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I don’t own them. If I did there would be no doubt Perry and Della were a couple. This is pure fun and entertainment. You won’t get much if you sue, haha. No beta, all mistakes are my own.
Please read and review, it really is so very appreciated.
****** Unspoken Truth ******
Della Street sits at her typewriter, her fingers moving across the keys. She doesn’t look up when the door opens.
“Miss Street,” comes a voice that isn’t Perry’s—too polished, too eager.
It’s Arthur Keene, a visiting attorney from San Francisco, tall and handsome, with dark hair and eyes that match. He can fill out a suit, a very expensive, well tailored suit. He’s been consulting with Perry on a corporate matter all week, and every time he’s in the room, Perry grows quieter.
Della smiles politely, the way she does with clients and delivery boys and witnesses alike. But this smile lingers a little longer. “Mr. Keene,” she says. “Back for more punishment?”
Arthur laughs. “You make it sound like I’ve been cross-examined.” He steps closer to her desk. “Actually, I came by to say goodbye. I’m heading back north tomorrow.”
“That was quick,” she says lightly. “I hope you got what you needed from Mr. Mason.”
“I did,” he says, and lowers his voice just enough. “But I was hoping I might get a word with his secretary—off the record.”
At that moment, Perry emerges from his private office, jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened just enough to suggest he’s been pacing. His tone is calm, but his eyes flicker once—first to Keene, then to Della.
“Something I can help you with, Arthur?”
Arthur’s easy charm doesn’t falter. “Actually, I was just asking Miss Street if she might join me for dinner tonight. My train doesn’t leave until morning, and I thought it’d be nice to thank her for all the help she’s given me this week.”
Della looks from one man to the other. Perry says nothing.
The silence stretches.
She forces a little laugh, though her pulse ticks in her throat. “Well… that’s very kind of you, Mr. Keene.”
Arthur grins. “So that’s a yes? Beverly Wiltshire?”
Her eyes flick again to Perry. He’s standing off the side of her desk now, still holding the papers he walked in with, gaze unreadable. She waits for something—an objection, a word, a reason. But he doesn’t give her one.
“Yes,” she says finally, and feels a strange little pang as she says it. “Dinner sounds nice.”
Arthur thanks her, shakes Perry’s hand, and leaves with a confident stride.
The door closes softly behind him.
For a moment, neither Perry nor Della moves. The only sound is the ticking clock and the faint hum of Los Angeles traffic beyond the window.
Then Perry says, in a voice too quiet to read, “He seems like a capable attorney.”
Della straightens a few papers that don’t need straightening. “He is. Very professional.”
“I’m sure he is.” Perry’s tone is flat, restrained. He hands the papers he was holding to Della. “Make sure you take the transcripts from the Keene case home with you. I’ll want to review them in the
morning” he says, maintaining eye contact with her desk.
Her hands are still on the paper. “Yes, sir.”
He looks up at that—at sir—but doesn’t correct her. Doesn’t trust himself to.
When she gathers her purse and gloves, Perry’s jaw tightens. “Where’s he taking you?”
She blinks, startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“You said yes to dinner. I asked where.”
Her heart gives a small, traitorous flutter. “I think he mentioned the Beverly Wilshire.”
“Nice place,” Perry says. His voice has a faint edge now. “Pricey.”
“I suppose so.”
“You’ll like the music,” he says after a moment. “They’ve got a fine pianist.” Then, more quietly: “Try not to let him bore you with courtroom stories.”
Della studies him for a moment. His posture is casual, but his eyes are anything but. There’s something simmering there—something he’s keeping under lock and key.
She nods once, measured. “Goodnight, Chief.”
He looks at her—really looks at her—and something in his face almost cracks. But he just says, “Goodnight, Della.”
When the door closes behind her, the office feels impossibly empty. Perry stands there a long while, staring at the desk she just vacated, his hand tightening around his pen until it snaps clean in two.
*************************************
Perry doesn’t go home.
