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“I’ll be right back,” Casey says, his voice cutting through the low hum of the empty cafe.
I give him a small nod in acknowledgment, though my mind is elsewhere.
A slab of ultramarine colors my vision—such a striking blue. I remember laughing at some tedious article about the pigment not too long ago. Staring at it now, though, makes me wonder why I even did that in the first place.
Not like the pigments in this piece were the real thing. I tilt my head slightly, squinting at the canvas. It's ridiculous to think that something so beautiful could be found in a place like this—enclosed in a town so… ordinary.
A sudden wave of nostalgia hits me—waves that aren't there, shorelines that had only ever existed in my head. If only they were real.
The presence at my side pulls me back. I glance over and see Casey staring at the painting with his features scrunched up, clearly deep in thought—that look he always wears when he's immersed in work or judging from a distance. Deep down, I know that intimidating exterior only hides a softer interior known only to a select few. It’s kind of endearing.
My eyes drift lower and land on the two coffees he's carrying—our names stamped on the corresponding cups. I take mine from him, and his gaze quickly shifts from the painting to my hand, then to me.
“What is it?” I ask lightly before taking a sip. A smile tugs at my lips. He didn't forget how I take my coffee.
The heart wants what it wants, but not now. Time and place.
Casey locks his eyes on mine for a moment before looking down at his own cup. That contemplative look returns in full force.
“Nothing,” he admits, fingers flexing at his side. “Just wanted to bring you your coffee.”
It sounds like a lie, but I don't push him further. “Everything else okay?”
There's a small pause before he answers. “Key witness should be in town tomorrow. You know how it goes.”
Yeah. That means shitty motel beds and functional water pressure at best.
“No rest for the wicked,” I say, turning back to the painting. “Or our backs.”
Casey huffs a laugh.
We've been paired together on this case as some twisted joke from our higher-ups—or maybe it's just misplaced distrust. It isn't that I hate him, but being almost chaperoned on something so straightforward feels like an insult to my abilities. Working in pairs is a waste of his time and, at worst, a waste of resources. What were they thinking?
Still, I can appreciate the company. At least I won't have to suffer through those motel beds alone.
“Do you like it?” I ask suddenly.
Casey gives me a quick side glance, clearly caught off guard by the question. “The painting?”
I almost laugh. What else if not that? “Yeah. The painting.”
His brows knit together, taking another good look at it. “It’s… a pretty blue.”
Art isn't exactly his thing, but at least he tries. Another endearing trait for my growing list.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Do you know what this color is called?”
His silence tells me everything I need to know.
“It’s ultramarine,” I explain, observing how his features soften the more he looks at it. “The real pigment came from lapis lazuli. Because the process of obtaining it was so tedious, it used to be as valuable as gold.” The cup is a warm anchor in my hands. “We're talking about the fourteenth or fifteenth century, though. Now we just use the synthetic one.”
Casey huffs, his tone full of amusement. “Are they teaching art lessons at the academy now?”
So he's in a good mood, then.
“It's stuff you learn while doomscrolling. Get with the times, Casey.”
He gives me a smirk so infectious that I almost smile back. Forbidden, like walking in on a private moment. It makes me realize he should do it more often.
“How does it make you feel?”
It seems like Casey hasn't pegged me for the artsy type. Not that the question came outrageously out of the blue. Hah. “Are you asking me? Hate to disappoint, but I'm not the best at… this.”
I worry my lip between my teeth. “I know, but—I was just wondering.”
He frowns, looking back at the canvas. “It’s just a painting.”
“Still.”
His response comes after a beat, as if he's actually pondering what to say. When he finally speaks, his voice is cautious, almost hesitant. “... Blue, I guess.”
It's a simple answer, but it feels genuine—straight from the soul. Another rare insight into Casey. If he were a color, he would be blue.
“That’s… very poetic of you, Casey.”
He just grunts in response. I can tell he's retreating back behind his wall again—probably not accustomed to being so vulnerable over something as trivial as art. I try to regain control over the conversation. If wanting to dig deeper into the mystery that is my partner is a selfish act, then so be it.
“It’s—it’s very cheesy, and waaay too on the nose, but—” I admit, fidgeting with the plastic edge of my cup. “It reminds me of the sea, y’know. Makes me feel at peace.”
He stares out at the blue, his gaze piercing as if he's searching for something in the pigment. Maybe I’ve overstepped.
“Peace, huh,” Casey considers, taking another sip of his coffee. “I could see that.”
Not hard to imagine. Now I feel stupid.
“You know,” I start, turning to look at him playfully, “for someone who's supposedly so bad at this, you beat me at my own game.”
Casey downs the rest of his coffee and huffs a laugh. How can he drink these things so quickly? “Guess we'll have to send you back to the academy.”
I roll my eyes. These back-and-forths come too easily between us now.
“Ha ha. Very funny, Mr. Klein.” The light outside is getting dimmer by the minute. It's time to pack up. “Come on, let's try to find a decent motel before it gets dark. I'm not sleeping in the car with your old ass.”
I toss my cup into the nearest bin and start for the exit. He follows me out just as he always does. The blue of the painting lingers in my vision even after we step back onto the street, and Casey falls into step beside me, his stride matching mine perfectly.
“For the record,” he says, looking straight ahead, “my back is fine. It's you I'm worried about. You complain more than anyone I know.”
“You'd be complaining too if your spine weren't made of rebar,” I shoot back as I stretch my arms over my head. The day is finally starting to catch up with me. “What did they feed you at the academy? Steel beams?”
That earns another laugh. I pretend not to notice how much it tickles that he thinks I'm funny.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I glance toward the row of buildings across the street, already mentally ranking which motel in the vicinity would disappoint you the least. “Think they’ll have rooms with working showers?”
“Optimist,” Casey mutters. “That's new.”
I snort at that. “Don't get used to it.”
He steps off the curb first, scanning the street out of habit before he speaks again. His voice is lower now, meant only for me. “For what it’s worth… I do like the painting.”
I look up at him. “Yeah?”
He nods once, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. “You didn't ruin it with that history lesson.”
“That's the closest thing to a compliment I've ever heard you say,” I reply. My chest feels warm despite the cool evening air. “Careful, Casey, you’re going to get a reputation.”
“Yeah, well. Don’t tell anyone. Higher-ups’ll have my badge.”
“Mhm. Wouldn’t want them knowing you’re a poet deep at heart.”
A car passes, its headlights smearing across both of us. For half a second, the light catches his profile just right—shadowed eyes, a furrow that never fully leaves his brow. The hint of something softer in how his jaw loosens when he thinks no one's watching.
But I am.
And he notices. Our eyes connect. It makes me feel like I’ve done something forbidden.
“Something wrong?” he asks after a stretch of strange silence.
If there’s something wrong, I still haven’t discovered what it might be. He has a way of digging out of me the things I’ve buried six feet under.
“Nothing,” I reply back, because there’s truly no rational explanation for it.
Casey rounds to the passenger’s side of our car and his fingers drum once against the roof as he waits for me to unlock it. Just before I get in, I take one last look back at the cafe door. The painting inside is nothing more than a dull square on a wall.
Ultramarine. Synthetic or not, still beautiful.
The passenger seat groans as Casey settles in. I slide into the driver's seat and turn on the ignition.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” he says casually. “The coffee wasn't that bad anyway.”
I’ll hold him to that promise.