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Penelope barely recognized the moment they were alone, truly alone, with no witnesses and a dwindling supply of alcohol.
She’d kicked her heels off some time ago, curling up on Luke’s couch, her wine glass magically never empty and her cheeks flushed. Hanging on to his every word was fun too, if not so she could get under his skin with a biting comment, then to sit in the comfort of his company and exist with him outside of being a disembodied voice on the other end of the phone.
And it was fine for her to stay a little longer than the others, really.
He might have been close with them; she knew how much he and Matt had bonded, how much Spencer had appreciated what he’d done for him, and how even Rossi warmed to his sincere sincerity, but she and Luke were just different. They were opposites; they were the same; they could kill a few hours by bickering aimlessly, or they could sit in awkward silence, competitively staring at the wall. It was complicated and normal. Yet even with her insecure confidence, she was willing to concede they’d not been alone together for a while, and it wasn’t that she was avoiding him; only she totally and completely was.
Generally speaking, spending time with the man you love and his girlfriend isn’t really the most inspiring way to waste a day. The whole thing gave her flashbacks to Derek, although she knew that had worked out well for him, and she wouldn’t change it for the world; being lost again to the annals of time, doomed to be someone’s love until someone more lovely appeared, wasn’t fun. And Lisa was lovely.
So she had admittedly taken a step back, or more accurately, run the opposite way until they’d been almost back at square one, and she’d been holding her tongue to stop hopeless love confessions and instead been promoting whiplash with an array of mixed messages, because she was trying.
She wanted to be friends with him, really; she just wanted him to love her back more, and since that was unlikely because Lisa was lovely, she was overcompensating with earnest gestures because she wanted him to be happy, dammit.
There’d been the painting she purchased that she knew he’d hate, because making him feel any emotions other than his infuriatingly positive joy was a reward in itself, and the failed attempt to grab breakfast with him that had turned into her, him, and Lisa, which had turned into them being friends, which was even worse because she couldn’t even hate Lisa.
Lisa was kind and sweet and lovely. She was exactly the sort of woman Luke should spend a lifetime with. They should have beautiful children and live a beautiful life, and she wanted them to, really. Only the guilty part of her, the one who didn’t want to lose the man she loved again, couldn’t want that, not at the expense of her own happiness.
Which left her here, clinging onto every shred of normalcy between them, which seemed more difficult the more she focused on the unrequited part of her unrequited love, and Luke was still talking about Roxy.
“Maybe I should go,” Penelope said before Luke could start on another story. God forbid he started talking about his family; if she had to think about him as a real person and not just her dream man, she was likely to crumble. “Everyone else has gone home.”
“Everyone else is a coward.” Luke joked, unaware of just how cowardly she felt in that moment, an instinctual urge to run away calling. “Lisa won’t be home for hours, and we both know when we get a case, we won’t get a chance to relax for weeks.”
It was logical, she conceded, nodding thoughtfully as she mulled it over. She must have been close enough to giving in that he could tell as he continued.
“One more drink, come on.” He implored with his ridiculously beautiful brown eyes. It just wasn’t fair for a man to be so cute, so captivating. She’d seen him happy, sad, heartbroken, elated, hurt, and healthy. She’d seen him with friends, his girlfriend, with Roxy. Yet nothing compared to how he looked in this moment, eyes unfocused but so full of life it made her heart swell.
Distantly she heard an alarm bell echo, a single one, bouncing around her seemingly empty head. One more drink, that was a dangerous prospect, more so in her current state with her emotional affliction. Yet he was pleading, practically begging, and how could she resist?
Lost in his eyes, she downed what little remained in her glass, even if she’d sworn it was full a moment ago. It barely fazed her, giving her the perfect excuse and enough self-belief that she could easily say he wanted her company, not just any warm body beside him to stop him from drinking alone. It was her legs brushing against his as she sat on his couch perfectly at home, her arm resting on the back of the chair as she studied him, and with the room fading around her, it was even easier to see the tenderness in his eyes and pretend it was just for her.
“Fine.” She replied, dragging out the words in feigned reluctance, as if it would be a chore and not something she desperately wanted, something she’d thought about on the nights when they visited the bar they only ever went to as a team. She could almost pretend it was the alcohol that led her to him, almost. “One more drink.”
A smile bloomed on his face, his expression shifting from drunken concentration to pure, unhidden happiness. How many things had she agreed to just to catch a glimpse of him so unguarded?
She wished she was more selfish, that she could bottle such joy and keep it all to herself. She wished she was in a position to be selfish with him. She wished it made her special to have seen that expression on his face, as if he wasn’t incapable of hiding every emotion in every moment in his life.
