Chapter 49
The Love Bug
Reed
Captain Martinez’s office at Boston PD headquarters smelled like burnt coffee and old gym shoes—a combination that usually meant something was about to piss me off.
I'd been sitting here for twenty minutes, watching the Captain flip through my proposal while Gloria sat beside me, her tablet propped on her knee.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see flashes of some word puzzle she was working through.
Her lips twitched upward at something on the screen, then quickly reset to professional neutrality when Martinez glanced our way.
"Community outreach," Martinez said finally, setting the papers down. "Self-defense for domestic violence survivors."
"Yes, sir."
"Six-weeks long?"
"Yes, sir. All on a volunteer basis. As you can see, multiple shelter locations have put their hands up to get involved."
He leaned back in his chair. "Morrison, you do realize this is going to be a paperwork nightmare?"
"I'm prepared for that."
"Are you?" He snatched up the proposal again. "Liability waivers. Insurance. Coordinating multiple nonprofits to actually get their shit together." He tossed the papers down, leaning forward until I could smell the coffee on his breath. "And you want to do this on top of your regular caseload?"
Gloria cleared her throat. "Actually, Captain, aside from myself, I've already got seven female officers interested in teaching. Three have martial arts backgrounds, one even teaches at her gym already. We've also got buy-in from the community policing unit."
Martinez's eyebrows rose as he tossed the paperwork back down and crossed his arms over his slightly bulging belly. "You've been busy."
"It's a good program," she said simply. "Women teaching women. Building trust between the community and the department. The optics alone—"
"I don't care about optics," Martinez cut her off, though his tone wasn't harsh. "I care about whether this actually helps people and whether my officers can deliver it without creating more problems."
"With respect, sir," I leaned forward, "these women already have problems. We're trying to give them tools to help deal with them."
He studied me for a long moment. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that your girlfriend runs one of the shelters on your list?"
Heat crept up my neck—Martinez calling her my girlfriend when we were still firmly in the 'friends' zone stung more than I'd admit. I kept my voice steady, though. "She's on medical leave. We’re working with Delilah, the office manager. Maliyah won't even know about it until she returns to work."
"She doing okay?" Martinez asked.
"She's getting better," I said simply.
Martinez nodded and sighed. "Glad to hear it.
" He paused, paging through all the documents again.
"Fine. You've got provisional approval. But—" he held up a hand as I started to speak, "—I want weekly reports. Any incidents, any complaints, any hint that this is going sideways, and you’ll have a lot to answer for. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Morrison? This better not interfere with your active cases."
"It won't."
He waved us out. In the hallway, Gloria bumped my shoulder. "That went better than expected."
"It did." She put a hand on my arm. "He’s just worried about things going wrong and needs to pretend to hate the idea. You know he’s a big teddybear underneath it all though, right?"
I scoffed just as my phone buzzed. Text from Maliyah.
Kids and I going to the library Saturday. Just us, Felicity and family. Zoe is doing a sort of playacting skit. Do you want to come?
I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen as something squeezed beneath my ribs.
Three weeks, two days since I'd hooked my pinkies with Lucas and Zoe over breakfast. Weeks of careful distance—my hands trembling when I reached for the remote during movie night, hoping to brush against Maliyah’s—like a teenager on a date night.
Her laugh a touch too loud when Felicity's husband told jokes when we all went out to the Frog Pond on the Common.
Always surrounded by chattering coworkers, giggling children, friends of friends who filled every silence with conversation.
We hadn't shared a quiet dinner alone, just the two of us.
No goodnight kisses at her door after the kids went to bed.
When our hands accidentally brushed reaching for popcorn during movie night, she'd pulled back first, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
But I'd wait—keep showing up for school projects and family outings until the day she didn't scoot away a bit when I sat next to her on the couch.
Wouldn't miss it, I texted back.
Gloria peered over my shoulder. "Things going good?"
