Chapter 6 — James
She's been gone for three hours, and I can still feel her.
I'm standing in my office staring at scheduling reports I'm not actually reading, and my mind is in that hotel room.
The way she looked this morning with her hair loose and wearing my shirt. The way she said I love you like it was easy. The way she kissed me goodbye in the parking lot where anyone could see and didn't seem to care who was watching.
The way she drove away with the promise that she'd call when she got home.
I check my phone. Two-seventeen. She should be there by now. Three-hour drive, left around eleven. The math is simple but my brain keeps doing it anyway, like confirming the numbers will make the call come faster.
I set the phone on my desk and try to focus on the schedule in front of me. Rhett needs next Saturday off. Travis is covering an extra shift Thursday. Anthony requested the morning of the Fourth for some family thing.
None of it is sinking in.
My office door is open, it usually is unless I'm dealing with something that requires privacy,and I can hear the station around me.
Declan's voice from the kitchen, something that sounds like an argument about food. The low rumble of the television in the common room. Normal. The particular rhythm of a shift winding into evening.
Except nothing feels normal.
Everything feels different, and I can't tell if it's the station that changed or if it's me.
Footsteps in the hallway. I look up and find Rhett leaning against my doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with that expression he gets when he's noticed something.
"You good?" he asks.
I've been asked this question twice in two days, and both times the honest answer has been complicated.
"Yeah," I say.
Rhett doesn't move. "That why you've checked your phone four times in the past ten minutes?"
I wasn't aware I'd been that obvious.
"She's driving home. Said she'd call when she got there."
"And you're counting the minutes."
It's not a question.
I set down the pen I've been holding. "Is there something you needed, or are you just here to observe?"
"Little of both." He steps into the office and closes the door behind him, which is unusual enough that I pay attention. Rhett doesn't do closed-door conversations unless something actually matters.
He sits in the chair across from my desk—the chair Tess sat in two days ago asking me about equipment certifications while I tried not to stare at her.
"I've known you five years," Rhett says. "And in that time, I've watched you be a damn good captain. Steady. Reliable. The kind of leader people want to work for."
"I'm sensing a 'but' coming."
"No but. Just an observation." He leans back slightly. "You've also been alone that whole time. And I don't mean single. I mean alone in the way that matters. Going through the motions. Doing the work. Going home to an empty house and convincing yourself that's fine."
The words hit harder than I'm prepared for.
"And now?" I ask.
"Now you look like someone who finally stopped pretending." He meets my eyes. "Whatever happened between you and Investigator Holt, it's good. You should let yourself have it."
I'm quiet for a moment, processing that. "I'm trying."
"Good." Rhett stands, moves toward the door, then pauses. "For what it's worth, the crew likes her. And we're all glad to see you with someone who makes you look less like you're carrying the weight of the world."
He leaves before I can respond, and I'm left sitting at my desk with his words settling into my chest.
Going through the motions.
Is that what I've been doing?
I think about the past ten years. The relationships that didn't go anywhere. The nights alone in my house convincing myself I preferred the quiet. The careful distance I've maintained from anything that felt too complicated or required too much vulnerability.
I think about Tess walking into my station Wednesday morning and the way it felt like something clicking into place.
Like I'd been waiting without knowing I was waiting.
My phone rings.
I grab it before the first ring finishes.
"Tess."
"Hey." Her voice is warm, slightly tired, and hearing it makes something in my chest settle. "I made it home."
"Good. How was the drive?"
"Long. Gave me a lot of time to think."
I lean back in my chair, phone pressed to my ear. "About?"
"About how insane this is. About how I just agreed to uproot my entire life for a relationship that's been official for less than twenty-four hours." She pauses. "About how I don't care that it's insane because I've never been more sure of anything."
The relief that floods through me is strong enough that I have to close my eyes.
"I'm sure too," I tell her.
"Yeah?"
"I spent fourteen years regretting that I let you go. I'm not making that mistake again."
I can hear her moving around on her end. The sound of a door closing, footsteps, something being set down.
"I called the fire marshal's office," she says. "Left a message with the hiring coordinator. Told them I'm interested in the investigator position."
