the room smells like rain, old carpet, and the kind of hotel soap that pretends to be expensive.
deena hates that she knows the room now. hates that she can find the light switch without looking. hates that the curtains always stick halfway when she pulls them shut, that the ice machine down the hall rattles every twenty-three minutes like it’s trying to warn her about something. familiarity is dangerous. familiarity grows roots. familiarity is how a one-night bad decision becomes a place you return to when the rest of the world gets too loud.
he’s sitting on the edge of the bed when she comes out of the bathroom, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie already loosened, badge and gun set carefully on the table like things that belong to another life. like they can both pretend, for a few hours, that he isn’t a cop and she isn’t the private investigator who keeps showing up at his crime scenes with too much information and not enough permission.
it had been easier the first time. the first time, they were nobody. no names that mattered. no cases. no dead girls. no witnesses. no old houses in hawkins full of ghosts. just two people in a hotel bar trying to set their own lives down for a few hours without asking who might pick them back up.
that ruins almost everything.
❛ you’re quiet, ❜ he says. deena leans against the bathroom door frame, robe tied too neatly around her waist, hair still damp at the ends. the bruise on her shoulder has turned yellow at the edges. pretty, in the way rotten fruit can be pretty if you don’t think too hard about what made it that color.
❛ that’s new? ❜ his mouth twitches, but he doesn’t take the bait. that’s the problem with him. he has started learning which parts of her are doors and which parts are traps.
❛ no. ❜ his gaze stays on her face. ❛ just louder than usual. ❜
she almost says it. feels the word rise behind her teeth like a little shield. a pause. a reset. something small and useless to place between herself and whatever he is trying to see. instead, she crosses the room.
❛ if this is your way of telling me you miss my sparkling personality, that’s embarrassing for both of us. ❜ he watches her approach without moving. steady. patient. infuriatingly gentle in a way that makes her want to start a fight just to make the room feel safer.
❛ i miss when you didn’t disappear on me while standing three feet away. ❜
the air changes. not dramatically. no thunder. no shattered glass. just the subtle shift of a knife turning over in someone’s hand. deena stops at the foot of the bed.
❛ no, ❜ he says softly. ❛ you’re not. ❜
she laughs once, dry and sharp. ❛ and here i thought police work was mostly observation. ❜
❛ it is. ❜ he stands then, slow enough that she doesn’t feel crowded. ❛ that’s how i know. ❜
she hates him for that. not really. maybe a little. because he isn’t wrong, and wrong men are easier to dismiss. wrong men can be laughed at, corrected, left behind in hotel rooms with the door locking cleanly behind her. but he is standing there with his careful hands and tired eyes, saying something true, and truth has always made deena feel cornered.
❛ i called you because i wanted this simple, ❜ she says.
❛ then stop making it complicated. ❜
his jaw shifts. not anger. restraint. the kind of restraint that makes him look older, sadder, like the day has finally caught up to him.
❛ deena, this stopped being simple the second you started showing up at my cases and pretending you didn’t know what my mouth tasted like. ❜ her breath catches. barely. unfortunately, he notices of course he does.
❛ don’t do that, ❜ she says.
❛ say things like we’re people. ❜
his expression breaks around the edges. not enough to become soft. enough to hurt.
❛ no. ❜ her voice comes too quickly. too flat. ❛ not here. that was the deal. ❜
❛ that was the first night. ❜
she looks away. mistake. the silence finds the place her answer should have been and settles in comfortably. he steps closer, then stops. lets her decide what to do with the distance. he is always doing that now. leaving her exits. offering her choices. refusing to turn wanting her into a cage, which should make things easier and somehow makes them unbearable.
❛ look at me, ❜ he says. not an order. that’s worse. orders she can fight. gentleness slips under the armor. deena does not look at him.
❛ i’m not in the mood for a wellness check. ❜
❛ good. i’m off duty. ❜ that almost gets a smile out of her. almost. his voice lowers.
❛ i don’t want to do this if you’re not here with me. ❜ something inside her goes still. there are sentences that sound harmless until they find the right wound. i don’t want to do this if you’re not here with me. as if presence is easy. as if deena has not spent half her life learning how to leave rooms without moving. how to make her face calm while her mind crawls out the nearest window. how to become useful, sharp, funny, impossible ; anything but bare.
❛ i’m here enough, ❜ she says.
Her eyes snap back to his. There it is again. That terrible honesty of his. No performance. No posturing. No demand dressed up as romance. Just a man standing in front of her, tired of being handed the version of herself she thinks is safest to lose.
❛ then maybe you should leave. ❜ The words land between them, flat and ugly. She means them. She doesn’t.
