Page 112 of Flint’s Strike

I wake tucked around Eliot, and for one blissfully ordinary moment, my biggest concern is what time it is.

A sprinkling of hair tickles my fingers. His skin is warm under my palm. The only sound in the room is his steady breathing.

But then reality creeps back in. Kessler. Two hundred and three buildings to inspect before our arsonist strikes again. Or faulty wiring, a kitchen fire, or an overloaded breaker turns one of those buildings into a death trap.

I open my eyes, and in the early morning light, watch him sleep. Really sleep. The kind of deep sleep I think we’ve both been missing for a long time.

Carefully, I start to ease my arm off him, but his fingers curl around my hip, pinning me in place. “Not so fast,” he says, his voice rough. “We’ve still got…ten minutes.”

“Five. And that’s bein’ generous.” I lean in and press my lips to the top of his bare shoulder. “If we get up now, we might even have time for coffee before I have to go home and change.”

He groans, loosens his hold, and pushes the covers off his hips. “Coffee, it is.”

Ten minutes later, we’re standing at his kitchen counter, hands wrapped around steaming mugs of what my mom always called her liquid sunshine. The memory warms me almost as much as the coffee.

“I have dinner with Isabel, Emi, and Grace tonight,” I murmur, stifling a yawn. “Are you working out of the SFMO office today?”

“I’m startin’ there. But I’m inspecting two of the high occupancy buildings from Nate’s list, and that’ll tie me up all fuckin’ day.”

Eliot sounds exhausted already. Last night changed us. This morning should have been slow. It should have been coffee and conversation and the chance to ask the questions I didn’t know I had until he trusted me with the answers. It should have been a chance for him to see that telling me didn’t change how I look at him. A morning where we get to figure out this thing between us before the rest of the world demands our attention.

But the case doesn’t give a damn.

He’ll be inspecting buildings from now until forever, while Nate and I track down Kessler, hunt for an arsonist, and keep pulling at the threads behind Apex Building Solutions.

I set my mug on the counter and step close enough I can slide my fingers into his hair. “I’ve gotten used to seein’ you on the regular. You think maybe…tomorrow night⁠—”

“Yes.” Eliot answers before I can finish the question, curling his arm around my waist and closing the last few inches between us. He kisses me like he has nowhere else to be, though we both know that’s only a dream.

The conference room’s empty when I get to work forty-five minutes later. Nate’s car wasn’t in the lot. Neither was AJ’s. The chief rarely gets in before eight, but my partner is chronically early.

Settling in with my travel mug and a granola bar, I pull up the video that came in overnight from the auto body shop on Rutherford Lane.

“Twenty-four hours?” I almost choke on a sip of coffee. We’d asked for twelve, figuring our unsub likely placed the accelerant overnight and used some sort of timer. The building had been vacant for two years, but Rutherford Lane itself stayed busy enough during the day, anyone lingering would have drawn attention.

I hook my laptop up to the wall monitor, spin my chair around, and put my feet up on the chair next to me. Here’s hoping the world’s most boring movie has at least one scene worth watching.

After an hour, when Nate still hasn’t shown up, I pause the surveillance footage and head to the break room for a cup of what passes for coffee around here. At least it’s usually fresh this time of the morning.

“Son of a bitch. Whoever drank the last cup and didn’t start another pot is gettin’ written up!”

My voice carries far enough into the bullpen, Hunt and Downes hunch their shoulders in tandem. If this case hadn’t turned into a mountain the size of Everest, I’d interrogate both of them until one of them cracked.

Instead, I start a new pot. While it’s brewing, I text Nate.

Is everything okay? The last time you were this late to work, I had to take you to the hospital for appendicitis.

It only takes him five minutes to reply.

Running late. Be there in forty.

I stare at the screen. No explanation. No sarcastic comment about my inability to survive without his organizational prowess. No reminder that he is, in fact, a grown man capable of taking care of himself. Just a time estimate.

Nate has never been “behind” in his life. He probably color-coded the concept of “behind” some ugly shade of brown and categorized it as unacceptable.

Shit.

Please tell me it’s not gallstones this time.