Page 37 of Cross the Line
The apartment door clicked open after Hawley's third attempt to align the key. Turned out the mighty Bear wasn't immune to fatigue after all. Or maybe it was because I half-leaned on it most of the way up. I slumped into the doorframe. My body felt like it had been run through a trash compactor. Which wasn't far from the truth, considering those garbage bags had broken my fall.
"Easy," Hawley murmured. Closer than I expected. His hand found my elbow, steadying me as I swayed slightly. The painkillers they'd given me at the hospital were doing their job a little too well.
I shuffled inside. Noticed how Hawley hovered just behind me. Close enough that I could feel his body heat. Ready to catch me if I decided to make friends with the floor. It was strange seeing him this way. All watchful attention and careful precision. Like I might shatter if he looked away.
"You should have stayed overnight for observation." Genuine anger edged his tone as he guided me toward the couch. Ourshoulders brushed. I became acutely aware of how solid he felt beside me. How easily he took my weight.
"What, and miss this charming homecoming?" I tried for my usual grin, but it felt stretched thin across my face. "Besides, the hospital gown clashed with my complexion."
Hawley's jaw flexed. He didn't find my deflection amusing. "Bruised ribs, a sprained wrist, and a mild concussion aren't trivial injuries."
"Don't forget my wounded pride. That's the real tragedy here."
The words earned me a withering look as I lowered myself onto the couch. I'd never noticed before how his gaze seemed to carry physical weight. How it pressed into my skin. Made me simultaneously want to fidget and freeze.
Hawley walked away. Headed to the kitchen. I tracked him as he filled a glass with water. His broad shoulders tense under his shirt. The station's gossip about him floated through my mind. The whispers that followed him down hallways. The sideways glances. Saunders's cruel insinuations.
The Bear. Cold. Dangerous. Doesn't play well with others.
Yet here he was. Measuring out my medication. Checking the dosage twice. What had happened to transform him from the rising star in his file photo to this solitary, guarded figure? Was it related to those insinuations about him liking men? And why did watching him navigate our shared space, this bland, Service-assigned apartment with its standardized furniture and bare paint, make my chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with my injuries?
"The doctors cleared me to go home." I broke the silence as he came back with water and pills. "I'm not going to drop dead in the middle of the night."
"You fell from a height onto garbage." He placed the glass on the coffee table with deliberate control. "And you hit your head."
"On a banana peel, probably. Very dramatic." I accepted the medication. Our fingers brushed briefly. "I've had worse falls at department softball games."
Hawley didn't smile. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing me directly. His knees nearly touched mine. I had the sudden, absurd urge to close that small gap.
"You saved that boy."
I shrugged. Immediately regretted it as ache lanced through my side. "I did my job."
"No." His stare held mine. Intense and searching. "Your job was to find him. You did more than that."
Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in my chest. I looked away. Uncomfortable with both his proximity and his praise. "Any officer worth their salt would have done the same."
"That's not true." The words dropped lower. Almost to a whisper. "I've worked with many officers who wouldn't have taken that risk."
I swallowed. Unsure how to respond to this version of Hawley. The one whose attention tracked my every action with an intensity that felt both protective and something more. Something that made my pulse quicken despite the medication's drowsy pull.
"Well, I couldn't let him fall. Not when I could catch him."
Hawley's nose wrinkled as he stood over me. "You need a shower. You smell like that laneway's dumpster."
I couldn't help but laugh. Immediately regretted it as agony shot through my ribs. "Trust me, I'm aware. Didn't you see the expression on the nurses' faces?" I shifted. Tried to push myself up from the couch. A sharp, stabbing sensation radiated through my side. Forced me back down with an undignified grunt. "But I'm not sure I can manage it right now."
The silence that followed felt weighted with significance. Hawley studied me. Cataloged my condition with the samemethodical attention he gave crime scenes. After a moment, he nodded once. Decisive.
"I'll help you."
The offer hung between us as he extended his palm toward me. I stared at his outstretched fingers. Suddenly aware of how this might look. What it might mean. The memory of his confession in the car hung between us.Gay.The word he'd spoken so plainly, daring me to make something of it. Now here he was, offering to help me shower. I hesitated. Not because of his sexuality. Because accepting help felt like admitting weakness.
"I've got it." I waved him off.
A shadow crossed Hawley's face. There and gone. His palm dropped to his side as he took a step back. His face closed.
"Shit, no," I blurted. Realizing how my refusal must have looked. "It's not because of what you told me earlier. I just..." I tried to stand again on my own. Determined to prove I could manage.
