“Do you only want me when I’m in uniform?” Abby stood in the bedroom doorway, her police uniform darkened from the rain, her voice too quiet for a joke. Jack looked up from his book too slowly. She had been asking for weeks — in the kitchen, on the balcony, through jokes he kept missing. He thought he was being kind by giving her space. He thought leaving room was love. Then at 2 AM, he found her sitting alone in the dark, and she told him the one thing he’d been too steady to hear: that he made everything so easy she’d started wondering if easy was all he wanted from her.
Thursday night, she came home and accused him of illegal missing.
The sauce on the stove had begun to spit when the apartment door unlocked. Jack was standing over the skillet with the sleeves of his work shirt pushed up to his elbows. There was a streak of drywall dust near one cuff — pale against navy blue. He’d meant to change before cooking, but the job at the old duplex on Madison had run late, and by the time he got home, he’d only had enough patience left for washing his hands and starting dinner.
Garlic and rosemary warmed the kitchen. Tomato sauce bubbled low around chicken thighs. The window above the sink was cracked open, and every so often the damp sound of tires rolled past on the street below.
Behind him, the door clicked shut. He heard Abby drop her keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway. Then nothing.
Jack smiled to himself. “You going to stand there all night?” he asked.
“Possibly.”
He turned the chicken over with a pair of tongs. “That sounds uncomfortable.”
“Could be worth it.”
The floorboard creaked. Abby moved farther into the apartment, though she still didn’t take off her coat. He could picture her without looking — dark blue shirt wrinkled from a long shift, work bag slipping down one shoulder, hair tied back in a way that would give her a headache later if she didn’t pull it loose.
“Jack.”
“Mm.”
“You’re in trouble.”
He glanced over his shoulder. She was leaning against the wall near the kitchen entrance. Her badge had already been tucked away, but the shape of it showed faintly beneath the open edge of her coat. Her face looked tired. Her eyes did not.
“What did I do now?”
Abby stepped closer, slow enough to make it obvious she knew exactly what she was doing. She reached past the cutting board and picked up his phone from the counter. The screen was still lit with a message he’d sent her at 4:13.
“Tonight home. I’m making the chicken you like.”
She held the phone up between them. “This,” she said, with the seriousness of a detective presenting evidence to a jury, “is an illegal expression of longing toward an officer currently on duty.”
Jack rested the tongs against the rim of the skillet. “Illegal?”
“Highly. Do you have proof I meant it in a criminal way?”
“The wording is suggestive.”
“I said I was making chicken.”
“You said you were hoping I would come home.”
Something in his tone made her pause. It was only a second, maybe less, but Jack saw it. Abby’s fingers shifted against the edge of his phone. Her eyes left his face and moved toward the simmering pan, the open bottle of wine, the small stack of plates waiting beside the stove. Then she looked back at him.
“You’re admitting intent.”
“I suppose I am.”
“And how does the suspect plead?”
“Hungry.”
That got her. Her mouth lifted, and some of the exhaustion around her eyes softened.
“Evasion,” she said.
“Practicality. Not mutually exclusive.”
Jack reached for the phone. Instead of taking it immediately, he let his fingers brush hers. Abby’s gaze dropped to the touch. He’d always liked that about her — not that he could make her flustered, though he could sometimes, but that she never quite knew what to do when he was gentle without warning.
At work, she could walk into a room full of strangers who were afraid, angry, drunk, lying, injured, or all four at once and make herself the stillest person there. At home, one quiet look from him could make her blink too quickly.
He took the phone from her hand. “So,” he said, “what’s the penalty?”
Abby folded her arms. “Dinner.”
“That seems manageable.”
“You cook. You serve. You do not complain about the abuse of law enforcement authority.”
“I would never.”
“You are already doing it.”
“I’m stirring sauce suspiciously.”
Jack laughed. “Go take off your coat, officer.”
She made a show of narrowing her eyes at him, then turned toward the bedroom. Halfway there, she stopped.
“Jack.”
He looked up.
“You really made this because you thought I’d be home?”
He considered making another joke. She’d given him one — an easy exit. Something about the chicken missing her too. Instead, he said, “Yeah. I did.”
Her face changed again — quieter this time. Then she looked away and said, “Well, you’re lucky I caught you before you could get away with it.”