"Yeah. They are," I said, realizing that, in all honesty—while things were slow, they were real. "We’re working on it. Lucas lets me help with homework now. Zoe..." I smiled despite myself. "Zoe asked if I'd teach her to ride her bike."
"That's good, right?"
"Yeah." I pocketed my phone. "It's good."
We headed toward the community resources office a couple blocks away where Monica waited—Gloria's contact who worked with several shelter networks.
She stood up from her desk, and I had to tilt my chin upward to meet her eyes.
When she extended her hand, silver bangles clinked at her wrist, and her handshake could've cracked walnuts.
My knuckles compressed against each other as she squeezed, and I found myself flexing my fingers after she released them, checking that everything still worked.
"Officers," she greeted us, gesturing to chairs around a cluttered desk with paperwork on one side that was piled as high as her shoulders. "Gloria's told me about your program. I have questions."
"Shoot," I said.
"First—are you ready for some of these women to be resistant to cops leading the show? Half of them have had police dismiss their complaints, arrest them instead of their abusers, or fail to enforce restraining orders."
I'd expected this. "Part of what we’ll be doing is working to build trust with them. Won’t be automatic—I get that. That's why we're starting with female officers only. Why we're coming to them, in a place where they can feel safe. It’s why participation is completely voluntary."
Monica made a note. "Schedule?"
"Flexible. Whatever works for the shelters. Evening sessions, weekend options. We adapt to them."
"Childcare?"
Gloria jumped in. "Some of the shelters already have established childcare programs with vetted staff. For those that don’t, we’ve discussed coordinating with the staff that work for other shelters and having them shift some of their hours over on a volunteer basis. Not looking to reinvent the wheel."
Monica's expression softened slightly. "Good. I’m glad you've thought this through. Too many programs come in wanting to 'save' these women without understanding the infrastructure already in place or other options that could be made available."
She grilled us for another hour—liability, curriculum, instructor qualifications, trauma-informed approaches. By the time we left, my head was spinning, but she’d agreed to work on helping us get some additional funding for not just this six-week session but for an ongoing program.
"Holy shit. Something sustained and going beyond what we’d originally planned," Gloria said as we walked to our cars.
"I know. It’s fucking huge."
"High bar you've set here, man. This isn’t something you can just throw away in the future. This is commitment, Reed."
I laughed, surprising myself. My fingers tapped against the folder in my hands, already dog-eared from constant opening and closing.
The calendar on my phone had blocks of color stretching months ahead—blue for training sessions, green for shelter visits.
Last night, I'd caught myself sketching out a graduation ceremony for the first cohort, complete with certificates I'd designed at 2 AM. "I’m in this, Gloria. It’s not a whim. "
"I gotta say, I thought at first it would be some cockamamie plan to get your girl back." She unlocked her car. "But you’ve really dug in here. I’m impressed and I like seeing you in this light. It’s cool to see you this excited. I hope this all works out for you, Reed."
Gloria leaned on the roof of the car, forearms flat against the metal.
Her eyes locked onto mine, steady and unflinching, like she was reading something written in fine print across my forehead.
With a nod, she said, "That includes winning back your girl for good.
I think you've earned something good, Reed.
The whole team's here for you—whatever it takes to show her who you really are when it counts. "
Back at my apartment that evening, I spread out the program materials across my kitchen table. Lesson plans, legal documents, volunteer schedules. My laptop showed dozens of open tabs—research on everything I needed to make this program work.
Lucas had asked me during homework help yesterday: "Why do people hurt other people?"
Such a simple question. Such an impossible answer.
I'd told him that sometimes people were hurt themselves and didn't know how to handle it properly.
That it was never okay but understanding why didn't mean accepting it.
He'd nodded seriously, his small forehead creasing with those same worry lines his mother gets, then nervously asked if I would come to his school and talk to his class.
He’d explained that his class thought his project with my interview had been "cool" and the class wanted me to come in so they could meet me.
His fingers had fidgeted with the corner of his math worksheet the whole time, folding and unfolding it into a tiny triangle, like he was afraid I might say no.
