, moves her hands up his biceps, a smile playing on her lips as she stares up at him and settles her hands on his chest. "What did you have in mind?"
"We could christen the kitchen," He says. Easily hoists her up onto the counter and steps between her legs. Lucy laughs and leans in to kiss him.
"You say that like it's something we haven't already done."
He shrugs, grinning. "Well, we haven't since you moved in."
"A whole two hours ago." Lucy laughs again and rolls her eyes.
But she wraps her legs around his waist, rolls her hips so she's pressed right up against him, pulls him in for a deeper kiss. And he thinks he's won. That she's seen how right he is; they deserve a break, and he knows the perfect way to help her relax.
As he pushes up her shirt, exposing the soft expanse of her stomach, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her leggings, fully prepared to drop to his knees, put his mouth between her thighs, curl his tongue over her clit until she's wanton, desperate, begging him for release.
But before he can even drag her leggings over her hips, Lucy's placing a hand square on his chest and pushing at him until he steps back. Then she slides off the counter, and there's a teasing glint in her eyes. "I should get back to it."
Incredulous, Tim grabs for her, but she spins away from him, dancing out of his reach. He leans against the counter and watches as she picks up a stack of plates and crosses the room. He calls her a tease, but his tone is just that; light and unserious.
Pausing mid-stride, Lucy shoots him a look over her shoulder, lifts a brow at him, eyes him up and down, and says, "You enjoy it."
And fucking oath he does, but that's beside the point.
Lucy comes to stand beside him again, touches her hand to his cheek, and presses her lips against the underside of his jaw. His hand settles on her waist. "I want to get through as much of this as possible before we have to pick up our boy."
Kojo was spending the day with Lopez and Wesley. They figured the move would go faster and smoother if they didn't have to worry about Kojo running around underfoot and getting into boxes he shouldn't or houdini-ing it out of the house while the door was open with the constant trips to his truck. Normally, Genny would take him for them, but she and the boys were out of town, so Lopez was volunteered.
When he dropped Kojo off, Angela made a teasing comment about him and Lucy finally moving in together. And they've only been together for a little more than a year. He thought that was a perfectly reasonable amount of time before moving in together.
Tim narrowed his eyes at her and said, "You know not everyone moves in with their partner after less than six months of dating."
Angela shrugged, rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but look how great that worked out for me."
And then she pulled out her phone and showed him a video of Xochitl pterodactyl screeching the way only a baby could as she dumped an entire bowl of oatmeal on her head and shoved her entire fist into her mouth.
Which, gross. But he also had to admit the baby was kind of cute.
And he was on a tight schedule, so he didn't have the time to listen to the endless ribbing he was sure to endure if she knew he found anything—even if it was her own daughter—cute. So instead, he rubbed at his ear and was only half joking when he said he thought she'd burst his eardrum. "A little warning next time, yeah?"
Kojo's surprisingly good with young children. It's like he understands they're these mucky little things, and if he plays his cards right and follows them around, there is always a trail of snacks to snatch up.
Lucy says it's good practice for when they have kids of their own—way off in the future. She's always quick to remind him.
But no matter how many times Lucy brings it up—hearing her talk about their future together and their future kids like it's some guaranteed thing, hits his heart in a way he's never prepared for.
"All right," he concedes, breathes a sigh of resignation. His hand falls from her waist, but he can't bring himself to move away from her. "What do you need me to do?"
"Can you take some boxes to our bedroom?" she asks. "I want to get started there next."
"Of course." He nods, already pushing off the counter and moving to the pile of boxes. He grabs a box marked for the bedroom in Lucy's neat looping handwriting and glances back toward the kitchen.
Lucy's smiling at him, eyes bright and shining, looking like she surprised herself, and he knows the phrase—our bedroom—thrilled through her the same way it did him.
As he carries the box into their bedroom and sets it on the unmade bed, he hears Lucy singing softly again. The sound of her voice follows him down the hall, and the corners of his mouth curve upward.
He figures he may as well make himself useful. He puts fresh sheets on the bed, and once he's brought in all the boxes marked for the bedroom, he decides to start unpacking the room. He's perfectly capable of hanging a few clothes in the closet and folding the rest to go in the dresser.
It also has the added benefit of keeping him busy and out of the kitchen, trying to convince Lucy the distraction from unpacking is worth it.
Because Lucy was right. If they don't make a significant dent in the unpacking today, they'll run out of steam. And then the house will be cluttered with boxes for weeks before they finally get around to finishing unpacking.
But he doesn't get very far. He only makes it to the end of the first box before something catches his eye.
He's not sure why he's immediately suspicious of it; it's just a crumpled t-shirt at the bottom of the box. But there's something about the way this shirt was packed—tightly coiled and shoved as far down as possible—in contrast to all her other clothes—neatly folded—that has him feeling like this is something Lucy is trying to hide.
He picks it up, turns it over to get a good look at the front, and gapes at the white shirt in his hands. He stands there, not entirely sure he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing.
This can't be real.
There's no fucking way this is real.