It was a constant source of astonishment that he’d been an undercover agent, that this charming, goofy, playful man with a heart of gold, had been not even just an undercover agent, but a successful one. He’d been in locations she’d never know about, had experiences she’d never be able to understand, seen things and done things so against his nature, and he’d come out the other side an enchanting beacon of love.
How he’d ever managed it she didn’t know, not because she doubted him, there were few people she’d ever doubted less, but because he was the only person she’d ever been able to read instantly and accurately; she wasn’t even able to do that with Derek, and they were soulmates, or something.
Although she never remembered Derek ever looking at her like Luke did in that moment, before his brain caught up and he picked up the wine. For her own sake, she cataloged the image for another time.
With flushed cheeks and a determined look, he filled her glass again, bringing the bottle to his mouth to lick the drop of wine threatening to fall from the neck onto his couch. She couldn’t have looked away even if she’d tried, the pink seared permanently into her brain, the wine barely registering in her mind beyond what it would taste like on his tongue.
She took a sip to distract herself, wincing when her subconscious replayed that brief moment over and over again, a list of her pinkest lipsticks and lipglosses coming to mind as she suddenly realized the benefit to custom shades despite the outrageous price tag they came with.
Misjudging her reaction, he spoke, a self-conscious smile on his face.
“You can drink wine at room temperature.” His almost-defensiveness was adorable, Penelope thought, unable to stifle her giggle when he continued. “For some wines it’s even the optimum temperature.”
“Alright, Dr. Reid.” She teased, sipping her wine to confirm her next statement. “But this is warm.”
He sipped it, frowning and swallowing heavily, his throat bobbing indecently.
She should not have accepted another drink; she regretted every decision at minimum she’d made that day, possibly extending back to the very moment she’d met him and decided she didn’t have any space in her life to let another person in who could walk away. She should have climbed him like a tree. She should have called him babygirl. She should have proposed.
He made an endearing sound of disgust, sticking his tongue out as if the air could somehow make the experience better, and she watched intently.
“It is warm.” He agreed, making her smile smugly.
“Practically hot. Have you considered a career change? You could be a sommelier.” Penelope suggested, her delivery hampered by her own impaired state, the multiple attempts at the word ‘sommelier’ being met by a brief moment of silence before they both fell into giddy laughter. They were hysterical, encouraging each other in the best-worst ways.
The space shrunk between them as Luke wiped away tears. Penelope tried not to stare as she dabbed the corners of her own eyes, but being able to share that moment with him meant everything, if only for a moment. All the pain and the loss they’d seen, faced, and shared, and here they were, delirious and wine-drunk. When his arm fell back to its new position behind her, well within touching distance, his palm was open and calling to her to lean back into it.
“It’s still good wine.” She said, voice hoarser than she’d anticipated, wanting mostly to distract herself so she couldn’t think about how it would feel if he did wrap his arm around her. Would it be like she’d imagined? Would it be better? Could it be better? “It’s one of my favorites.”
“Yeah?”
His smug expression told her he’d already known that information and that perhaps it had been intentional, or subconsciously intentional, and she’d take either or both, anything as long as she existed in his head at some level.
She nodded, downing the end of her glass, reaching sideways and placing it onto the table, aiming for the coaster and somehow successfully landing it.
Consciously aware of how easy it would be to move back and closer to him, she sought another distraction.
“How much is left?” She pointed to the bottle that was abandoned on the table.
He picked it up with large hands, hands large enough to-
Bad distraction, she thought, trying to force the thoughts from her head, incredibly bad distraction.
There wasn't enough alcohol in the world to extinguish the fire burning inside of her; if anything, it was making it worse, his bewitching radiance turning it to an incendiary device in seconds. Maybe a little more would fix her.
“Barely another glass.” He replied, uninformed of her internal struggle, swirling the remaining wine, creating a captivating whirlpool even if she struggled to make it out through the opaque glass. There was more than enough to drown in, but she was unsure if the alcohol or the emotions would choke her first.
Gesturing for it, her drunken smile was real even if she knew she was being stupid.
“You’re not seriously going to drink the last of the wine?” Luke asked as she tilted the bottle, drinking as if to answer his question. He was smiling brightly, his amusement only growing. "At least share it?”
Although he phrased it as a question, his hands reaching out and pulling the bottle away from her proved otherwise. She let him take it easily, his lips meeting hers even if only by a technicality.
“Better?” She replied, watching as he wiped the back of his mouth with his hand, and all she could think of was his stupid hands and his stupid face and her stupid emotions.
Looking vaguely spooked, he nodded once in reply. It was as if it had finally dawned on him that they were alone and drunk and on the verge of something, or maybe she was worse at hiding her feelings than she thought. It faded quickly, but it was enough for her mind to race.
