Chapter 15 Tile and Blood and Quiet
Ryan
The apartment door clicked open after Hawley's third attempt to align the key.
Turned out the mighty Bear wasn't immune to fatigue after all.
Or maybe it was because I half-leaned on it most of the way up.
I slumped into the doorframe. My body felt like it had been run through a trash compactor.
Which wasn't far from the truth, considering those garbage bags had broken my fall.
"Easy," Hawley murmured. Closer than I expected. His hand found my elbow, steadying me as I swayed slightly. The painkillers they'd given me at the hospital were doing their job a little too well.
I shuffled inside. Noticed how Hawley hovered just behind me. Close enough that I could feel his body heat. Ready to catch me if I decided to make friends with the floor. It was strange seeing him this way. All watchful attention and careful precision. Like I might shatter if he looked away.
"You should have stayed overnight for observation." Genuine anger edged his tone as he guided me toward the couch. Our shoulders brushed. I became acutely aware of how solid he felt beside me. How easily he took my weight.
"What, and miss this charming homecoming?" I tried for my usual grin, but it felt stretched thin across my face. "Besides, the hospital gown clashed with my complexion."
Hawley's jaw flexed. He didn't find my deflection amusing. "Bruised ribs, a sprained wrist, and a mild concussion aren't trivial injuries."
"Don't forget my wounded pride. That's the real tragedy here."
The words earned me a withering look as I lowered myself onto the couch. I'd never noticed before how his gaze seemed to carry physical weight. How it pressed into my skin. Made me simultaneously want to fidget and freeze.
Hawley walked away. Headed to the kitchen. I tracked him as he filled a glass with water. His broad shoulders tense under his shirt. The station's gossip about him floated through my mind. The whispers that followed him down hallways. The sideways glances. Saunders's cruel insinuations.
The Bear. Cold. Dangerous. Doesn't play well with others.
Yet here he was. Measuring out my medication.
Checking the dosage twice. What had happened to transform him from the rising star in his file photo to this solitary, guarded figure?
Was it related to those insinuations about him liking men?
And why did watching him navigate our shared space, this bland, Service-assigned apartment with its standardized furniture and bare paint, make my chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with my injuries?
"The doctors cleared me to go home." I broke the silence as he came back with water and pills. "I'm not going to drop dead in the middle of the night."
"You fell from a height onto garbage." He placed the glass on the coffee table with deliberate control. "And you hit your head."
"On a banana peel, probably. Very dramatic." I accepted the medication. Our fingers brushed briefly. "I've had worse falls at department softball games."
Hawley didn't smile. He sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing me directly. His knees nearly touched mine. I had the sudden, absurd urge to close that small gap.
"You saved that boy."
I shrugged. Immediately regretted it as ache lanced through my side. "I did my job."
"No." His stare held mine. Intense and searching. "Your job was to find him. You did more than that."
Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in my chest. I looked away. Uncomfortable with both his proximity and his praise. "Any officer worth their salt would have done the same."
"That's not true." The words dropped lower. Almost to a whisper. "I've worked with many officers who wouldn't have taken that risk."
I swallowed. Unsure how to respond to this version of Hawley. The one whose attention tracked my every action with an intensity that felt both protective and something more. Something that made my pulse quicken despite the medication's drowsy pull.
"Well, I couldn't let him fall. Not when I could catch him."
Hawley's nose wrinkled as he stood over me. "You need a shower. You smell like that laneway's dumpster."
I couldn't help but laugh. Immediately regretted it as agony shot through my ribs.
"Trust me, I'm aware. Didn't you see the expression on the nurses' faces?
" I shifted. Tried to push myself up from the couch.
A sharp, stabbing sensation radiated through my side.
Forced me back down with an undignified grunt.
"But I'm not sure I can manage it right now. "
The silence that followed felt weighted with significance. Hawley studied me. Cataloged my condition with the same methodical attention he gave crime scenes. After a moment, he nodded once. Decisive.
"I'll help you."
The offer hung between us as he extended his palm toward me.
I stared at his outstretched fingers. Suddenly aware of how this might look.
What it might mean. The memory of his confession in the car hung between us.
Gay. The word he'd spoken so plainly, daring me to make something of it.
Now here he was, offering to help me shower.
I hesitated. Not because of his sexuality.
Because accepting help felt like admitting weakness.
"I've got it." I waved him off.
A shadow crossed Hawley's face. There and gone. His palm dropped to his side as he took a step back. His face closed.
"Shit, no," I blurted. Realizing how my refusal must have looked. "It's not because of what you told me earlier. I just..." I tried to stand again on my own. Determined to prove I could manage.
My body had other ideas. The room tilted sideways. I sank back onto the couch with a pained hiss.
