wen⟢

   Cool air hits your face as you step back into the comfort of your home, breathing a sigh of relief as you flop down on the worn sofa in the living room. You lay against the plush cushions for several moments, listening as your dog gulps down the contents of their water bowl before emptying your pockets onto the coffee table. You gaze down at the small pile before you, absentmindedly tapping your fingers against the surface of the table. Your wallet. A tube of chapstick. A peppermint. Holland’s business card. Holland’s notepad. The notepad. Your fingers continue to drum in no discernible rhythm, your body pleading for a distraction as your mind races while deciding what your next move will be. 

   Seemingly of their own accord, your fingers move to graze the soft leather cover of the notepad, dragging along the worn edges as you lean to rest your chin against your free hand. You stay like this for a moment before snapping back to reality, pulling your fingers away from the notepad as if you had been burned by it. Nope. Not doing this. There’s got to be some kind of rule or law against snooping through a detective’s notes. You push yourself up off of the sofa and step into the kitchen to refill your dog’s water bowl before heading down the hall to your bathroom. A shower will help clear your head, you tell yourself, turning on the faucet and throwing your sweat-through clothes into the corner. 

   Surprisingly, the shower did help. You were able to push just about all the thoughts out of your mind for a mere fifteen minutes as you washed the heat and unexpected encounters of the day down the drain. You slip into some comfy clothes and begin to towel dry your hair as you pad back down the hallway to the living room. Your dog is blissfully spread out on the rug in the center of the room, soaking up the last columns of sunlight that flow in through the large window. You lean down and run a hand down the length of their body, feeling the soft fur glide against your fingertips, ending the pet with a small ruffle to their belly. You drape your damp towel over the back of a dining chair and pull a paper take-out menu from the junk drawer in the kitchen, dialing the number of a local Chinese restaurant and placing a delivery order before retiring back to the sofa for a night of television channel surfing. 

   After scrolling mindlessly through a multitude of programs with the televisions dials, you finally settle on some reruns of Charlie’s Angels. You collapse into the sofa and let the Angels entertain you for about 20 minutes before adjusting your position on the cushions. You lean back and kick your feet up, crossing your ankles on the coffee table below as your hands clasp together and move to rest on your stomach. A comfortable sigh escapes your lips as a commercial drones on inside the television screen. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice that your foot is just barely brushing against the side of Holland’s notepad, where it had been abandoned on the coffee table. You pull your feet back down to the carpet as your eyes bore holes into the leather book. You continue to stare, willing your eyes to move away. Anywhere else. Literally any other object in this room would suffice. Your eyes do not obey. Of course they don’t. You throw your head back into the sofa, groaning in defeat and rubbing your hands over your face before sitting forward once more and reaching for the notepad. 

   Every part of your brain screams for you to just leave the notepad be, but your body pays no mind to rationality as your fingers close around the leather exterior. You just can’t help it; you’ve always been somewhat of a nosy person, and now that you had free rein to a detective’s thoughts, you weren’t going to pass the opportunity up. Your eyes flick through the first few lined pages, words and timestamps scribbled haphazardly across each sheet. You frown slightly, almost disappointed that there isn’t juicier information afoot. 

   Mrs. Doherty - Leaves residence 11:48am. 

   Mr. Doherty - Piece of shit. Makes phone call. Paces and looks out window. 14 times. Currently 11:56am. 

   Mistress - Arrives 12:24pm. 

   Okay, so Mr. Doherty really is cheating on his wife. Hm. He never really seemed like the type. The next few pages are similar in content, more arrival and departure times and small observations about the neighborhood around you. Not expecting much more substance, your fingers rest on the edge of the pad to close it when the last scribble under your thumb catches your eye. 

   Right-side neighbor. My right. - Smokin’. Walks dog past house every afternoon after Mistress leaves. Returns ≈ 20 minutes later. Like clockwork. 