Passing the bottle back, they shared naturally, exchanging sips and sheepish smiles until the questions racing through Penelope’s head were forced free, ripped from her chest, because at least if she knew the answer, she wouldn’t have to wonder, and her filter got dissolved three drinks ago.
“Are you going to marry her?” Penelope said without thinking, the question breaking free and momentarily ending whatever lighthearted banter they’d been building.
“What?” Luke replied, visibly taken aback; although shock on him was just as attractive as every other emotion, his lips parted and brow furrowed. She should hate him.
“Oh, right.” Penelope grinned, trying to regain her footing. If she could throw out an insult, it wouldn’t seem like she cared about the answer. “You’re afraid of commitment.”
“I am not.” He disputed.
“Are too.”
“I’m not.” He said, attempting to be convincing, an incredulous note to his voice.
“Are too. You didn’t even want to throw this housewarming party.” She pointed out, smiling when he tilted his head slightly, and she might not have been a profiler, but she was a Luke profiler, a Luke-iler, or some other name equally as stupid, because she knew him.
“Not wanting to throw a party means I’m afraid of commitment now?” He replied warily. They were both hiding something, she mused. “She’s moving in with me; that seems like a commitment.”
“She’s moved in.” Penelope corrected, trying to pretend the cacophony of feelings she had towards this development wasn’t making this conversation painful. She should never have mentioned it. She wanted to ask it again. “You’re living together now.”
If the topic of marriage hadn’t evaporated the carefree laughter, then that reminder did.
Luke paused, his thoughts weighing heavily, swimming through the haze of intoxication until he too was spilling things he’d obviously never intended to voice.
“It seemed like the next step.” He rubbed his face, his hand shifting from his jaw to his cheek in a caress Penelope longed to feel, longed to replicate. He almost looked sober. “After Phil-”
She took his other hand as his voice broke, bridging the small gap between them without ulterior motives.
They’d all lost somebody; it was a recurring plot, a familiar path, a running joke, but it was different when it was the first time it happened to you. Penelope could barely remember a time before she’d felt loss, and she knew Luke had experienced it before too, but not like this, never accompanied with the guilt that now haunted him. Words were pointless, so she squeezed his hand.
“I like her.” Luke said, his voice thick with emotion. “Phil liked her. He told me not to mess things up, like I usually do, I guess.”
Penelope kept quiet, barely present as Luke absentmindedly played with her fingers, needing to comfort him, knowing the best she’d offered for weeks was elaborate fruit baskets and longing glances.
“It still doesn’t feel real.” He spoke thoughtfully, with the emotional distance they slipped into sometimes when it was easier to disengage, to pretend that grief was an abstract concept and not the gold sealing the cracks of their lives. “It feels like I forgot to call him for a few weeks, and when I get round to it, he’ll answer, and he’ll have a smart comment about how busy I am or about how the BAU only hires workaholics.”
“It’s in the hiring brochure.” She joked in reply, her own sadness welling up, because didn’t it always feel like everyone was a phone call away? Looking up at the ceiling, focusing on a shadow, she fought back tears, only speaking when she had almost managed it. “I’m sorry about Phil.”
He nodded, mouth a tight line, as she continued.
“I know I told you at the time, but he was really great, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry there wasn’t more we could do.”
He waved her off. It wasn’t the first conversation on the topic, and it wouldn’t be the last, but they couldn’t linger on it, the core issue obviously remaining as Luke worried his lip between his teeth, looking far too troubled for Penelope to even objectify.
“It’s just…”
He sighed, and she waited uselessly and silently; interrogations were in his job description, not hers.
“I wonder if I’m doing the right things.” Her breath caught as his thoughts continued, and she remained torn between being frozen in shock and analyzing every course of action they'd taken in the last year. “Am I making the right choices? Choices I can be proud of? And I don’t know. I thought I was, but now…”
“Now it’s different.” Penelope guessed as if his pause brought her back to life, sighing when he nodded.
Of all the people to have doubts, she’d have thought of Luke last. His unwavering strength and his steadfast integrity. Every action he took was with care, and every decision was backed by his morals. If even he wasn’t certain, how could the rest of them be either?
Would there be a time when their good intentions were no longer enough? They’d come close before, straying beyond the lines, working around the law. She was guilty more than most, but to know the burden was shared, that her emotions were mirrored in him, left her conflicted.
“We help so many people.” Penelope said finally and ineloquently, swallowing heavily, her mind racing. “You save so many people.”
“But what if I don’t mean at work?” He reiterated, the words falling slowly from his lips, his eyes darting between the wall behind her, the plain fabric of the sofa, and her wide eyes. “What if that’s not what I’m uncertain about?”