He tries to. He puts on his hat, locks his briefcase, even turns off the lamp. But halfway to the door, he stops, mutters something under his breath, and drops everything back on the desk.
He tells himself he’s just staying to finish notes for the Morrison appeal. But when he looks down at the pad in front of him, every line begins the same way:
Keene.
Keene.
Keene.
He throws the pen aside, leans back, and stares at the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a car horn sounds, distant and careless.
He glances at his watch. 8:45.
She’s there by now. Sitting across from Arthur Keene at the Beverly Wilshire. Maybe laughing. Perry’s throat tightens. He can picture it too easily—her shoulders bare in that green dress she keeps for
special occasions, the way she tips her head when she’s listening.
The side door opening startles him. He turns in time to see Paul walking through it.
Perry exhales, rubbing his temple. “Paul, unless you’ve got a lead on the Morrison case—”
“I’ve got a lead on your secretary,” Paul interrupts, his voice teasing. “You wanna know who I just saw walking into the Wilshire dining room with a certain slick-haired attorney from San Francisco?”
Perry’s silence is answer enough.
Paul chuckles softly. “Relax, pal. What’s the matter, you finally figured out the lady’s got admirers?”
“Paul.” Perry’s tone drops half an octave. “If you came to be amusing—”
“I came because I figured this would wind you up. And you are. Admit it.”
“Goodnight, Paul.”
Paul goes to leave out the side door but stops just after opening. Looking over at Perry, “You know, Perry, it’s funny. Della’s been waiting for you to make a move for years, and now that she’s got someone else taking her to dinner, you suddenly look like you swallowed a subpoena.”
He sits there in the half-dark, jaw clenched, chest tight. Then he mutters to the empty room, “Damn fool.”
He tries to work again but can’t focus. At 10:15, he gives up and goes for a drive.
*********************************************
At the Beverly Wilshire, Della sits across from Arthur Keene at a table lit by soft candlelight. The pianist plays something slow and wistful. The wine is good, the conversation pleasant enough.
Arthur is charming, attentive, almost too much so. He leans in when he speaks, and Della smiles because that’s what’s expected. But there’s a hollowness beneath the surface of it all.
He talks about his firm, his travels, the case that brought him to Los Angeles. He asks polite questions about her work, but there’s a glint in his eye that says he’s not really picturing court documents or dictation.
When he says, “You must be the envy of half the secretaries in the city, working for a man like Perry Mason,” her hand tightens around her glass.
“I’m fortunate,” she says, carefully neutral.
“Fortunate,” Arthur repeats. “He’s a legend. Though I can’t imagine he leaves much room for a personal life.”
Della gives him a small smile. “He leaves room for what matters.”
Arthur studies her. “Does that include you?”
She looks away. “Sometimes.”
Outside the restaurant, the night air is cool and sharp. Arthur insists on seeing her to her front door and she doesn’t refuse. She thanks him for dinner—polite, sincere, but distant enough to make it clear
it ends there.
When she makes it through her door, the smile fades from her lips almost immediately.
*****************************************************************
Across the street, half in shadow, Perry Mason leans against his black sedan.
He shouldn’t be there. He knows that. It’s beneath him—beneath everything he prides himself on—but here he is, collar turned up, hands shoved in his pockets, watching her car disappear into the night.
For a long time, he doesn’t move. Then he exhales hard, muttering, “You’re losing your grip, Mason.”
***************************************************************
The next morning, Della arrives early, hoping to beat the tension. She hangs up her coat, sets down her purse, and finds Perry already at his desk. He’s been there a while—tie crisp, eyes shadowed.
“Morning,” she says.
He doesn’t look up. “Good morning, Miss Street.”
The formality lands like a blow.
She stands at the corner of his desk, sorting the mail, just to fill the air, until she can’t take it anymore. “If you’re angry with me, Mr. Mason, I’d rather you just said so.”