   Your mouth falls agape as you reread the page over again, a strange heat blooming throughout your chest. All you can do in this moment is stare down at the small book in your hands, mind reeling from the fact that Holland called you smokin’ in his field notes and underlined it twice. What the fuck. A blush begins to crawl up your neck and just as it reaches your cheeks, the sound of a doorbell pulls you out of your thoughts with an unforgiving jolt. You tear your eyes away briefly from the scribbled page and jump up, fumbling for your wallet as you step towards the door to retrieve your dinner. 

   After the delivery man has been paid and your meal is spread out across the coffee table, a split second decision finds you swiping Holland’s business card and notepad from the surface, stepping quickly over to your telephone. With shaking fingers, you dial the number from Holland’s card, not entirely sure what you’re going to say. The line rings a few times and Holland’s voice beings to flow into your ears through the receiver. 

   “You’ve reached Detective Holland March at The Nice Guys Agency. I’m probably out on a case, please leave a message with your information and I will try to get back to you. Holly, if you’re listening to this message, call Healy. He’ll know how to find me.”

   You breathe a sigh of relief when you realize you’ve gotten Holland’s answering machine in lieu of speaking to the man directly. Thank God. At the beep, you leave a quick message letting him know that you found his notepad in your neighbors yard after your run in and would be happy to return it to him as soon as possible. You give him the name of a diner you frequent a few miles away and a time to meet you there. If he isn’t able to make it, you offer to bring the notes directly to his office the following day. You sign off and hang the phone up with a tad bit more force than necessary. The phone is replaced by your head hanging in your hands for a few seconds, heels of your palms pressing against your eyes before opening the notepad to the last page Holland used and writing something quickly in the open margin below his last observation. 

   The notepad shuts with a soft phwump and is left on the kitchen island as you plod back over to the living room where your dinner is cooling in front of yet another episode of Charlie’s Angels. You settle down in the sofa with a carton of noodles, willing your brain to just focus on the show playing a few feet away, but your mind finds itself thinking about something else entirely. Shit. 

   The following day you find yourself staring through the glass doors of the diner, hand hesitating on the cool metal handle. It’s fine, you think. He probably acts this way with all the girls he meets. The thought causes your stomach to knot and your lips curl up in a way you aren’t expecting. All the girls. Hm. Surely there are plenty. What makes you so special? With a groan, you drop your head forward and pull on the heavy door, a blast of cool air hitting you as you cross the threshold. 

   Your eyes scan across the rows of brightly colored vinyl booths until your gaze lands on a familiar set of sideburns in the corner. He looks a lot more put together today, wearing a floral-printed button up under a maroon suit that lays taught across his lean frame. Damn. His tie sits snug against his collar, no gold necklace peeking out this time. If this was your first impression of him, you would have been more inclined to believe that he was a private investigator. Holland clocks your gaze immediately and waves a hand in your direction, a lit cigarette balancing between his fingers. 

   “Afternoon, sunshine.” Holland says as you approach the table, flashing a broad smile before taking a long drag from the cigarette. “I ordered you a coffee, but I wasn’t sure how you take it. Assumed you’d like it sweet though, sugar.” He gestures at the open seat in front of him as your stomach flips at the nickname. 

  You slide into the booth opposite Holland, suddenly extremely mindful of the way your bare legs stick to the vinyl bench. Great, if he doesn’t leave first, he’s going to have to see me try and unstick myself like a mouse in a glue trap. An exasperated sigh leaves your mouth before you can stop it, which you try to cover with an all-too-fake-sounding cough. Holland raises a brow at you and nods at the steaming coffee mug placed in front of you. 

   “Oh, that was very thoughtful of you, but I actually don’t drink coffee. I prefer tea over anything.” You say with a shrug, nudging the coffee mug towards the center of the table. 

   Holland’s face picks up a red tinge of embarrassment as he looks back and forth between your face and the coffee, now sitting in front of him. He stammers for a moment and stubs out his cigarette, trying to collect his bearings before speaking again. 

   “Shit, I’m sorry sweetheart. I guess I’m not as good of a detective as I thought.” His apology is punctuated with a wiggle of his brows. 

