And then Perez walks in.
He’s the last one through the door, and he enters like a thundercloud about to break. There’s no small talk, no smile, not even the pretense of civility. Just a heavy, brooding silence that seems to follow him with every step. His brow is furrowed, jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might crack. He moves with a purpose that’s sharp and restrained—like he’s holding back from punching something. Or someone.
His gaze sweeps the room, detached and disinterested.
And yet, when it passes over me, I feel it—sharp as a blade.
My spine stiffens like I’ve just been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
Which, to be fair… I kind ofwas. Just a few nights ago. In my bed. Whispering his name into a pillow, thighs trembling, vibrator pressed so hard against my clit I saw stars.
God. What is wrong with me?
He barely said a kind word to me last time. Treated me like I was in the way. Laughed at me. Undermined me. And yet here I am, reacting to his presence like he’s lit a fuse under my skin. Again.
I drop my gaze and pick at my nails as he drops into the seat directly behind me, and despite not seeing him, I feel theweight of him there—his presence, his tension, the unspoken frustration radiating off him like static. It prickles against the back of my neck and sends my heart into a frenzy. I force myself to keep my eyes forward as Rodriguez begins her morning briefing, her voice steady and practiced as she ticks through the day’s agenda: units rotating out, coverage notes, recent calls, and admin reminders. But I barely register her words. I’m too aware of Perez behind me. He hasn’t even said a word.
And still, he’sundermy skin.
Three minutes pass—maybe four—before Rodriguez wraps things up. “Alright, stay sharp out there,” she says with a nod. The scrape of chairs follows, boots thud softly against the floor, and officers filter out in groups, murmuring quietly as they leave to gather their gear.
I stay seated, rooted to the spot, and so does Perez.
We sit in silence while the room empties around us, the background noise fading until there’s nothing left but the faint hum of the overhead lights and the slow, steady drum of my pulse. The door clicks shut behind the last straggler. Then, finally, he moves. He stands slowly—deliberately—and steps around the edge of the table, his boots quiet against the tile as he comes to stand directly in front of me.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at me.
His face is unreadable, but not cold. There’s still tension there, coiled beneath his skin like wire pulled too tight, but it doesn’t feel angry this time. Doesn’t feel like it’s aimed at me. It’s quieter. Careful. Measured in a way that makes the air between us feel heavier.
“I didn’t say anything, just so you know,” I offer, breaking the silence. My voice is low, calm, even as I meet his gaze. “I’m not a child who tattles to the boss.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than I expect. There’s no flare of pride, no defensive retort—just a quiet nod. “I know,” hereplies, and his voice is… softer. Not warm, not friendly—but not biting either. “Rodriguez made that clear.”
That throws me for a second. I expected more bite. A scoff. Maybe a snide comment. Not… this.
He exhales, raking a hand through his dark hair like he’s been battling whatever the hell is going on in his head all morning and losing. “Your vest is already in the cruiser,” he says, voice low as he finally turns toward the door. “Let’s go.”
With that, he turns on his heel and strides for the exit. I rise and follow, my boots tapping softly against the tile as I trail him out of roll call and down the corridor toward the parking lot.
Several cruisers are still parked in the lot when we step outside, their engines rumbling softly while officers finish final checks or retrieve gear from their trunks. The low thrum of police radios fills the air in uneven bursts, blending with the sound of boots on the pavement and the occasional slam of a car door.
Perez doesn’t say a word as we approach his cruiser—the engine already running, headlights casting long beams across the pavement like it’s been ready to go for a while. I open the passenger-side door and slide inside without a word. A better-quality observer vest, newer than the one from last week and not nearly as frayed, is folded neatly on the seat. I pick it up and drape it across my lap, feeling the slight weight of it settle there.
Outside, I hear the dull scrape of boots on pavement and catch glimpses of movement in the side mirror. Perez is conducting a standard walk-around, checking tires and ensuring everything is in place. His movements are practiced and methodical, and when he’s satisfied, he yanks the door open and drops into the driver’s seat beside me. He clicks his seatbelt into place, then finally glances over at me.
After a long moment of silence and uncomfortable looks, Perez finally breaks it. “Pick a call,” he says, turning the MDT so it’s angled toward me.
I blink at him. “You want me to pick it?”
He nods once as he shifts the cruiser into drive. My brows furrow slightly as I lean forward to examine the screen. The call log is a dense list of incidents waiting for response, each one tagged with priority codes and brief descriptions—everything from welfare checks to fender benders to reports of suspicious activity.
But one entry jumps out at me.
Priority Two: Possible body found in a wash near Blacklidge Dr and First Ave.
My finger hovers over the line for a second longer than it should, then I turn the screen back toward him. “This one. It sounds… interesting.”
Perez’s head tilts slightly as he gives me a sidelong glance, his expression unreadable. “You sure you’re ready for a crime scene, detective?”