He stops writing, sets his pen down carefully. “I’m not angry.”
“No?”
“No.” He looks at her then, eyes steady but burning underneath. “I’m just wondering why it bothers me.”
She swallows hard. “Why what bothers you?”
He leans back, gaze fixed on her. “The idea of another man thinking he has the right to walk you to your front door.”
There’s a long, suspended silence.
She turns to walk into her office and she says softly, “Maybe because you never told him he didn’t.”
Moments pass and the silence between them hums like a live wire.
Della’s words still hang in the air — “Maybe because you never told him he didn’t.”
She can see the shift in Perry’s expression as they land, something cracking open behind his composed exterior.
He rises slowly from behind his desk, coming to stand beside hers. The scent of coffee and ink and faint cologne surrounds her. His voice drops, low and rough.
“Is that what you wanted me to do, Della?”
Her heartbeat stumbles.
She meets his gaze evenly, though it takes effort. “I wanted you to say something, Perry. Anything. Just so I’d know where I stood.”
“You know exactly where you stand.”
“Do I?” she says quietly. “Because lately it feels like I’m standing still.”
That one hits him. His jaw flexes, the muscles working as if he’s biting back every truth he tries to keep buried. He leans a hand on the edge of her desk, close enough that she can feel the warmth of
him.
He says, barely above a whisper, “You have no idea how hard I’ve tried not to cross that line.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t try so hard,” she murmurs.
For a moment, the air between them is electric — years of glances, of late nights, of things left unsaid — and he’s about to speak, to close the distance between them at last—
When the door bursts open.
“Morning, beautiful!”
Paul Drake strolls in, hat tilted back, grin broad enough to fill the room. “Hope I’m not interrupting a staff meeting—or whatever you two were calling that moment.”
Della sits back sharply, her cheeks flushing as she straightens a stack of papers. “Good morning, Paul.”
Perry doesn’t move from where he’s standing, but the warmth vanishes from his tone. “You’ve got the timing of a fire alarm, Paul.”
“Thanks, I try.” Paul drops into a chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. “By the way, Mason, you’re not gonna believe who I ran into in the lobby—”
Before he can finish, the outer door swings open again, this time without the courtesy of a knock.
“Good morning, Counselor,” Lieutenant Tragg announces as he steps in, wearing that smug half-smile that always seems to follow him like cigar smoke. “Or should I say good afternoon? You look like you
haven’t slept.”
Paul grins. “He hasn’t. He was up all night defending his honor.”
Tragg raises a brow. “Oh? Against whom?”
Della clears her throat briskly. “Gentlemen, unless you’re here to deliver a subpoena, perhaps we could—”
“Oh, I am here for a subpoena,” Tragg says, fishing an envelope from his coat pocket. “But I have to admit, this visit’s become far more entertaining than I expected.” He sets the envelope on Perry’s desk.
“For your client, Miss Halloran.”
“Appreciated,” Perry says tightly. “Now unless you intend to cross-examine my secretary, Lieutenant—”
Tragg smirks. “I wouldn’t dare. She’s got better composure than you do this morning.”
Paul chuckles, glancing between them. “Say, Della, didn’t I see you at the Wilshire last night? With that Keene fellow?”
Della looks up, calm but cool. “You might have.”
Tragg’s brows lift higher. “Oh-ho, Miss Street out with another attorney? Careful, Mason—competition in your own field.”
Perry’s eyes flick toward Tragg like a warning shot. “Lieutenant.”
But Tragg only laughs, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll leave the social commentary to Drake here. Though I have to say—if looks could indict, Counselor, I’d be handing you your own warrant.”
He tips his hat toward Della, then strolls out, humming to himself.
Paul lingers, grinning as he stands. “Well, I’d better go before the furniture starts smoldering. Beautiful - don’t work too hard.”
When the door finally closes behind him, the silence returns, thicker now, charged.
Della exhales slowly. “That was… convenient.”
“Infuriating,” Perry mutters.