He runs his fingers over the fabric of the shirt. It feels soft, well worn, under his fingertips, smells faintly of roses and jasmine—Lucy's perfume .
Feels pretty fucking real to him.
His eyes narrow at the offending item. "What the fuck."
He's lost the plot. That has to be it. He isn't seeing what he thinks he's seeing. He's hallucinating or whatever.
Because as stupid as that sounds, it's a more plausible explanation than this actually happening right now.
Tim had overseen Smitty taking down every single one of those damned photoshopped wanted posters and had personally made sure they were all destroyed. He tries to recall if he'd even seen Lucy around the station that day. He remembers that was the day she'd gone to Seattle following a lead on Rosalind Dyer.
There's no way Lucy got her hands on the goddamn posters, let alone was able to have a t-shirt made.
And yet, he has the proof in his hands.
He's still standing there a few minutes later when Lucy walks into their bedroom, carrying a box labeled 'fire hazards.'
And, yes, that was his doing.
And, yeah, he is quite proud of that one.
She takes out a couple of candles and sets them on the nightstand on her side of the bed.
Lucy had rolled her eyes as she watched him look into the box, tape it shut, then label it. But she's the one who owns enough candles to not only fill but also have a dedicated moving box. So, yeah, he thinks it is a fairly apt descriptor.
Lucy regards him curiously, juts her chin in his direction. "What's with the face?"
"What face?" he retorts quickly, though he knows exactly what face she's talking about. His dazed and confused, not comprehending what's happening in front of him look.
"Usually, I'm the cause of that look. And it usually involves something dirty." A smile plays across her face, teasing. "So why are you buffering?" she asks him again.
"I'm not." He huffs, and fuck, he's aware that sounds borderline petulant. "I'm processing," he adds.
"Sure, okay," she says, nods skeptically, like she sees right through his shit. "What are you processing?" She walks around the bed so she's standing next to him, sees the shirt in his hands.
"Oh, that," she says, followed by a nervous laugh. Which just confirms for him that she was trying to sneak this into the house without him seeing.
She tries to reach for the shirt, but he's faster, holds it up out of her reach. "Tim," she whines at the game of keep away, stands on her tiptoes in vain. He doesn't lower his arm until she relents and stops trying to take it from him.
"Where did this come from?" he asks. He has his suspicions and hopes they're correct. But what he's really trying to get at is if this is the only one or if he needs to track more down and burn them all.
Lucy shrugs, nonchalant, doesn't look him in the eye. "I might have had it made."
"How did you..." He shakes his head. "I made sure all the posters were destroyed."
"I have my ways." Tim narrows his eyes at her. Lucy lets out a breath. "Okay, I bribed Smitty," she admits.
Tim scowls. "Fucking Smitty. When? You were in Seattle, right?"
Lucy nods. "I ran into him as I was leaving the locker room. And there was no way I was going to pass up such a good opportunity for payback."
"Payback? For what?"
"Payback," she says, smiling deceptively sweet, steps into him so her body is flush with his side and pinches his bicep. "For the shirt you had made my first night shift during my rookie year."
He chuckles to himself. He still has the shirt, brings it out occasionally when they have nowhere to go and it's just the two of them. Because her reaction to it is always hilarious, and that's kind of the whole point of the joke. He doesn't see how her shirt was supposed to be some sort of payback for that when she's had it for near about two years and this is the first time he's seeing it. He tells her just that.
He knows she's perfectly capable of playing the long game, but that's getting a little ridiculous.
"I ordered it without even thinking. Things were weird between us after... after Vegas. By the time the shirt arrived, you and Ashley had broken up, and it got even weirder. And then we got together," she pauses, lifts a shoulder. "And I guess I kinda forgot about it."
He looks down at her, lifts a brow like he doesn't believe her. That sounds like some bullshit. "Baby, this is worn." He sticks his finger through a hole near the collar. "You didn't just order this and forget about it."
Lucy groans, dropping her head against his arm. "All right. Fine. Maybe I wore it to bed a few times when you weren't around."
His ears prick up at this. He pictures her in her old apartment on the nights when he got stuck on a call or caught at the station under a mountain of paperwork, in her bed, wearing nothing but the t-shirt.
Fuck.
Had she worn this when she was still with Chris?
Fuck.
That shouldn't be such a turn-on, and yet...
"What does it say about me if I kinda want to see you in this?" His fingers caress the soft fabric. His tongue darts across his bottom lip as he imagines himself bunching the t-shirt under her breasts, sucking a red welt onto her inner thigh. "Only this."
"Oh my god." Lucy absolutely cackles, throws her head back as she laughs and shoves at his chest. "How vain are you?"
But then she takes a step back, hand moving to the hem of her shirt. There's this coy smile on her face, and her eyes shimmer mischievously as she pulls it over her head.
And he thinks his brain short circuits for a second there when she reaches for the t-shirt in his hand.
And like an idiot, before his brain has a chance to catch up with his mouth, he says, teasing, "I thought you wanted to get the unpacking done first."
Rolling her eyes, she puts her hands on the back of his neck and pulls his mouth down to meet hers. "Shut up."