   Holland waves down the waitress and she stops at the table and beams at the two of you, pulling her own tattered notepad out of her apron pocket. 

   “Sorry Joyce, I got a little too ahead of myself and ordered coffee for the table. Would you be a doll and bring us a black tea?” Holland glances back to you, “Iced?” 

   You nod and give the waitress a polite smile. “A basket of fries would be great, too. Thank you.”

   Joyce heads over to the counter to put in your order and Holland starts sipping on your now-abandoned cup of black coffee. What is it with these macho types that they enjoy drinking black coffee? It doesn’t even taste good. What’s the point? Holland clears his throat, pulling you from your inner monologue, eyes immediately snapping up to meet his. 

   “So,” Holland starts, his fingers tapping against the side of the coffee mug. “I was glad to get your message last night. Not that I wouldn’t have been glad to talk to you directly. I mean— I did talk to you. Y’know. Before.” He waves his hands erratically to get his point across. He sucks the air through his teeth and places his palms flat against the glass top of the table. “What I’m trying to say is— I’m trying to say that I was happy to hear that I would see you again, doll.” 

    Doll. 

   The word echoes in your head. Not just a word. A nickname. A pet name. That Holland March has given you. Something twists deep in your gut and you can feel your face getting hot. Where the hell is Joyce with that iced tea? Right on cue, as if she could hear your thoughts, the waitress returns with a glass of iced tea and a fresh basket of french fries. Your smile falters slightly as you reach for the glass, taking a large sip to try and calm your nerves. 

   Your glass clinks against the tabletop as you set it down, your free hand motioning to the fries sat between the two of you. 

   “Please, go ahead if you’d like.” 

   Holland eagerly reaches for a fry and pops it into his mouth, burning his tongue in the process. “Jesus! Careful darlin’, those little fuckers are hot.”

   You can’t help but let a giggle escape as you watch Holland try to fan his mouth with his hand. And this guy is a detective. Renowned. 

   “I’m glad that you got my message. I wasn’t sure if you actually had the time to meet me or not, I figured you had some important investigative work to take care of.” You smirk as you tap out some ketchup in the corner of the fry basket. 

   “I’ll have you know I do have important investigative work to take care of, but I would much rather spend the small amount of free time I have in the company of a beautiful woman.” 

   “That’s awful big talk for someone who I’ve only just met, Detective March. And don’t forget that when I met you, not even twelve hours ago, I thought you were some kind of perverted sex maniac.” 

  This causes Holland’s eyes to widen and his skin to flush, he hopes to God you can’t tell that his knees have just about turned to jelly at your words. A snort escapes him, as he desperately tries to hold in a bout of laughter. “Doll, I may be a sex maniac but I can assure you, I am not a pervert.” 

   “Sheesh, at least take me to dinner first before bragging about your sex life, detective.” 

   “Just name a time and place, sweetheart. I’m there.” There’s a glint in Holland’s eyes that wasn’t there before. Sure, his playful banter wasn’t lost on you this entire time, but something deeper behind his words seemed to shift. 

   You tear your eyes away from Holland’s and clear your throat, attempting to steer the conversation back to the task at hand by shoving a ketchup-covered fry into your mouth. 

   “Have you found anything else out about the Doherty’s?” You ask, chewing innocently, as if you hadn’t already read all of his field notes. 

   “Hm, same old story really. Husband gets bored and starts calling up another lover as soon as his wife leaves the house for the day. We see it a lot more often than you would think.” He shrugs, lighting a fresh cigarette he had just pulled from his pocket. 

   “That’s too bad, Mrs. Doherty was always so sweet to me. I’ve lived next door to them for a long time.” Ice clinks in your glass as you swirl the straw around with your finger. “So is that it, then? You’re done with the investigation?” 

   “From a technical standpoint, you could say that it’s done, but Mrs. Doherty has made it worth my while to try and squeeze out as much information as I can.” 

   “Oh, so you’re taking advantage of a poor woman whose husband is engaging in infidelity?” Your brow quirks up as you raise the question, stopping Holland in his tracks. 