She was grateful nobody was holding the empty wine bottle, their hands restless as they waited for him to elaborate, only he never did, or at least not verbally. The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know, and undoubtedly the favor was returned in hers.
“What?” Penelope asked stupidly, her mind running wild.
She needed to get a hold of herself; it’s not as if he was going to say something sappy and romantic, especially not about her. He wasn’t going to start waxing lyrical about her eyes, or her smile, or the way she makes him laugh; he was far more likely to say he missed being single, wasn’t he?
“You get a little frown, a tiny crease between your eyebrows.” He replied, gesturing to where it could be found on his own face, his fingers moving lazily in his inebriated state. “You get it when you don’t understand something, but you want to.”
Oh.
In a measured move, he reached out. She felt his touch, clumsy but gentle, smoothing out the evidence of her confused surprise. His fingers were rough but never unwelcome. It felt different than all the other times too, when he’d placed an arm in front of her to protect her from something innocuous or from walking into someone because she was distracted. This was selfish; it was perfect.
After all the time she’d been longing for him, yearning for him. She’d Mr. Darcy’d him, and now he’d moved on, and she was still gazing at the marble bust like it had the answers. Her eyes fluttered shut; if she couldn’t see him, then this wasn’t happening. Only she could still see him behind her eyelids, his expression curious.
“How could I ever marry someone else while I notice these things about you?”
Oh.
Did the world stop for everyone in that moment? If she fled, like she should, would she see cyclists stationary, birds hovering, and people speechless mid-conversation? Would there be nothing bad in the world for a single second so they could have this?
Her eyes snapped open, meeting his, their vulnerabilities laid bare.
Then they were magnets, pulled together by desperation, their lips meeting in a form of salvation she’d only ever been close to, never experienced. Every part of herself was alive, and he was too, his warmth under her hands as they landed on his arms, his chest, his neck, pulling him in.
Distractedly she noticed the softness of his sweater, the fabric bunching in her hands as he pulled her closer, a messy tangle of limbs as they tried to find something more, their lips never straying too far.
Gasping for air when they finally stopped, she looked at him, studying him through half-lidded eyes, stuck on his swollen lips as if the sight wasn’t already now permanently embedded in her brain. All the fantasies in the world, and none could ever compare to the sight of him chasing her lips again, unwilling and unable to part from her for long enough to realize why it was a bad idea.
Even she was starting to lose the thread of why they shouldn’t, why they couldn’t.
Her hand snaked under the hem, exploring the tense muscles and smooth skin to stabilize herself in his lap somehow as he pawed at her chest with reverence. Strong and warm, she thought, his heartbeat under her palm a comforting sensation. Maybe it was beating just for her, maybe it always had, maybe it always would.
With his lips on her neck, she was gone; she needed to see him naked, she needed to run away, she needed the room around her to fade away so she couldn’t see the touches of Lisa in his home, or their home, or whatever. The moment was over the second she focused on them.
“Luke.” She said softly, almost needily, certainly not helping the situation as he canted his hips upwards, making her eyes flutter shut momentarily. She repeated herself, split between giving in and waking them both up. “Luke.”
He hummed in acknowledgment, something she could so easily imagine him doing in the early hours of the morning if she was waking him up for a case, if this was her home and her life.
“Luke. I need to leave.” She added. “Seriously, we can’t…”
He cut her off with a kiss, full of love, longing, and intense adoration.
“We can’t.” He repeated when he pulled away again, his hands cradling her face and his eyes dazed, never leaving her lips. Even his voice was affected, thick with want and need, breaking in the most perfect way. “God, you’re beautiful.”
Of course he’d kiss her like she was the only thing he needed, like she was the only thing he'd ever wanted, and the consequences were inconsequential.
She felt dizzy. She felt sick.
Now the dam was broken, it was harder to stop, practically impossible, and for what might have been the last time if her senses finally returned to her, she kissed him, losing herself once more.
It could have been minutes or hours, time becoming nothing more than a cruel reminder of how long they’d wasted not being in each other's arms.
His hands worked effortlessly, caressing and tugging her closer, until they’d fallen together fully clothed, grinding against each other like teenagers in the throes of first love, and Penelope would be lying if she didn’t feel the same rush as she’d felt at the age of sixteen.
When they parted once more, the room was blurry, even with her glasses somehow still perched on her face.
“I need to go.” Penelope said after another moment, remembering all the reasons why she should leave, like Lisa’s coat on a hook by the door. There was so little color, it brought her back down to earth.
“Yeah?”
Did she?
Of all the reasons for her to stay or to leave, she got stuck on her thoughts, her own inability to see herself living in this apartment with him. When she pictured a life with him, and she did, often and with alarming clarity, it was full of vibrant color. She could see walls covered in art, one of them concealing his gun safe, his clothes hanging beside hers in a simple contrast, a bowl for their keys, and a photo of them both on the mantelpiece.