He looks at her for one long second, and for one horrible moment she thinks he might actually do it. Pick up his badge, his gun, his stupid loosened tie, and walk out before she can decide whether she wanted him to stay. Instead, he exhales and runs a hand over his face.
❛ Is that what you want? ❜
Deena’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Annoying.
❛ Because if it is, say it, ❜ he continues, quieter now. ❛ and i’ll go. i won’t make you chase me. i won’t punish you for it. but don’t stand there and hand me an exit because you’re scared i’m going to ask for the room with the lights on. ❜
Her throat tightens. The room feels too warm. Too small. Too familiar.
❛ you knew what this was, ❜ she says, but it sounds weaker now. Less accusation. More plea. ❛ you knew. ❜
❛ I knew what you called it. ❜
❛ I didn’t know you’d start calling me after bad cases and hang up before saying why. I didn’t know you’d remember how I take my coffee. I didn’t know you’d leave files in my car and pretend it was an accident. ❜ His jaw shifts. ❛ I didn’t know you’d look at me like that and still expect me to believe I’m only good enough for hotel rooms and borrowed hours. ❜
Her face hardens because something has to.
❛ wow. ❜ There it is. Small. Automatic. A match struck in the dark. His expression softens at the sound of it, which makes her want to throw something.
❛ that’s usually where you hide, isn’t it? ❜ he asks. ❛ behind wow? ... behind anything that buys you a second to become untouchable again. ❜
She laughs once, sharp enough to cut.
❛ You make it sound so glamorous. Like I’m some tragic little magician instead of a woman trying not to have this conversation in a hotel room that smells like carpet cleaner and bad decisions. ❜
❛ No, because I’m serious. ❜ She folds her arms tighter over herself, robe slipping at one shoulder before she jerks it back into place. ❛ You don’t get to stand there looking all noble and emotionally literate because you figured out I’m not great at vulnerability. Congratulations. Have a sticker. ❜
His mouth twitches. She hates that more than anything.
❛ You’re doing that thing with your face where you’re trying not to. It’s obnoxious. ❜
❛ And you’re still here. Looks like we both have hobbies. ❜
He studies her for a second too long. Not offended. Not retreating. Just watching her with that maddening patience that always makes her feel like she’s the only one in the room throwing knives.
❛ you don’t know me well enough to say any of this, ❜ she says.
The words are so simple they almost feel cruel. Let me. Not take. Not pry. Not demand. Let me.
Deena looks at him and thinks about every locked door she’s ever mistaken for safety. Every person she’s loved by leaving little pieces of herself behind. Barb’s picture in a box she still can’t tape shut. Jane Hopper’s name in the margins of old notes. Her father’s house. Hawkins. The terrible religion of becoming useful enough that no one could accuse you of needing too much.
❛ Why? ❜ she asks. The question comes out smaller than she wants. His face shifts.
❛ No. ❜ He shakes his head once. ❛ I have the version of you that shows up when the rest of your life gets too loud. I have hotel rooms. Late-night phone calls. Your body when you want to stop thinking and your voicemail when you don’t. ❜
She flinches. Not much. Enough. He sees it and looks almost sorry. Good. Let him be sorry.
❛ that’s not fair, ❜ she says.
Always truth with him. She should have picked someone dumber.
❛ what do you want me to do? ❜ she asks, and the frustration in it cracks open into something dangerously close to fear. ❛ tell me. because apparently i’m doing this wrong, so just ... tell me what the hell you want from me. ❜
He goes still. Then he steps toward her. Slow enough that she could move if she wanted to. Close enough that the air changes anyway. One hand settles at her waist. The other braces against the wall beside her head. Not trapping. Just there. Just enough to make her feel how impossible it would be to keep pretending he doesn’t get to her.
❛ You know what I’m tired of? ❜ he asks quietly.
Deena lifts her chin. ❛ I’m sure you’re about to tell me. ❜
❛ I’m tired of getting the version of you that thinks this is all you’re allowed to be. ❜
Her eyes flick away. He catches her jaw gently and turns her back.
❛ no, ❜ he says, softer now. ❛ stay here. ❜
The words hit like a spark to dry tinder ..... humiliatingly effective, and he knows it from the way her breath catches. Her eyes narrow immediately.
His eyebrows lift. ❛ no? ❜
❛ Don’t look so pleased with yourself. ❜ Her voice drops flatter, meaner. ❛ I’m one condescending pet name away from keying your car. ❜
❛ You say that like you don’t already know what you do to me when you get that tone. ❜
❛ I say it like I think your self-preservation skills are lacking. ❜
His thumb drags once along her jaw, and the look on his face turns devastatingly soft.