   “No no no— that’s not what’s going on at all, sweetheart. Shit- I mean, she wants to know as much information as possible so she can use it with her lawyer to initiate a divorce. She knows he’s unfaithful, it’s just my job to get all the dirty little details.” He raises his hands in surrender, smoke wafting out around him as the cigarette dangles between two fingers.  

   “Hm, I guess I never thought of doing it that way.” 

   After countless coffee and iced tea refills and a finished basket of fries later, your conversation slowly comes to a halt. It feels as if you’ve known Holland for years with how easy it was to talk to him. You guys talked about anything and everything; the weather, the case, what you’ve noticed about your neighbors, your dog, the killer bees, the smog, you name it. Soon enough, it had been a couple of hours since you first arrived at the diner. 

   During the lull in conversation, Joyce drops off the check and you rummage through your wallet to contribute to your portion of the bill. You hold out a $5 bill in between your fingers and Holland waves his hands at you once again.

   “It’s my treat, doll. You might be the cheapest date I’ve ever had.” A broad grin hangs from his lips with the cigarette as he pulls out a wad of his own cash, throwing a few bills down on the tabletop. 

   You roll your eyes and stuff your wallet back into the pocket of your shorts, fingers grazing the smooth leather notepad you had stashed there. You were so caught up in the conversation that you had almost forgotten the entire reason you came here in the first place. It seems as though Holland had long forgotten as well. 

   “Well, it’s nice talking to you when you aren’t peering through someone’s window, Detective March. I still have your card, so I’ll be sure to give you another ring if I happen to see anything out of the ordinary.” You carefully peel yourself off the vinyl and stand at the edge of the booth. “I really should be going now, my dog has been home alone most of the day and it’s about time for our walk. Thank you for the company, and the drink.” 

   You hold up one finger to Holland, head bowing slightly as you pull his notepad out of your pocket and slide the small book across the table. The pad stops just shy of his fingers, where they rest on the glass. 

   “Goodbye, detective.” And just like that, you turn on your heel and start towards the front doors of the diner. You can’t help but throw a glance over your shoulder back at Holland as you approach the exit. He’s watching you as a fire burns behind his eyes, locked right on the swell of your ass where it meets your bare thighs. Of course. You shake your head and chuckle softly as you push out the doors and head to your car. 

   Holland couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, mesmerized by your swaying hips as you saunter out of the building. Sure, he had obviously noticed how attractive you were when he saw you walking your dog these past few days, but something was different this time. Maybe it was the close proximity, the fact that he had just spent upwards of an hour chatting and laughing with you? Or it could just be the way your tight halter neck top pulls across your breasts and how your shorts hugged and clung to every curve of your body as you walked away. He is a man, after all. And all he knew is that he was done for. 

   Once you were out of his line of sight, Holland came back to reality and took a few more puffs from the cigarette resting between his lips. The smoke billowed out around him as he opened the notepad to revisit his last few sets of observations. He flicks through the pages, peering at the hastily scribbled notes, squinting as he tries to decipher some of his own handwriting. He’s about caught up to yesterday’s events when he notices a brightly colored ink bleeding through the next page of notes. Strange. He flips the page quickly and is met with his last remark. 

   Right-side neighbor. My right. - Smokin’. Walks dog past house every afternoon after Mistress leaves. Returns ≈ 20 minutes later. Like clockwork. 

   Underneath this, your name and phone number are written neatly in bright pink, sparkly gel ink. A near-perfectly drawn heart is etched next to your gift. Holy shit. Holland’s jaw drops and his cigarette falls right out of his mouth and into his lap, burning a hole through the thigh of his trousers. 

   “Jesus!” A few patrons turn their heads towards him as he yelps and pats his crotch down, quickly stamping out the flame. “Fuck!”

   He stubs out the rest of the cigarette butt and drops it in the ashtray, gathering his belongings and hustling out of the diner to avoid any further embarrassment on his part. As he stumbles through the double doors into the scorching California heat, your eyes meet his as you cruise past—not without throwing a wink in his direction— and turn off of the street. Oh, he is so fucked. 