“We shouldn’t do this.” She replied, talking to calm herself down, removing herself from his lap, and sitting beside him again, only this time facing away from him. If she couldn’t see his expression, she could keep her resolve. “We can’t do this.”
He kept quiet; the only evidence he was still beside her was his labored breathing and the eternal pull she felt, the one that made her gravitate towards him, the rest of the world secondary to the call of his smile.
She knew he understood, calm resignation seeping out of his every pore, infuriating her with his easy quick-change between recklessness and gentlemanly principles. He was simply too reasonable, too controlled; she’d have to spend months trawling Tinder to pay penance for having too much happiness.
“I’ll call you a cab.” Luke offered, discreetly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, as if any evidence would be more incriminating than their present inability to look at each other.
Nodding in lieu of a verbal reply, she wrapped her arms around herself, only aware he’d moved from the seat next to her when she heard the faucet running and his voice from the kitchen. Taking advantage of the reprieve, she fled to the bathroom.
Her thoughts were bouncing between hyperbolic visions of the world ending, or at least her world, and the guilty satisfaction she felt, her fingers brushing her lips as if to check she was real, that what happened was real. If she could follow a single thread, calm down long enough to know nothing had been done that couldn’t be swept under the rug, like the unsightly one that sat below Luke’s coffee table, then she might have been able to breathe. Instead, she splashed water on her face, knowing this could never be the end; this was the middle of their story, a brief, ill-advised detour from their usual unsafe safety, something to remember when she lay awake, plagued by images of his hands and the arms that stretched the fabric of his shirts.
She grabbed the towel from the side, dabbing her face, cursing herself at the traces of makeup left behind, subtle clues of her presence, but ones that were easily explained. She got too drunk; she stayed too late. They weren’t incriminating; if she had been somebody else, they might have been, but not when it was her, not when it was Luke.
Besides, there was nothing between them.
There was nothing between them.
If she repeated it enough, maybe she’d have believed it. She’d go to sleep every night saying it like a prayer. She’d kneel at the altar of her refrigerator and hope the cold air would chill the fever that had been building for some time. She’d say it in her head when he smiled at her.
None of it would matter; she knew the only way they’d get caught was if they were spotted in the midst of what they’d just put an end to. Of course she was incredible; she was unashamedly confident in herself, her energy bubbling over and bringing shine to the dull days, but beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and who was beholding her?
Her insecurities joined her, crowding the mirror until she zeroed in on the mascara under her eyes, the fine lines that came from happiness but at the expense of eternal youth, the unhidden fear in her eyes from her past, her present, and the future where Luke was still not hers. She wasn’t a threat to Luke’s relationship; she was the ‘fun’ friend, close but never close enough, never a viable option, especially not to someone like him.
It wasn't that he was out of her league per se, but his arms were gigantic, his smile was dazzling, and he was practically perfection personified. He called her beautiful, but he was drunk. He reached for her. He trusted her. He had feelings for her, but only so far in secret.
In another world she’d have stayed the night, he wouldn’t have a girlfriend, and she’d take his bed while he slept on the couch. They could consider it a step in the right direction, and the next time they might not get so drunk. The next time it might not be a secret, but it was tonight.
She wasted an unknown amount of time ruminating and punishing herself for things she wasn’t even sorry for, emerging only when Luke knocked on the door softly, checking in.
Throwing open the door, she almost walked into his chest, his gorgeous, attractive chest.
“The taxi is here,” Luke offered, looking at her shyly, as if he was in the wrong for skulking around the door and not her for having the sort of breakdown reserved for her bedroom floor or the women’s toilets next to the stairs at work. “I wasn’t-”
She looked up at him, relying on him to bring her back, to return her wit by giving her a reason to be herself.
“Let me come with you?” Luke half-offered and half-pleaded.
“Afraid I’ll get lost, or has working with crime every day made you paranoid?” Penelope replied, wiping under her eyes in what she hoped was an inconspicuous manner but in reality was probably smearing more mascara. It was a weak attempt at provoking him, yet he smiled anyway, shaking his head in the way he always did when she surprised him.
She wanted to surprise him every day from here until forever.
“Both, actually.”
Neither in reality, but she kept quiet, raising an eyebrow to signal she knew his game and approved.
He didn’t react immediately to her unconfirmed confirmation, her acceptance abstract enough that he could do nothing beyond looking down at her, a tinge of pink on his cheeks. She wanted to reach out and feel his warmth under her skin again; she'd have risked the bad karma for the chance. She didn’t; instead, she looked at him with mild amusement and feigned annoyance.
“Get my coat then.”
