Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Daniel's hands find me the moment the apartment door clicks shut. His mouth claims mine—demanding, possessive. The kiss tastes like ginger and something darker.
We don't make it to the bedroom.
He presses me against the hallway wall, his fingers already working at my jeans. There's an edge to him tonight, sharper than usual. The restaurant incident is still crackling through his veins.
"You're mine," he breathes against my neck.
I arch into him, heat pooling low in my belly. "Yours."
This part, at least, has never been complicated.
He's rough tonight—exactly the way I've always liked it.
His hands grip my hips hard enough that I know there will be marks tomorrow, little purple reminders pressed into my skin.
His teeth scrape along my collarbone, not quite breaking skin but enough to make me gasp.
Every movement feels deliberate, calculated to claim and conquer.
He knows what he's doing—every touch designed to make me forget everything except this moment, except him. The wall is cold against my back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against mine, and I lose myself in the sensation of being wanted this intensely, this completely.
Most of my exes were forgettable. Fumbling hands. Predictable rhythms. The first time always held promise, but by the third or fourth, I could practically set my watch to their moves. Boring. Mechanical.
Daniel's different.
He knows exactly what he's doing—every movement intentional, every touch calculated.
He knows how to build the tension, drawing it out slowly, methodically, until I'm trembling beneath his hands, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
He understands precisely where to apply pressure, which spots make me arch off the couch, which angles make me forget my own name.
He's mastered the art of restraint, knowing exactly when to hold back, when to pause just long enough that anticipation builds into something almost unbearable, making me desperate and aching, wordlessly begging for more.
My nails rake down his back, and he hisses approval.
Afterward, we collapse onto the couch. My legs still shaky. His breathing ragged against my shoulder.
"I'll get us water," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. Gentle now. The switch flipped back to careful.
I pull on his discarded shirt—the fabric still warm from his body, carrying his scent—and curl into the soft leather cushions of the couch.
The material feels luxurious against my bare legs as I tuck them beneath me, settling into the spot that's already molded to my shape from countless hours spent here.
The TV remote sits exactly where I abandoned it on the coffee table this morning, right next to my empty coffee mug and a stack of unread magazines.
Sons of Anarchy is still queued up on the screen, frozen on the opening credits, waiting patiently for me to press play and dive back into the drama we've been binging.
Daniel returns with two glasses, ice clinking. He settles beside me, one arm draped over my shoulders.
I'm reaching for the remote when my phone buzzes. The new one Daniel picked up for me this afternoon—same number, transferred within hours. He'd handled everything.
Unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Singh? This is Detective Thompson from Cumberland PD. We have a few follow-up questions regarding Monday's incident, the robbery at Moore's Convenience. Would you be able to come down to the station?"
My stomach tightens. "When?"
"Tomorrow, if possible. Shouldn't take more than thirty minutes."
I glance at Daniel. His jaw sets, that muscle ticking near his ear.
"Yeah. Okay. I can be there. What time?"
"How about ten am?"
"Sure."
"Thank you, Ms. Singh."
The call ends. Daniel's staring.
"Who was that?"
Daniel's voice holds that careful edge—the one that sounds casual but isn't.
"Detective Thompson. Cumberland PD." I set the phone on the coffee table, watching his expression shift. "Follow-up questions about the robbery. Tomorrow at ten."
His arm withdraws from my shoulders. "I'll take you."
"You don't need to."
"I want to."
"Daniel." I twist to face him. "You weren't even there."
"Exactly. Which is why I should be there now. For support."
"Support for what? I'm answering questions, not facing a firing squad."
His hand finds my knee—gripping, not caressing. "You've never dealt with police before. These situations can get complicated. They'll try to trip you up, make you remember things differently—"
"I remember it fine. And I’m not a suspect here… just a witness.”
"Liza—"
"No." I pull away, standing. His shirt falls to mid-thigh as I move toward the window, putting distance between us. The city lights blur beyond the glass. "You don't get to control this."
"Control?" The word comes out sharp. "I'm trying to help you."
"I don't need help. It's thirty minutes of questions. I was there, you weren't. What are you even going to do—sit in the waiting room and glare at everyone?"