Glancing at the clock on her desk. “You have to meet Mr. Gossman in less than 30 minutes.”
Checking his watch. “I know.” Perry leans in a little “Della” he says softly. “I..I’m sorry.”
“Go. You can’t keep such an important client waiting.” She says, a little more forceful than normal. She knows this is his job but does it have to have such bad timing?
*******************************************************
Rain starts just after sunset.
It’s light at first—a fine mist drifting through the streetlamps—but by the time Perry Mason pulls up in front of Della Street’s small apartment building, it’s a steady fall. His wipers swipe in slow rhythm as
he sits there, engine running, coat collar turned up, wrestling with himself.
He’s been thinking about her all day. Mr. Gossman’s meeting took way longer than he expected, almost making him late for the board meeting at Alcon he promised to attend.
He’s thought about the look in her eyes before Paul and Tragg barged in.
And he’s done pretending.
He kills the engine, steps out into the rain, and climbs the stairs two at a time.
When she opens the door, she’s in a pale blue robe, her hair down, a book in her hand. Surprise flickers in her eyes, followed by something warmer.
“Perry,” she says quietly. “What on earth—?”
“I couldn’t leave it alone,” he says, rain dripping from his coat. “Not after this morning.”
She hesitates, searching his face. “You look like you haven’t been home.”
“I haven’t,” he admits.
“Come in before you drown,” she says, stepping aside.
He moves past her, the scent of her soap and something faintly floral filling the room. The fire in her small hearth crackles. She closes the door, and for a moment they just stand there, the sound of the
rain soft against the windows.
Finally, she speaks. “Perry… what is it you can’t leave alone?”
He turns toward her, eyes shadowed and unguarded in a way she’s never seen. “You. The thought of you with someone else. The thought of losing what we have because I’m too afraid to want more.”
Her breath catches. “Afraid?”
He nods, stepping closer. “If we tried this—if we crossed that line—and it didn’t work, it would break me, Della.” His voice is rough, honest. “You could break me.”
She swallows, looking up at him, her heartbeat loud in her chest. “Then let me,” she whispers. “If it means we get to find out what this really is… let me.”
Something in him gives way at that.
He reaches for her, slow at first, his hand brushing the side of her face like he’s memorizing it. Her skin is warm beneath his fingertips. She leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.
“Della,” he says, her name a plea, a confession.
She looks up, voice trembling. “Perry, if you’re going to kiss me, stop thinking about it.”
That’s all it takes.
He does.
The kiss starts tentative and then deepens—years of restraint breaking like a dam. His hand slides to the back of her neck; hers curls against his shirt. The world outside fades—the rain, the fire,
everything but this.
When they part, she’s breathless. “You think this is going to break you?” she murmurs, smiling faintly. “You haven’t even seen what I’m capable of.”
He laughs softly, that rare, unguarded sound, and his forehead rests against hers. “God help me,” he says. “I hope I do.”
She takes his hand and leads him toward the couch near the fire. He doesn’t resist. The warmth of the room wraps around them, and their laughter fades into something quieter, deeper, certain.
Still in his rain-damp coat, the scent of the storm clinging to him. The sofa is small, the cushions soft from evenings of quiet reading. Their knees touch before either of them means them to.
She smiles faintly. “You’re soaked.”
“You always did have better timing,” he says. “You should’ve told me to come in out of the rain earlier.”
Della laughs softly, the sound curling warm through the room. “You weren’t ready.”
He looks at her, the humor fading into something tender. “Maybe I just didn’t trust myself.”
Her eyes hold his. “You can trust me.”
He exhales, like it’s a relief he’s been holding in too long. Then he slips his hand over hers. Her fingers twine with his immediately, certain, deliberate.
“Della,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve fought this longer than I can remember. You sitting across from me every day—your voice, your eyes—it’s been torture.”
Her thumb moves against his wrist, gentle, grounding. “You call that torture. I call it patience.”