“Right.” Luke stuttered, scrambling around as if it was his first time in his own apartment, his own and Lisa’s, and it was, if kissing Penelope was considered the sort of life-changing event she hoped it was. BC, AD, AKPG.
He would never be able to not have kissed her, her drunk mind supplied unhelpfully. What’s done is done, and that was done.
He would never be able to not have helped her into her coat either, but that wasn’t unusual, not for him. He’d probably put his own jacket over a puddle if it meant she wouldn’t have to face the perils of the water on the pavement too.
Annoyingly flawless idiot.
He guided her to the cab with the kindness she’d grown to expect of him, since his bark was for show and he was incapable of following through on any bites. They were going to dance around each other for eternity; she’d resigned herself to that fate the moment he got a girlfriend, but now it didn’t seem so bad.
She couldn’t mess things up if things never got any further than this; she was safe, and so were her fantasies, and then he opened the door for her, and she was condemned all over again. Trapped with him, the night their cover, and the gap between them far more respectable than they’d been so far.
Normal, she thought in the back of the taxi, just be normal.
There was nothing wrong with colleagues sharing a cab to go home; of course, that was ignoring the drinking and the kissing and the years of hidden feelings now erupting, the atmosphere laced with anxiety but singed with longing.
Penelope glanced at him, afraid to look at him directly, the vision of him in her peripheral view enough once more. He drew her in, captivatingly heavenly; she’d turn to him at any opportunity, greedy for a chance to catch a glimpse of his reactions to even the most mundane.
Any other time, she’d have done anything to see him like this, bleary-eyed and ruffled, comfortable in the quiet, the streetlights dancing across his face, the golden glow somehow better than pure sunlight. She caved, watching his neutral expression as the streets passed by, his unconscious furrowed brow, the fullness of his lips, the beauty in such an ordinary moment.
She loved him. She loved him more than anything and anyone, and for some unknown reason he felt something for her too, enough to throw out his sense and follow her home, her own personal bodyguard, her very own specter, oblivious of how he taunted her with visions of the avenues she never took.
“So work…” Penelope said after the silence grew too suffocating, her attempt at being normal only making it less normal, the eyes of the cab driver on hers in the mirror, a brief audience for her failings.
Scolding herself internally, her embarrassment was over the second Luke’s attention was back on her, the world outside forgotten. They were the center of the universe again, with his smirk growing as if they’d just shared a private joke, only it was her, and her own inability to not reveal too much.
“Work.” He repeated, bemused, obviously waiting for another sentence, some further insight into where her mind had taken her, still blissfully unaware she was still stuck on the feeling of his hips beneath hers.
She nodded jerkily, popping her lips, projecting what she hoped was an easygoing demeanor, but from the affectionate laughter beside her, she gathered she missed.
“It’s going well.” Luke eventually replied, casually cool, nodding along with her as if they weren’t barely holding it together.
His efforts made her feel untouchable, the drunken butterflies in her stomach fluttering leisurely. The eyes of the cab driver were back on them for a moment, a knowing look in his eye as if he’d been given a front-row seat to a giggly end of a first date, only it didn’t feel like a first; it felt too natural. If anything, it felt like an average night, the ones that come when the burning passion turns into an incandescent glow, when communication comes without words, when there is gratitude for the inconsequential details, when nothing exists beyond the following morning and the safety of being held.
She was dwelling on the thoughts of being in his arms when the taxi stopped, her apartment calling to her just as the cold air was pulling her from the stifling heat that fogged up the glass.
Luke paid the driver before she could react, a generous tip feeling a little like a bribe lest the word get out that the city was full of romantics and bad influences. He got out first, holding his hand out for her to take, and she did without hesitation.
Her white knight. Her soulmate. The man who wasn’t hers.
She stumbled into him all the same, her heels too high for her inebriated state, and gravity failing for a brief moment, so quickly the rest of the world never even noticed.
“Careful.” He said in a gentle warning, his tone giving away he didn’t mind much, the daunting walk to her door beginning.
The cab drove off behind them, leaving them alone once more, disappearing into the night with a surreal suddenness. She watched it go in confusion.
“Didn’t you need that?” Penelope asked inanely, looking up at him, clinging onto him. She would need to train herself to not reach for him from now on. Now she knew how the muscles moved under her fingertips, how easily he let himself be positioned by her; she wasn’t sure she could stop.
“I can call another,” Luke replied.
“Or you could Uber like a regular person.”
“I’m preserving the heritage of our great nation.” He replied, a teasing glint in his eye. “What’s better than a drunken cab ride home? And there’s no surge charges either.”
“You’re so old-fashioned sometimes.”
She loved it.
“Which is exactly why I’m walking you to your door.” He countered, far too smooth for the situation.
“I can manage.”