His jaw clenches. That muscle ticking again.
"You're treating me like I'm five years old." My voice rises despite my efforts to keep it level. "Like I can't handle basic adulting on my own. I give witness statements, they ask follow-ups, I answer. Done. No boyfriend escort required."
"I'm looking out for you."
"You're suffocating me."
Silence crashes between us. Heavy and sharp-edged.
He stands slowly, crossing to where I'm standing. His fingers brush my arm—gentle, cautious. The complete opposite of how he touched me twenty minutes ago.
"I just want to protect you."
"I know." I do know. That's the problem. "But I need space, Daniel. I need to breathe. I need to do things on my own sometimes without you hovering."
His hand drops. "Fine."
"Fine?"
"Go alone." His voice flattens. "Handle it yourself."
"Thank you."
"But call me when it's done."
There it is. The concession that isn't really a concession.
"I will."
He nods once, then heads toward the bedroom without another word.
I stand there, still wearing his shirt, wondering why victory feels so hollow.
My father's face flashes behind my eyes—sharp and sudden. A strong and proud South Asian man.
My heart breaks every time I think about those last moments, the way he looked in those final weeks, skin stretched too tight over bone, eyes still kind despite the pain eating him alive.
I was twelve.
He promised he'd be there for my thirteenth birthday. He wasn't.
The memory hits like always—quick and vicious. I press my palm against the cool window glass of our kitchen nook, grounding myself in the present.
Daniel's different from Dad in every way that matters. Dad was soft-spoken, patient. He never raised his voice, never grabbed phones and threw them in aquariums. But the feeling—that desperate need to hold on, to keep someone close before they vanish—that's exactly the same.
I've always gone for older guys. Jenna calls it a pattern. I call it preference, but we both know she's right.
I have daddy issues. I don't deny it.
Daniel takes care of me. Pays my bills. Handles my problems. Steps in when things get messy. He's solid, dependable, and present. Everything Dad couldn't be once the cancer got its claws in.
But Dad never made me feel small.
Dad never made my stomach twist with something that isn't quite fear but sits close enough to taste it.
I live in the moment because tomorrow isn't guaranteed—learned that lesson young. Candy for breakfast. Spontaneous road trips. Yes to adventure, no to planning. Dad taught me that accidentally, by dying young.
Daniel hates it. Wants structure. Control. Wants me to be predictable and manageable.
I should leave. The thought whispers through my head at least twice a month now, growing louder each time.
But the idea of being alone again—of losing this safety net, this person who cares (even if the caring feels like a cage)—freezes me solid.
He's never hit me. Never even threatened it.
So why do I flinch sometimes when he moves too fast? Why does my pulse spike when his jaw sets that particular way?
Why am I afraid?
I don't have an answer. Just this sick feeling in my gut that knows something's wrong, something's been wrong for months, but I keep smiling through it because the alternative—being alone, being vulnerable, being the one left behind again—terrifies me more than whatever this is becoming.
The bedroom door stays closed.
I curl back onto the couch, pulling his shirt tighter around me like armor.
I smooth down the hot pink top, admiring how the neon shade pops against the plaid pants. Found these beauties at Second Chances last week—black and pink plaid with perfect fit through the hips. Three bucks. Score of the century.
Daniel catches me at the door. "Is that what you're wearing to the police station?"
"Yeah. Why?"
His gaze travels from my cropped pink top down to my Doc Martens. "It's ridiculous. You need something more conservative."
Heat crawls up my neck. "What's wrong with it?"
"Liza." He sighs like I'm a toddler who doesn't understand why we don't eat crayons. "You're giving a witness statement, not going clubbing."
My confidence wavers. Maybe he's right. Maybe I look stupid. Maybe the cops won't take me seriously if I show up looking like a highlighter exploded on me.
"Fine." The word tastes bitter.
He leads me back to the bedroom, pulls out a navy blouse and plain beige trousers I've worn maybe twice. Boring. Safe. Completely not me.
I change while he watches, each button slipping into place like a tiny surrender.
"Much better." He kisses my forehead. "And seriously, why do you insist on buying filthy used clothes that other people have already worn?"
"They're not filthy. They're vintage."
