The next morning, the harsh, unforgiving Nevada sun streamed through my bedroom window, and reality hit me like a bucket of ice water.
I was completely, utterly sober. And I was mortified.
I sat up in bed, pressing the palms of my hands against my burning cheeks. What did you do, Elsie? The hazy, golden memories of the night before rushed back in a terrifying wave: the dim lighting at Groove’s, the way my fingers had tangled in his hair, and that kiss. Oh, god, that kiss. It had felt like a backdraft, pulling me in and burning away every ounce of my professional restraint.
"He's a rookie," I groaned out loud, burying my face in my pillow. "A cocky, irritating rookie who now knows he can make your knees go weak in a dive bar."
By the time I walked through the station doors for our shift change, my veteran facade was locked securely in place. I had my hair pulled back into a tight, no-nonsense bun, and my game face was on. I could handle this. I was a professional.
Then I walked into the kitchen, and there he was.
Julian was leaning against the counter, a mug of coffee in his hand. The moment our eyes met, the air in the room instantly thickened. A slow, knowing, and thoroughly infuriating smirk crept onto his lips. He didn't say a word, but his hazel eyes danced with absolute amusement.
"Morning, Garcia," he said, his baritone voice a little rougher than usual.
"Thorne," I replied, my voice clipping a bit too short as I marched past him to grab a mug.
"Sleep well?" he asked, tilting his head. He took a slow sip, his gaze dropping intentionally to my lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
"Perfectly," I lied, keeping my back to him as I poured my coffee. My hands were shaking just enough that the ceramic clinked against the glass pot. Damn it.
"Hey, Elsie, you alright?" Henderson asked, walking into the kitchen and squinting at me.
"Your face is bright red. You coming down with something?"
"I'm fine!" I said, a little too loudly, snapping around. "Just... the coffee machine is throwing off a lot of heat. It's hot in here."
Julian let out a low, muffled chuckle into his mug.
I glared at him, shooting him a look that promised a slow and painful death, which only seemed to entertain him more. He was loving this. He knew exactly how flustered I was, and he was basking in it.
The rest of the day was an exercise in psychological torture. Everywhere I went, Julian was there. During our morning equipment checks, he managed to hand me a wrench, letting his fingers linger against mine just a second too long. When Captain Miller was giving us our daily briefing, Julian stood directly across from me, radiating a quiet, magnetic confidence that kept drawing my eyes back to him.
I spent the entire shift overcompensating—barking orders, lifting heavy gear by myself, and completely ignoring him whenever the crew was looking. I was terrified someone would notice the weird, electric tension vibrating between us.
Station 12 was a family; if they found out we’d been making out near the jukebox at Groove's, I'd never hear the end of it.
Finally, the shift bell rang, signaling the end of the twenty-four hours. I practically sprinted to the women's locker room, letting out a massive breath the moment the door clicked shut behind me. I was safe. I could go home, hide under my blankets, and figure out how to reset my boundaries.
I walked over to my locker, spinning the combination dial, and pulled the heavy metal door open.
Something white fluttered out, landing on top of my duffel bag.
I picked it up. It was a piece of lined paper, torn hastily from a logbook. Written across it in a bold, messy scrawl was a short message:
You're cute when you're trying to be tough, Garcia. But you can't fight the heat forever. Next shift, I'm buying the rounds. See you Friday. - Julian
My heart did a violent, traitorous flip against my ribs. I stared at the ink, a helpless, flushed smile breaking through my defenses before I could stop it.
I shoved the note deep into my pocket, zipped my bag, and shook my head. I was in so much trouble.