She could; she didn’t want to, but she could. Luke could wash away every memory of every bad date too, protecting her from the bullet that pierced her skin all those years ago, when she should have been safe since she was so nearly home, or he could hurt her in new, exciting ways. Either option seemed appealing when he was visibly making mental plans of how to get her inside safely.
He didn’t carry her, but she felt the thought cross his mind. If he'd have picked her up suddenly, she'd have humored him, the same way she'd have followed him into the sinister settings they found themselves drawn to. Still, she was grateful when his hand slipped around her waist, her feet still on the ground and her head still in the clouds.
Had her fixation on romance novels returned, she’d have described it as possessive, but she hadn’t picked up a book in a while, so she settled for calling it fitting. A man of his strength using just enough to keep her close, to keep her mind from straying too far from him. He'd never know how pointless the endeavor was, since she was already his, the semantics of his possession a discussion for another day.
They ventured deeper into the building quietly, all secret smiles and conspiratorial giggles they stifled. She buried her face against his shoulder; he did the same against her hair.
Unlocking the door was a team effort, her hands shaking until his wrapped around hers, turning the key, and then they were inside.
Every choice within her apartment was hers and intentional, a reflection of the parts of her that changed unknowingly and the parts that remained the same, an inviting mess. She sighed wistfully, hanging her coat on the stand, a sense of calm flooding her and then dissipating when she felt Luke’s hand at home on her lower back. He pried it away slowly, giving her too much time to mourn the loss.
They looked at each other, unable to break the spell, his eyes on her lips as his own fought to produce words. He seemed in two minds, and Penelope prayed for one of them to lead to him kissing her. She was only minorly disappointed when he stepped backwards, the glow on his face showing he knew this would only endear her further.
“I believe I have done my gentlemanly duty for the evening.” Luke said dramatically, bowing for effect. Penelope barked a laugh in reply, but he kept his own amusement under control to continue. “And now it’s probably time for me to go.”
She spoke before she could stop herself, her self-control somewhere else, on a beach with a drink, or hostage somewhere in her very apartment, or maybe in his.
“You can’t leave now.”
“I can’t?” Luke asked, genuinely surprised.
“No.”
There was a magical quality to the early hours, secrets wanting to be spilt not just because of sleep deprivation, but because of the privacy provided by the quiet darkness. They’d be fools to waste this time.
“You do know we have to sleep at some point in time.” He pointed out unhelpfully. On anyone else his expression would have been smarmy, but she knew him too well.
“Thank you for your spectacular insight, but what sort of host would I be if I kicked you out at…” Penelope countered, scrambling to check the time on her phone, groaning when the black screen refused to come to life. It was either a sign of an impending apocalypse or proof Luke was the distraction she thought him to be. “Whatever time it is, and my phone is deceased, so I have no way of knowing if you made it back alive.”
“And you care about that now?” She replied with a pointed look, and he held his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Fine. Since you care so much about my well-being, I’ll spend the night, but only, only so you can sleep without being worried about me.”
“Good.” Penelope replied primly, trying to fight a smile.
“Does that mean I have permission to sleep now?”
“Are you tired, old man?”
He laughed, loudly and obnoxiously, accepting her insult in the jest she’d hoped for.
“Yes. Absolutely.” He replied, moving to her couch. She could see him dropping onto it heavily, a sigh escaping him. In another life she’d relish the sight, and when he’d beckon her over, she’d roll her eyes but go willingly. She'd never christened that specific item of furniture either.
“You can’t sleep on the couch.” She said vehemently, with far more force than necessary.
Luke was visibly taken aback, hovering awkwardly in the air, looking at her as if she’d finally lost her mind, and she might have.
“You can’t sleep on the couch.” Penelope repeated, her irrationality providing no justification, every part of her brain screaming at her.
Derek had slept on her couch; it had never gone any further, and now he was gone. She did not want a replay of those events, and for some strange reason, blaming an inanimate piece of furniture seemed a better option than believing in fate. Fate should not have led her here; fate should have led her to leave Luke’s apartment at the same time as the others.
“Why not?” Luke asked, amusement growing. It appeared they’d returned to the softness that seemed reserved just for her. He was the only one who could perfectly switch between good-natured ribbing and fond devotion, and instead of mocking her and her foolishness, he reveled in it.
She bit her lip, trying to come up with a valid reason. She couldn’t say the couch was broken, because that made no sense; a bug infestation was out as well in case she suddenly gained manifestation skills.
“You can sleep on the floor.” She answered instead, deflecting, shaking her head to remove the few lingering thoughts of Derek. She’d almost perfected that now; they barely even hurt anymore.
“I cannot sleep on the floor.” Luke laughed, bright and bubbly, infectious and enticing, and just like that her mind was solely on him. “Think about my poor back.”
