Page 34 of Flint’s Strike

“I was going to say ‘better than I expected.’ But since you offered…”

For a long moment, I don’t say a word. The room settles around us, full of enough paperwork to fuel a ticker-tape parade. Nate studies me with the same intensity he gives evidence, and I have the uncomfortable feeling he’s cataloging every bruise I’m trying to pretend isn’t there.

I tighten my grip on the coffee mug.

“I should’ve called.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“I got your text,” he says quietly.

The words are simple. But the meaning behind them…that stings. “I wasn’t trying to shut you out.”

Something softens in his expression. “I know.”

The knot in my chest loosens a little.

My gaze drifts around the room again, taking in the whiteboard, the legal pads, and the sheer number of hours represented by everything spread across the table.

“You got here at seven?”

Nate shrugs. “Six thirty. Couldn’t sleep.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Bullshit.”

“What?” He spreads his hands in front of him. “We’ve got two suspicious fires, a building that makes no damn sense, and a partner who thought a nine-word text was a satisfactory status report after falling through a floor. I had plenty to keep me busy.”

Despite myself, I laugh.

The sound eases some of the tension bracketing his lips. “But now I have someone to admire my next-level color-coding skills.” He nods toward the chair across from him. “Sit down before AJ catches you standing.”

I huff out another laugh. “He threatened you too?”

“Threatened is a strong word.”

“Nate.”

He angles a glance around me toward the hall. “Fine. Threatened. Twenty bucks says he has your usual from Dot’s delivered precisely at noon. I hope you like warm milkshakes.”

I wrinkle my nose, push away from the doorframe, and make my way to the chair next to my partner. Nate doesn’t comment on the limp, the careful way I lower myself into the chair, or how every movement takes more effort than I want it to.

Which means he notices all of it.

“We good?” I ask.

Nate looks genuinely confused as he sets his pen down and leans back in his chair. “Parker, we’ve been good for a long time.”

The simple certainty in his voice is harder to deal with than any lecture. I drop my gaze to my coffee.

“I should’ve told you more.”

“Probably.”

After a beat, Nate reaches for the remote and points it toward the wall monitor. “You’re here now.”

Relief slips through me so quickly, it leaves me lightheaded.

We’re good at this part. Cases. Files. Discrepancies.