"They're someone's garbage."
"It's thrifting, Daniel. It's fun. The thrill of the find, you know? Like treasure hunting." My voice picks up speed, defending something I shouldn't have to defend. "And before I met you, it wasn't just fun—it was a necessity. I couldn't afford—"
"I'll pay for decent clothes." He cuts through my explanation like scissors through ribbon. "New clothes. From actual stores. If you promise to never walk into a thrift store again."
The offer hangs there. Shiny. Controlling. Wrong.
"I like thrift stores."
"Promise me."
I grab my bag instead of answering, pushing past him toward the door.
The hallway echoes with my footsteps—angry, sharp clicks against tile.
"Decent clothes," I mutter, hitting the elevator button twice. "Like I'm some charity case he's dressing up."
The elevator dings.
"Three-dollar pants versus his approval. What a bargain."
Doors slide open.
"And what the hell is wrong with pink anyway? Pink's a perfectly legitimate color for witness statements."
I step inside, catch my reflection in the mirrored wall.
Navy blouse. Beige pants he picked out months ago.
I look like someone's boring aunt.
I look like someone who isn't me.
The police station smells like burnt coffee. A female officer with kind eyes and a tight blonde bun guides me through the labyrinth of desks and half-closed doors.
"Just have a seat, hon. Won't be long."
The waiting room's depressing—grey walls, grey chairs, posters about domestic violence and missing persons staring down at me. I study a faded chart about the signs of human trafficking, my jaw still clenched from this morning.
Decent clothes. New clothes.
Like my thrifted treasures are contaminated or something.
The door opens.
My breath stops.
Julian walks in, dark jeans hugging his legs, plain beige t-shirt stretched across his shoulders. He pulls off his glasses, slides them onto his head, pushing back those beautiful waves.
His eyes find mine. Surprise flickers across his face, then something warmer.
Pleasure.
"Liza."
"Hey." My voice comes out higher than normal. "Didn't think I'd see you here."
"Yeah, I—" He sits two chairs away, close but respectful. "They called me back. Something about my statement needed clarification."
"Same."
"How've you been? Since... everything?"
"Good. Fine. A little jumpy when I go into stores now, but—" I shrug. "You?"
"Same. I bought my Pepsi at a different place yesterday." His smile does things to my stomach that shouldn't be legal. "Felt safer."
We laugh, and it breaks something open in my chest.
"Julian Ramirez?" The blonde officer appears at the door.
He stands, glances back at me. "See you after?"
I nod like an idiot.
The second he disappears, I grab my phone. Three messages from Daniel. I swipe them away and open Yahtzee instead, rolling digital dice while my knee bounces.
Should post something.
I snap a photo of the waiting room, add a filter, caption it Police station vibes with a cop car emoji.
There's something about being in a hostage situation and the follow-up police interrogation that makes me feel cool.
I know, it's sad, and I obviously need a more exciting life.
Daniel doesn't even know I have Instagram—he'd lose his mind about oversharing, call it embarrassing for someone my age.
I'm twenty-six, not sixty.
Post.
"Liza Singh?"
The interrogation goes quicker than I expected—the same blonde officer who called Julian in asks me to confirm details about what I remember, the timeline of events, and what exactly I saw from where I was crouched behind that candy rack.
She types while I talk, nodding occasionally, her expression professionally neutral.
When we're done, she thanks me for my cooperation and tells me I did the right thing by staying calm during the incident.
On my way out, she hands me a glossy pamphlet, the kind that's been folded and unfolded too many times, the creases soft and worn.
Support Group for Victims of Violent Crime
Portland. Thursdays at seven.
Like I'd drive all the way to Portland for—
Julian's still in the waiting room.
Standing. Waiting.
For me?
"Hey." He shifts his weight, hands in his pockets. "You hungry? There's a deli across the street. Thought maybe we could talk?"
My pulse kicks up, heat flooding my chest and crawling up my neck. My heart hammers against my ribs, loud enough that I'm sure he can hear it in this quiet room.
I know I shouldn't.
But of course I do.
"Yeah. I'd like that,” I say, knowing I’ve just leaned into this thing between us.
I’ve walked down the path.