   Later that evening, your nerves have finally died down and you find yourself sprawled out in front of the television while mindlessly stroking your dog on the couch next to you. You had gone for your daily walk once you returned, and now it was time to replay and overthink everything that had happened in the diner earlier that day. A faint rustle in the backyard alerts your dog and they hightail out the dog door to investigate the sound, leaving you alone in the living room. 

   Your memory flashes back to locking eyes with Holland from across the diner, the checkered floor threatening to open up and swallow you whole. The words sugar, darlin’, sweetheart, doll are swirling around inside your mind, each one sending a shiver down your spine and a pang through your chest as you recall the way they drip from his lips; always in a lower register than the rest of the sentence. You never were one for pet names, but after hearing the way they fall from Holland’s mouth, he could call you whatever he wanted and get away with it. You close your eyes and think back to when he uttered each one, breath hitching in your throat as a flush begins to work its way up your body. Your hand rests on your chest, heaving slightly with your quickening breath, as you slowly glide your fingers down your stomach. Goosebumps appear along your skin in their wake as you continue to trail your fingers lower and lower to the heat that is starting to bloom between your thighs. Just as you make contact with your clothed core, the shrill ring of a telephone rips you from your fantasy with a jolt. 

   A frustrated groan tears from your throat as you stomp over to the phone, all irritation melting away as Holland’s words flow like honey through the receiver. 

   “Evenin’, doll.” God, you can hear his shit-eating-grin through the phone. 

   “Good evening, Detective March.” The words roll off your tongue, silently hoping there’s no desperation left behind them. Nope, definitely wasn’t just about to touch myself to the thought of you calling me that, detective. What makes you think that? “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

   “Oh, right. I- uh—“ Holland stammers a bit and you swear you can hear him banging the receiver against his forehead. 

   “Did you have some follow up questions about the case for me or something?” 

   The line is silent for a second following your question. Two. Three. Four. 

   “Honestly, I wasn’t expecting you to pick up, sugar. You’ve caught me off guard.” A defeated huff of air hits your ears. “I’m— I just wanted to make sure you got back home safe and sound. Y’never know what’s waiting around the corner, sweetheart. Crazy drivers. Axe murderers. Drug dealers. Just to name a few.” 

   A laugh begins to ripple out of you but suddenly dies in your throat. Just wanted to make sure you got back home safe and sound.

   “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were just looking for an excuse to talk to me again, detective.” 

   “Hey, hey. I’m just trying to do my due diligence here! It wouldn’t look too good for me if you disappeared or got axe murdered right after I was seen at that diner with you.” A chuckle leaves his lips.

   “Mm, you would make a pretty convincing suspect. I think it’s the goatee.” You tease as you take a seat at the kitchen island, twirling the telephone cord with your free hand. 

   “It’s a soul patch, darlin’. There’s a big difference. Only pervs have goatees, and as you may remember I’ve told you before, I am not a pervert.” 

   “Whatever you say, Detective March.” 

   You spend the next several minutes entertaining yourself with how easily flustered you can make Holland over the phone, quickly losing track of time as your home takes on a dusky hue. 

   “Anyway, I figured I’d let you know that I’ll probably be poking around the neighborhood for a couple more days. Mrs. Doherty’s got me on paper for a few more hours. Just in case you see me around. In the street. Or the hedges. Just business as usual.” 

   “Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around then. You do know my dog walking schedule, after all.” A smile creeps onto your lips and this time, you do nothing to stop it. “I’ll be looking forward to it, detective.”

authors note ✮⋆˙ the repeated use of the nickname sugar in this fic is all thanks to bestie twin haley @cosmicyeehaw, i simply cannot stop — check out her holland fic (threat) where it is also used phenomenally 🙂‍↕️ ((we basically share one braincell and that braincell is holland)) thank you for supporting me endlessly and basically beta reading every section of this fic when i send them to you late at night ilysm 🫶😙