❛ there you are, ❜ he murmurs. ❛ that’s the one i want. not the ghost. not the woman who keeps trying to turn this into something small enough to survive. you. ❜
Deena laughs once, brittle around the edges. ❛ You say that like I’m a prize. ❜
❛ No, ❜ he says. ❛ I say it like I’m done pretending I only want pieces. ❜
His gaze drops to her mouth, then lower, to the hand still clutching her robe closed.
❛ I’ve seen you wrecked and bare and shaking in my hands, and somehow that still isn’t enough for me anymore. ❜ His voice lowers. ❛ I don’t just want the girl who shows up at midnight and disappears by morning. I want your sharp mouth in my kitchen. I want you on my porch with tea in your hands, glaring at me over the rim of your mug because I said something smug and true. I want the woman who steals my coffee, leaves files in my car, and acts like it’s a coincidence when she calls me after bad nights. I want the parts of your life you keep locking me out of. ❜
Her throat works around a swallow.
❛ that sounds like a you problem. ❜
❛ it is. ❜ His hand tightens once at her waist. ❛ And I’m done acting like I want it solved. ❜
The room goes painfully quiet. Deena stares at him like she’s forgotten what breathing is supposed to feel like. Because this is the problem, isn’t it? Not the wanting.The scale of it. The fact that he doesn’t just want the body she can hand over and take back before sunrise. He wants the rest of it. The ugly little domestic pieces. The daylight. The permanence. The version of her that lingers after the room is clean and the robe is back on and there’s nothing left to hide behind but her own bad attitude.
❛ you make it sound so easy, ❜ she says.
❛ i’m not saying it’s easy. ❜
❛ then stop looking at me like it is. ❜
His face softens in a way that almost undoes her.
❛ Deena. ❜ He says her name like it’s something breakable. ❛ I know it’s not easy. I know you don’t know what to do with someone wanting more than this. I know half the time you look at me like I’m asking for organs when all I said was stay the night. ❜
Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitches. He notices. Of course he does.
❛ But I’m not asking you to be easy, ❜ he says. ❛ I’m asking you to be here. With me. On purpose. ❜
Her fingers find the belt of her robe. Not because he asked. Because she chooses to. His eyes drop once, then return to her face. Good man. Annoying man. Dangerous man. She unties the knot slowly. The robe loosens, but she keeps it closed with one hand. He watches her like this is not about skin. Like this is about permission. Like this is about whether she can stand in the room without leaving herself behind.
❛ i don’t know how to do this, ❜ she admits. The words scrape on the way out.
❛ stop saying that like it’s fine. ❜
❛ then it’s not, ❜ he says. ❛ we’ll do it anyway. slowly. ❜
❛ You sound very confident for a man who threatened to arrest me two weeks after sleeping with me. ❜
He blinks. Then laughs, surprised and helpless, and the sound breaks some terrible little knot in the room.
❛ you were trespassing at an active scene. ❜
❛ there were witnesses. ❜
Hers almost does too. Then the quiet returns, but it’s different now. Less like a trap. More like a threshold. He reaches up and touches her face with the back of his fingers. Slow. Asking. She stiffens on instinct, and he stops immediately. Not offended. Not wounded. Just waiting. Deena closes her eyes for one second. Not to disappear. To stay. When she opens them again, she nods. His hand settles against her cheek. Gentle. The kind of gentle that ruins people who have spent their lives preparing for impact.
❛ there you are, ❜ he murmurs.
The words land somewhere deep and unguarded. Her eyes burn.
❛ don’t get sentimental. ❜
❛ devastating, actually. ❜
She huffs a laugh, small and wet around the edges. His thumb moves once along her cheekbone.
❛ I’m going to kiss you, ❜ he says. ❛ Then I’m going to ask if you’re still with me. Then I’m going to keep asking. Probably enough to annoy you. ❜
❛ Bold of you to assume you don’t already. ❜
Her mouth curves faintly despite herself.
❛ okay, I understand you. ❜
He kisses her then. Softly. Slow enough that she has time to panic and decide not to. His hand remains at her face, the other at her waist, and every movement arrives announced before it becomes expectation. No rushing. No taking. No dragging her somewhere she cannot follow. Just his mouth against hers and the quiet, patient insistence of a man who has finally decided that if she wants to be no one, he will wait until she is brave enough to come back as herself. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against hers.
Deena exhales shakily. For once, she doesn’t say wow. For once, she doesn’t make a joke. For once, she lets the room see her answer before she can bury it.
His fingers tighten at her waist.
And somewhere between the rain against the window, the bruised yellow light, and the robe slipping from her shoulder by choice instead of performance, Deena realizes the most terrifying thing about being wanted gently is that some part of her might want to survive it too.
