Chapter 9 Storm Light, Bare Skin
Luke
Seventy-three minutes before my alarm would sound. Not that I was counting. Rain came in angry bursts against the window. Each drop an accusation. This cramped apartment, too small, too shared, too filled with him, made sleep impossible.
Yesterday's sparring left my muscles aching. A dull throb in my knuckles where I'd punished the heavy bag longer than necessary. That discomfort made sense. What didn't: the awareness of Carlson sleeping just beyond my wall.
Time to move. Before he did.
The apartment lay silent except for the storm and occasional creaks as the building settled. Hopefully he was still asleep.
Cold hardwood bit into my bare feet. The place smelled musty.
Old paint and someone else's cooking. Service-assigned housing.
Bottom of the barrel. Furnished units issued through the department's standardized allocation system, complete with administrative letters and impersonal fixtures screaming bureaucratic efficiency. I'd lived in worse. Not by much.
Water pipes groaned as I turned on the shower. Cold only. The shock pulled a sharp breath from my lungs. I didn't adjust the temperature.
In the small bathroom mirror, my reflection showed dark circles. A faint bruise forming along my ribs where my sparring partner had landed a solid hit. Hadn't noticed during the match. Hadn't felt anything except the rhythm of my fists connecting. The clarity that came with controlled violence.
The coffeemaker was the only appliance I'd bothered bringing from my old place.
Single-cup. Utilitarian. Black brew steamed in my ceramic mug as I leaned against the counter.
Watched droplets streak down the window.
The building across the narrow street was barely visible through the downpour.
Its windows dark except for one where someone else was awake too early.
Moving like a shadow behind closed blinds.
My knuckles were slightly raw. Skin reddened despite the hand wraps I'd worn.
I flexed my fingers around the warm ceramic, feeling the pull of tightened tendons.
Boxing wasn't just exercise. It was maintenance.
Necessary release. The only place where pressure could build and dissipate without consequence.
Bitter and scalding on my tongue. Outside, the storm intensified, drumming like impatient fingers. Another day in this cramped apartment. Another day with Carlson, his too-loud voice and cologne filling every corner. Another day of pretending his presence didn't grate on me.
Rain fell harder now. Drops smacked with increasing urgency. I refilled my mug. The second batch always tasted better. I settled onto one of the kitchen stools and savored a rare moment of peace before the day's demands.
A door creaked open down the hall.
Footsteps padded across hardwood. He usually slept until the last possible minute. Rushed through his morning routine in a flurry of muttered curses about being late.
I didn't turn. Kept my shoulders from tensing as his footsteps hesitated behind me. Gaze fixed on the window.
"You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep." A pause. "Storm."
One word. Like we were rationing them between us.
I made the mistake of turning around. Carlson stood in the kitchen doorway. Hair mussed from sleep. Wearing nothing but black boxer briefs sitting low on his hips.
My throat went dry.
Without his carefully styled hair and tailored clothes, he appeared younger. Vulnerable. A long, lean torso with just enough definition to suggest strength without bulk. A faint trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband.
He yawned. Stretched his arms overhead. Completely unselfconscious. The movement pulled his frame taut. Highlighted smooth planes of chest. A thin silver chain glinted around his neck, catching what little light filtered through the storm-streaked window.
I forced my attention back to my drink. Took a deliberate gulp, almost choking. Welcomed the distraction.
Carlson made a noise, half-grunt, half-sigh, and shuffled toward the coffeemaker. He moved differently in the morning. None of his usual performative grace. Just a man, sleep-warm and unguarded, reaching for caffeine.
Close enough that I caught his scent. Clean skin. Faded traces of whatever product he used in his hair. No cologne yet. This was Carlson before he became Detective Carlson.
My body reacted without permission. Heat crawled up my neck. Pooled low in my stomach. I shifted on the stool. My grip tightened around the ceramic.
He filled his own mug. Added sugar, too much. Leaned against the counter opposite me. Rain drummed steadily overhead. Lightning flashed, briefly lighting the kitchen in harsh white.
"Bad one." His gaze stayed on the window.
I nodded. The forecast predicted storms all day. Our shift would be miserable. Wet scenes. Irritable witnesses. Paperwork dampened by weather.
He sipped. Throat working as he swallowed. A droplet clung to his lower lip before his tongue darted out to catch it. I turned away. Fought a surge of warmth.
I rose abruptly. Liquid sloshed over the rim of my mug and burned my hand. Didn't flinch. The sting was clarifying. A reminder to get my shit together. I retreated to the living room.
The couch cushions were firm. Unyielding. I set my drink on the scratched table and flexed my fingers. Watched them tremble slightly. Something felt wrong. Too hot. Too aware. Too responsive. To him, of all people.
Carlson. With his perfect face and calculated charm. The Service's golden boy who'd crashed and burned. The man who flirted with everyone like breathing. The last person who should trigger this in me.