He leans closer, drawn by something magnetic and inevitable. “Patience,” he repeats. “You’ve had too much of that on my account.”
Her lips curve, half a smile, half a challenge. “Then stop making me wait.”
The kiss this time is slower, deeper—an unhurried claiming, the kind that comes when two people already know what’s there and don’t have to guess anymore. Her hand slides up to the back of his neck,
his fingers trace the line of her jaw. The firelight flickers across them, soft and golden.
When they part, she looks at him like she’s seeing the man behind every guarded look he’s ever worn. “You always hold back,” she says quietly.
“Not tonight,” he answers.
She leans into him, her head resting against his shoulder. His arm circles her, firm and protective, and for a long while neither speaks. The fire pops softly. The rain hushes against the glass. The world
feels far away.
He presses a kiss into her hair and murmurs, “If this doesn’t work—if I lose you.”
She tilts her face up toward his. “Then we’ll just have to make sure it does work.”
He smiles—small, helpless, genuine—and traces a finger down her cheek. “You realize that’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I’ve said plenty of dangerous things,” she whispers. “You just weren’t listening.”
And then there are no more words. Just the soft sound of the fire, the brush of breath against skin, the kind of closeness that doesn’t need to be defined. The world narrows to the rhythm of their hearts
and the heat of the moment, until the light blurs and everything beyond this room falls away.
*************************************************
Morning seeps in pale and quiet through Della’s curtains. The city is still half asleep; only the sound of distant streetcars hums through the gray dawn.
Perry wakes first. For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. Then he feels the weight of her head against his shoulder, the soft warmth of her breath, the faint trace of perfume still clinging to his shirt.
And it all comes back — the rain, the firelight, her voice saying Then stop making me wait.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe for a long while. Just watches her, memorizing the way morning light touches her hair.
When she stirs, her lashes flutter open and she blinks up at him, a sleepy smile playing on her lips. “You stayed.”
He smiles faintly. “You didn’t exactly let me go.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Her voice is soft, drowsy, unguarded — and he feels that familiar ache again, the one that comes whenever she’s near.
He brushes a strand of hair from her cheek. “I keep thinking I should apologize.”
She shakes her head slightly. “Don’t.”
“I crossed a line.”
“So did I,” she says gently. “We just crossed it together.”
He looks down at her for a long moment, a quiet smile curving his lips. “That sounds like something my secretary would say.”
She stretches a little, still close against him. “Your secretary has good instincts.”
“She always has.”
The clock on her mantel ticks softly. Reality creeps in with the daylight — the thought of the office, Paul’s smirk, Tragg’s jokes, Burger’s raised brow. The world will not make this easy.
As if sensing his thoughts, Della says, “We’ll be careful.”
He nods. “Careful, yes. But not sorry.”
“Never sorry,” she agrees.
He glances toward the window, then back to her. “If I’d known it would feel like this,” he murmurs, “I wouldn’t have wasted so much time.”
She smiles, eyes glinting with affection. “You might have scared me off if you’d tried sooner.”
“I doubt that.”
“You shouldn’t.”
He chuckles softly. “Della Street, you’ve always been impossible to argue with.”
“That’s why you keep me around,” she says, her voice light, teasing again — and something about that feels right, grounding. The world hasn’t changed completely, only the space between them.
She sits up then, reaching for her robe, and he stands, straightening his tie out of habit even though it’s useless now. They exchange one last, quiet look before stepping back into their roles.
He picks up his hat from her table. “I’ll see you at the office.”
“Of course, Mr. Mason.”
He stops at the door, looks over his shoulder. “Della” smirking.
****** THE END ******
Please read and review, it’s the only form of payment we get.
Plus, it is so wonderful to hear everyone’s thoughts and comments, good or helpful critiques.
I am working on a much longer story that takes Della, Perry and Paul to a wellness retreat to help a client.
Since I love relationship origin stories, they may not be a couple in the beginning but we’ll see what develops.