"Alright, fine." I sighed. Ran fingers through my filthy hair. "Turns out my dashing heroics have consequences. If you could just help me to the bathroom, I'll take it from there. Consider it your good deed for the year. Saving Toronto's most attractive detective from his own stubbornness."
Something in his face eased. Close enough to count as a victory. He stepped forward again, offering his arm.
"Your modesty is truly inspiring."
I gripped his forearm. Surprised by the solid warmth beneath my touch. "I save modesty for special occasions. Like funerals and tax audits."
He helped me to my feet with deliberate strength.
Adjusted his stance to take my weight when I swayed.
We stood close. Closer than we'd ever been.
I became acutely aware of the differences between us.
The several centimeters he had on me in height.
The breadth of his shoulders. The faint scent of coffee and warmth under the lingering traces of rain.
"Ready?"
I nodded. Not trusting myself to speak. We began our slow procession down the hallway.
My arm draped over his shoulders. His palm steady at my waist. Each step sent dull throbs of discomfort through my ribs.
But I was more distracted by the strange flutter in my chest that had nothing to do with my injuries.
Everything to do with the deliberate way Hawley's grip supported me.
The bathroom's fluorescent light exposed every smudge of dirt. Every trace of garbage clinging to my clothes. I leaned into the sink. Tried to ignore how the mirror reflected my disheveled state back at me. Hair matted with something I didn't want to identify. Shirt stained beyond salvation.
I tried to unbutton my shirt. My fingers turned clumsy with ache. My injured wrist refusing to cooperate. Each time I tried to work a button free, a sharp throb shot up my arm. Made me hiss through clenched teeth.
"I can't..." Embarrassment colored my tone. The admission tasted bitter. I wasn't used to needing help for something so basic. So intimate.
"Let me." Hawley stepped forward quietly.
He operated with that same clinical, detached efficiency. Yet somehow it didn't diminish the strange intimacy of the moment as his hands worked my buttons free one by one. His knuckles occasionally brushed my chest. Warm through the thin fabric of my undershirt.
I studied Hawley's profile as he worked. The focused gaze. The slight furrow between his brows. This close, I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The tiny scar near his right eyebrow.
What did this to you.
Who was the man who could be so distant yet so attentive? Who reached out to help even now?
His palms moved down my shirt. I wondered if he'd done this before. Helped someone undress when they couldn't manage alone. Had he cared for that "partner" this way? The thought came unbidden. Surprised me with a twinge of something that felt uncomfortable.
"I can manage the rest." Pride forced the words out even as my body betrayed me when Hawley reached for my belt. I shifted my weight. A sharp sting lanced through my side. Drew a soft grunt from my lips.
Hawley raised an eyebrow. His expression clearly conveying: You were saying?
"Fine," I conceded. Leaned back into the sink. "But just so we're clear, this isn't how I typically get undressed in front of attractive men."
I'd meant it as a joke. My usual deflection. But the words hung in the steamy air between us. Hawley's hands paused for a fraction of a second before continuing their work. Unfastening my belt with efficient actions.
"Is that something you do often?" The question came carefully neutral as he helped me out of my pants.
"What, get undressed in front of men?" I laughed. Then winced at the ache it caused. "No. I've only ever undressed in front of ladies."
"Ah." Just that single syllable. Impossible to read.
The shower ran hot. Filled the small bathroom with steam that beaded on the mirror and clung to Hawley's dark hair.
He helped me out of my remaining clothes.
That same matter-of-fact efficiency somehow making the vulnerability easier to bear.
I stood naked before him. Bruises blooming purple across my ribs.
The silver chain at my neck the only thing I hadn't taken off.
Feeling strangely exposed in ways that had nothing to do with my lack of clothing.
"I won't look." Hawley rolled up his sleeves and reached for the soap. Helped me into the shower. His actions remained practical and impersonal even as the situation itself felt profoundly personal.
The hot water cascaded over my shoulders. Washed away the grime and eased the throb in my muscles. Hawley's grip steadied me, firm against my upper arm. His other palm lathered soap across my back. His contact was deliberate around the bruises. Almost gentle.
"You didn't have to do this."
"Would you prefer I let you fall and crack your head open?" His breath warmed my ear as he helped me rinse.
"No, but..." I turned slightly. Met his stare through the steam. "Thank you."
His gaze softened. Or maybe that was recognition. For a moment, we weren't Carlson and Hawley. Rivals forced together by circumstance. We were just two people. One helping the other through suffering.
"You'd do the same."
Would I? Before today, I might have doubted it. But now, feeling the deliberate strength in his grip as he supported me, I thought perhaps I would.
"Still, not how I expected this day to end."
His lips quirked slightly. "What, being bathed like a child?"
"Being taken care of." The correction slipped out before I could stop it.
Hawley's palms stilled for a heartbeat. Then he reached past me for the shampoo. His arm brushed mine. Sent an unexpected shiver through me that had nothing to do with the water temperature.