My heartbeat kicked up, a rapid thrum against my ribs.
I remember biting the inside of my cheek to keep my smile from popping too big.
"Sure, bud. Anything you need," I’d said, voice steady despite the sudden dryness in my throat.
My hand had tensed against my leg, holding back the fist pump I'd have made if I were alone—the kind reserved for touchdowns or winning the jackpot.
Later, alone in my car, I'd pounded the steering wheel, shouted like the G.O.A.T.
after winning the Super Bowl, and grinned like an idiot all the way home.
My phone rang breaking me out of my memory. John.
"You eat today?" he asked without preamble.
"Coffee and a protein bar counts."
"It absolutely does not. I'm bringing Chinese. You can tell me how shit went with Martinez."
"Yeah, okay."
"Heard Luis has half the Hispanic Officers' Association signed up to volunteer. Macky's got equipment donations lined up. Even Brennan from Murder/Homicide wants in, and that woman hasn't volunteered for anything since the Reagan administration."
I sank into a chair. "It's getting big."
"That's good, right?"
"Yeah. Just..." I rubbed my face. "What if it gets too big for me to handle and I fail because it got out of control?"
"Guy, you’re not alone, right?" John's voice was dry. "It’s getting big, yeah, but I think that’s because it’s something we’ve all realized we needed but no one has stepped up to do shit about it before now. So don’t be an asshole and let fear get in the way of success."
"When you put it like that—"
"Look, I'll be there in twenty with some food. Text me your order. You can angst about your fears of success and all that dumb shit over egg rolls."
He hung up. I looked back at the spread of papers. If we stayed on schedule, next week, we'd start training volunteers. In a month, we'd actually be teaching.
My phone lit up with another text. Maliyah again.
Zoe wants to know what your favorite butterfly is. It's apparently very important.
I smiled, quickly googling butterflies—I knew shit about them.
Typing back: Tell her Zebra Swallowtail because who doesn’t like a butterfly that could also be a Zebra?
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Maliyah: She says that's acceptable. Also, Saturday—10am at the main library.
Me: I'll be there.
A pause, then:
Maliyah: She's making you a picture. Fair warning—heavy glitter involvement.
Me: Can't wait, I replied, meaning it.
My finger hovered over Maliyah's last message, the corners of my mouth lifting involuntarily.
I'd already set three calendar alerts for Saturday's library trip and bookmarked butterfly facts to casually drop into conversation with Zoe.
The kitchen table—once home only to takeout containers and case files—now held program drafts alongside a drawing Lucas had given me last week, and coloring page of a princess Zoe had made for me.
The doorbell rang. John with Chinese food and probably more grief about my life choices. I gathered up the papers, making room for takeout containers and whatever wisdom he'd dispense between bites of egg roll.
"Morrison, you look fucking good," he announced, pushing past me with bags of food.
I beamed. "Thanks, man. I fucking feel good."
"You got the bug, huh?"
I grabbed plates while he unpacked containers. My eyebrows furrowed, "What bug? I just told you I’m great."
"Not a sick bug, dumbass." He piled lo mein onto a plate. "The loooooooooooooooooooove-bug!"
I ducked my head, rubbing the back of my neck where heat crawled up like ivy. My lips twitched, teeth clamping down on the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too wide. I busied myself with the containers, focusing on the steam rising from the lo mein.
This time last year, I'd have changed the subject, made some crack about work. Now? My egg roll hovered over the tiny plastic cup, sauce dripping. I dunked it again—the wrapper was already soggy—and took a bite instead of answering, letting the heat crawling up my neck speak for itself.
"Yeah—you got that love-bug!" John’s laugh was contagious.
"Fuck you, man. Nothing wrong with catching the bug."
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Then John set down his fork.
"You look good happy, man."
I looked at him. Saw in his eyes what he meant. Saw the honesty in them and how much he really cared.
"It’s because I am happy. Nothing’s solved yet, but I’m fucking overjoyed that I even have a chance at a life with her. With them. With all of them." I said it—and I meant it.