I pressed the heels of my hands over my eyes until sparks bloomed in the darkness.
Not him. Not now.
Being gay wasn't the problem. I'd known that part of myself since fifteen, hiding in the school library reading books I'd never take home. I'd accepted it long ago. Filed it where it couldn't interfere with my career. My reputation.
The problem was the wanting.
Wanting was dangerous. Wanting meant vulnerability. Wanting meant giving someone else power over you. The power to disappoint. To betray. To leave. I'd learned that lesson too well to forget it.
In the kitchen, Carlson hummed something under his breath. The sound traveled through the quiet apartment. I could picture him leaning there. Half-naked and relaxed. Completely unaware of the chaos he'd just unleashed in me.
"You want some toast?"
Silence. Couldn't trust myself to respond.
Memories surfaced unbidden. Wright's face, twisted in guilt. The chief's neutral expression during the transfer meeting. Whispers that followed me to my new station. Rumors I'd never confirmed or denied. Took forever to fade.
Never again.
I'd kept my sexuality private for a reason.
Mine alone. Acknowledged but contained. Like a fault line I'd learned to navigate.
Before, I dated rarely. Opted for one-night stands with clear rules.
Men who understood the boundaries. Most importantly, men who didn't share my division.
Men who weren't under my skin before they'd even touched me.
Not men like Carlson.
Carlson, who swaggered through the station like he owned it despite being on probation. Carlson, who couldn't follow a single protocol without arguing. Carlson, who'd somehow made the girlfriend of a stabbing victim trust him in under five minutes the other day.
Carlson, standing in our kitchen in his underwear, making my pulse quicken like some rookie with his first crush.
Pathetic.
"Hey, you okay?" He appeared in the doorway. Mug in one hand. Concern on his face. He'd pulled on a T-shirt, but his legs were still bare. Muscled thighs on full display.
"Fine."
Sharper than I'd intended. The edge in my tone surprised even me.
He raised an eyebrow. "You look like you're about to murder someone. Should I be worried?"
I fixed my attention on the rain-streaked window. "Just thinking about the report Inspector Murphy wants by end of shift."
"At five in the morning?" Carlson snorted. "Sure."
He padded into the living room, silent against the worn hardwood. The couch dipped as he sat. Too close. The distance between us insufficient. Warmth radiated from him. Or maybe I was just hypersensitive to his presence now.
I stood abruptly. Needed distance. "I should get ready."
"We don't need to leave for over an hour." He stretched his legs out. Taking up more territory. Seemingly unaware of my discomfort. Or maybe perfectly aware and enjoying it. "You always this wound up?"
"You always this chatty?"
Regretting the engagement instantly.
He grinned. The expression transformed his face. Without his usual performative edge, his smile seemed genuine. Warm. Dangerous.
"Only when I'm trying to figure someone out. And you're quite the puzzle, Hawley."
I needed to leave. Now. The living room was suffocating. The air between us charged with something I refused to name. My pulse was betraying me. Responding to his proximity in ways I couldn't control.
"I'm going to change."
His eyebrows shot up. "What..."
I was already moving. Retreated to my bedroom. Closed the door with careful restraint. Fought the urge to slam it. Leaned there, breathing hard like I'd run a mile.
This was ridiculous. Adolescent. A grown man. A detective with years of experience. I'd faced down armed suspects without flinching. Yet here I was, hiding in my room because my temporary roommate walked around half-dressed.
The tightness in my groin was impossible to ignore now. I pressed the heel of my hand there. A reflexive attempt at relief that only made things worse.
I could take care of it. Quick and clinical. Release the tension and move on.
I slid my hand beneath the waistband of my sweatpants. Hated myself for the weakness. For letting him affect me this way.
What would I even think about? His sleep-rumpled hair? The way his boxers clung to his thighs? The hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse beat visibly?
What is wrong with me.
No. This was pathetic. I yanked my hand away. Disgusted. Better than this. Stronger. I just needed to get through this temporary assignment without losing my mind or my dignity.
Back out there. Take another cold shower. Get dressed. Put on the uniform and the professionalism. Forget the way he appeared in the half-light of early morning.
From the living room, a phone rang. The shrill, generic tone of his cell. My muscles tensed instinctively. Calls this early were never good news. At least it had the effect of calming me down.
"Detective Carlson speaking." His tone carried through the thin walls. Suddenly all business. The transformation was jarring. From sleep-soft to sharp professional in seconds.
"Yes, sir. We'll head there now." Footsteps approached my door. A quick knock. "Hawley? We've got a call."
Relief washed through me, cold and clarifying. A case. Something real to focus on instead of this... whatever this was.
I pressed my forehead to the door. Listened to his retreating footsteps. My heart still hammered, betraying me even as my mind regained control.
The case. That's all that mattered now. Whatever had happened in that kitchen was irrelevant. A momentary lapse.
At least that's what I told myself. But the warmth lingering under my skin suggested otherwise.