Page 47 of Flint’s Strike

The coffee maker gurgles as I stare at my phone charging at the other end of the counter. He asked me out. So why go dark on me?

Did I make one too many jokes about the neon yarn? Was I too direct? Telling him something might happen after dinner? What if he’s the kind of guy who likes to take things slow?

He blurted out, “Have dinner with me,” in the middle of an arson investigation. That doesn’t feel very “take it slow.”

I run my index finger over the rim of my coffee cup and replay every minute of yesterday afternoon’s conversation. Maybe my “what may—or may not—come after” was too much. Or maybe I’m overanalyzing everything because I haven’t had an actual relationship since before my mom got sick.

After the second cup of coffee, I feel marginally human. And brave enough to pick up my phone.

One unread message.

I’ll be at the station first thing, with donuts and a dinner reservation.

I lean back against the counter, my hands shaking, and look at the time stamp. Three hours after my last text.

The story I’d built tossing and turning suddenly feels less like fact and more like exhaustion-fueled insecurity.

But it was still three hours.

God, I’m pathetic.

I grab my keys, sling my bag over my shoulder, and make my way down the three flights of stairs. The stitches pull with every step, but the pain’s manageable.

Siren Coffee is only ten minutes from my apartment, yet I blow right past the exit and drive half an hour out of my way to Alabaster’s Coffee Kiosk. I’m not sure why I feel the need to show up with hemp milk lattes. Except Eliot and Nate had a five-minute discussion on how hemp was superior to all other milks, and I want this man to know I heard him.

Somewhere between Alabaster’s and the station, I start getting annoyed with myself.

Eliot asked me to dinner. Not vaguely. Not in a way that required interpretation. He asked. I said yes.

Then he disappeared for three hours, and I spent half the night trying to figure out why. Built a whole case file out of silence, complete with motives, conclusions, and zero supporting evidence.

I stop behind a pickup truck at a red light, and take a second to rest my head on the steering wheel.

Eliot taking three hours to text back wasn’t the issue. The issue was realizing three hours was enough time for me to miss him.

The usual chatter in the bullpen falls silent the second I step through the double doors with the cardboard drink holder. My gaze finds Eliot immediately, standing next to the conference room with two boxes of donuts in his hands.

I’m not prepared for the sudden explosion of butterflies in my stomach. Or the way my lips curve into a smile. Or the warmth building in my chest.

I didn’t know how much I needed to see him. Or how much I needed him to see me.

The realization stops me in my tracks. The floor might as well be wet cement for as hard as it is to take another step.

But then Eliot smiles. His brown eyes soften, the tension in his body melting away.

I force my legs to move until I’m right in front of him. Close enough to notice his cologne. Subtle. Vanilla, maybe cinnamon. Clove.

“Hi,” I say softly.

Hi? Really? That’s all you’ve got?

“Donuts. I didn’t know what you liked, so I bought…well…” Color floods his cheeks.

My brows lift at the two large boxes in his hands. “The entire shop?”

“Only half of it.”

His laugh is so warm, I join in, until Nate’s voice carries from behind the conference room door.