"What did they say?"
"I got voicemail. But I'll follow up Monday." She's quiet for a second. "James, what happens if the position doesn't work out?"
"Then we figure out something else. You could work remotely from Bloomfield.
Or find a different position in the area.
Or—" I stop, because what I'm about to say is too much too fast, but I say it anyway.
"Or you could move here and take your time finding the right fit.
You don't have to have it all figured out immediately. "
The silence on her end stretches long enough that I think I've pushed too hard.
Then: "Are you asking me to move in with you?"
My heart is doing something it has no business doing. "Yes. I am."
"We've been together for less than a day."
"Technically we've been together for fourteen years. We just had a long gap in the middle."
She laughs, and the sound makes me smile. "That's one way to rationalize it."
"Is it working?"
"Maybe." I can hear the smile in her voice. "Let me think about it. Which is not a no."
"I'll take it."
We talk for another twenty minutes. About logistics and practicalities and the fact that she needs to figure out what to do with her apartment lease. About when she can come back to Bloomfield and whether she should plan on staying at my place or getting a hotel.
"My place," I say firmly. "No question."
"James—"
"I'm not letting you stay in a hotel when I have a perfectly good house with a bed you've already slept in."
"Your crew is going to know exactly what we're doing if I stay over."
"They already know. Declan made a comment about me checking the parking lot for your car approximately six times yesterday. Rhett told me I look different. Travis said I seem more present." I pause. "They're not subtle, and they're not surprised. Stay at my place."
"Okay," she says, and I can hear the warmth in her voice. "I'll stay at your place."
We talk until my phone battery drops to twenty percent and I realize we've been on the call for almost an hour.
We haven't said anything particularly important. We've just been talking, the way people do when they like the sound of each other's voice and aren't ready to hang up.
When we finally say goodbye, I sit in my office for a long moment just holding my phone.
I'm smiling. Actually smiling, alone in my office, because I just spent an hour talking to Tess about whether she'd want to keep her apartment as a backup and what her favorite coffee is and whether she likes running in the mornings or evenings.
Domestic details. Normal relationship things.
Things I haven't let myself think about in years.
I head out to the common room. The crew is scattered—Declan and Murphy at the table playing cards, Travis reading something on his phone, Garrett cleaning his gear in the bay. Normal evening routine.
I grab coffee from the kitchen and sit at the table, and Declan glances up.
"She make it home okay?"
"Yeah."
"Good." He plays a card, grins at Murphy's reaction. "You look less miserable than you did this morning."
"Was I miserable this morning?"
"You were tolerable. Now you look almost pleasant. It's unsettling."
Murphy laughs. "Give the man a break, Dec. He's allowed to be happy."
"I didn't say he wasn't allowed. I said it's unsettling. I'm not used to Cap smiling like that."
Travis looks up from his phone, catches my expression, and there's something knowing in the way he's watching me. "She coming back soon?"
"Next weekend."
"Staying with you?"
"Yeah."
Travis nods, and I can see him processing that information. Calculating what it means. He doesn't comment on it directly, just says, "Good," and goes back to his phone.
The evening settles around me. Cards continue. Someone turns on the television. Garrett comes in from the bay and makes himself a sandwich. The easy rhythm of people who are comfortable with each other.
And I realize that Rhett was right.
I have been going through the motions. Not with the work—I've always been present for the work—but with everything else. I've been existing rather than living, convincing myself that wanting less was the same as being content.
It's not.
Content is waking up next to someone who knows you and staying anyway. Content is having someone call just to tell you they made it home safely. Content is this feeling in my chest that's equal parts terrifying and exactly right.
My phone buzzes. A text from Maya: Mom said you sounded happy when she talked to you earlier. What's going on?
I stare at the message.
I'd called Catherine this morning to tell her I was seeing someone. We don't talk often beyond coordinating Maya's visits, but this felt important enough to mention. She'd been surprised, then genuinely pleased.
You deserve to be happy, James. I hope she's good for you.
I type back to Maya: Remember that someone I mentioned? We figured things out.
The response is almost immediate: FINALLY. Details. Now.