He gestured sloppily, but the message was received. She started to bite her lip as she thought of a solution, any solution, or at least one besides letting him into her bed.
“Just tell me the diabolical scheme to get me into your bed.” He added, with a smile so blinding it made her groan.
Curse him for being so effortlessly charming. Curse him for being so close.
She tangled her fingers in her hair, pushing it into a mess piled high on her head and letting it drop as her hands fell in an act of petulance, swinging by her sides.
“You’re so easy to hate.”
There was no heat to her words, even if she said them with malice.
“No, I’m not.”
God, he was right.
He was lovable and desirable, and looking at her with the same eyes that she thought about when she looked up at the stars, twinkling and all-consuming.
“No, you’re not.” She agreed finally, her vulnerability bleeding through.
They stared at each other, struggling to decipher the code they’d lost themselves in, ignoring the boundaries they’d broken, knowing they’d only get broken again. And then her mind was back on the cause of her pain, the possession she didn’t have cause for returning.
She wanted to see him shirtless in her kitchen eating cereal or making pancakes with the sunlight peeking through the blinds. She wanted him weary from work, stumbling in after midnight and kissing her cheek, or watching the sunrise in the brief period of peace before the horrors started all over again. She wanted all of him.
“You’re going to leave in the morning.” She said softly, trying to hide her sadness, unsure if it was a warning to herself or to him.
“I am.”
He approached her slowly, cradling her face in his hands, his palm warm on her cheek, forcing her to look up at him.
“One day I won’t.” He promised, his voice low as if it was a great secret. “Do you believe that?”
Yes.
Whether or not it made her stupid and naive, she did, even if it was the alcohol answering for her or the spirit of Jane Eyre possessing her. They’d come back to each other; they’d find a way and make it work even if it was a month from now or a year. They would have something real and lasting. She’d get her happily ever after, and it would be with him.
“We could share the bed?” She replied instead, covering his hand with hers and boldly lacing their fingers together, smiling as they dropped from her skin to the space between them, bridging a gap she’d always hated. “People share beds on cases; it’s definitely happened before.”
Neither one decided to comment further, all too aware the only crime being committed was getting too close to the flame. He squeezed her hand and followed obediently.
Her apartment might have been eclectic and vivid, but it had been missing something; it always had. There was space for him, enough space for them both, leading him deeper and deeper, surrounding him with her messy nostalgia, forging a new home.
He kept his undershirt on, but he kicked off his shoes and jeans, sliding under the covers only after she’d nodded. For the sake of what little was left of her dignity, she changed in the bathroom, her pajamas pink and frilly, inviting enough that her return was met with a flash of hunger in his eyes.
It was unnatural to restrict herself to one specific side now she'd slept alone for so long, something she learned climbing under the covers, their shoulders brushing immediately, a preview of the impending proximity. The closeness was magnified when the lights were off, silhouettes and memories supplementing its absence.
“This is worse than having sex.” Penelope said firmly, breaking the excruciating silence but making no effort to put an end to the situation. “You do know that, right?”
“Enlighten me how.” Luke drawled, eyes closed and the picture of serenity.
“Because…” she trailed off, trying to put the reasons into words. “Because…”
“You’re really convincing me.”
“Shut up.” Penelope replied emphatically. “It’s worse because this is so much more intimate.”
He hummed in either acknowledgment or agreement.
“This makes it seem like you actually care about me.”
“I do.” He replied, eyes snapping open and meeting hers with promise even in the darkness of the room. “You know I do. You know I always have.”
“I didn’t.” She confessed truthfully, embarrassed at the revelation.
“You didn’t want to.”
That was true as well.
The hush that fell over the room was comfortable somehow, the blunt edge of emotion not breaking the skin, instead a form of solace, evidence it was real, that what they shared mattered now, even when it felt so precarious in the past.
“It’s inevitable.” Luke said vaguely, speaking to the ceiling before glancing at Penelope.
She could just make out his shape, his outline as beautiful as ever, her mind filling in the blanks with the way he looked when he saw her truly.
If she’d have been in the mood for playing coy, she’d have asked, what was inevitable? Was it their entangled legs? Was it them together? Or even why he was so certain? But he was, and that’s what mattered, sleep pulling her under in a slow trickle.
He made no effort to expand on his thoughts, the words hanging around like Penelope’s infatuation, something she was suddenly thankful for. Idly she wondered if this was why gambling addicts never gave up, a win always on the horizon, and she’d lost something, she conceded, but she’d gained so much more.
“I hope you’re right.” She mumbled, clinging to hope more than she could to consciousness, having the last word as usual.
She dreamt of nothing, a fresh page on the horizon, and when she woke up, she wasn’t alone.