Jack watched her disappear down the hallway. The sauce popped once in the pan. He stirred it and felt the apartment settle around him, warm and familiar.
He did not realize then that Abby had been waiting for more than the answer he gave.
She came back in one of his old college sweatshirts, sleeves rolled past her wrists, hair down around her shoulders. Jack had already set the plates on the table.
“You changed,” he said.
“I was undercover in my closet. Don’t question police procedure.”
He pulled her chair out for her. Abby sat, then looked at the place setting. He’d put the larger piece of chicken on her plate — the one with the crispest skin. There was extra sauce on the side because she liked using bread to wipe it up afterward, even though she always said she was too full for bread.
She touched the edge of the plate. “You know, this feels a little like bribery.”
“I thought we established it was dinner.”
“Dinner can be bribery.”
“Then I’m prepared to face the consequences.”
She picked up her fork and took the first bite. Jack waited. Abby closed her eyes briefly. “Oh, that’s unfair,” she said.
“What is?”
“You made it too good. Now I have to be lenient. Professional integrity is suffering terribly.”
They ate slowly. Abby told him about a call near the river where two brothers had spent forty minutes arguing over a boat trailer that neither of them could legally drive. Jack told her about the old couple at the duplex who’d refused to let anyone move the giant walnut cabinet in their living room because it’d belonged to the wife’s grandmother.
“Was it at least a nice cabinet?” Abby asked.
“It was falling apart.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It was a very nice cabinet if you liked furniture that could kill you in an earthquake.”
She laughed, and Jack felt something in his chest loosen. That was the part he never knew how to explain. He liked making her laugh, but it was more than that. He liked watching her return to herself. The workday left marks on her even when she said it’d been quiet. Sometimes it was only the way she stared at the wall while taking off her shoes. Sometimes it was a tightness in her jaw. Sometimes it was a silence that lasted through dinner.
He knew how to make food. He knew how to leave the lamp on by the door. He knew to keep her coffee at half-strength after night shifts and to put the good blanket in the dryer for ten minutes before she got home in winter. Those things felt useful. Those things felt safe.
After dinner, Abby carried her plate to the sink before he could stop her.
“You cooked,” she said.
“You worked twelve hours.”
“Ten and a half.”
“Still too many.”
“You’re not my parole officer.”
“No, but I am married to you, which is worse.”
She turned toward him with her hands on her hips. “Is that a complaint?”
“An observation.”
He took the plate from her hand and set it beside the sink. Abby didn’t move away. The kitchen was smaller when they stood that close. The dish rack was full of clean glasses. The television in the living room was playing some old sitcom. Neither of them was really watching — canned laughter drifting in every few minutes from beyond the counter.
Jack touched the back of her wrist. “Go sit down,” he said. “I’ve got this.”
Abby’s expression did something he couldn’t read. “Jack, what? I can help.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why do you always send me away?”
He frowned. “I’m not sending you away. I’m telling you to rest.”
She looked at him for a second longer. Then she smiled — the familiar small sideways smile that usually meant she was about to tease him.
“Fine,” she said. “But when the internal affairs people ask why you were seen monopolizing the evidence, I’m not covering for you.”
She walked into the living room. Jack watched her go, then turned on the faucet. He didn’t see the way she sat on the couch with her knees tucked under her and stared at the kitchen doorway for a while before turning up the volume on the television.
The next night, the air smelled faintly of rain again. Abby had gotten home earlier than usual, changed out of her uniform, and eaten half a bowl of pasta while telling Jack that someone at the station had brought in a box of donuts and then forgotten they had powdered sugar all over their black pants.
Now she was perched on the counter beside the drying rack, her bare heel tapping gently against the cabinet. Jack rinsed a glass.
“Officer requests a second inspection,” she announced.
He turned his head. “Of what?”
“Possible attempt to influence an ongoing investigation through carbohydrates.”
“Is pasta a carbohydrate now?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what you did.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“That’s usually the first thing suspects say.”
Jack set the glass upside down on the towel. Abby watched him from the counter. Her hair was loose. She’d pulled one of his hoodies over leggings and had one sleeve pushed to her elbow. There was a faint crease between her brows — almost invisible unless he was looking for it.
He was looking for it.
“And what will determine whether I’m guilty?” he asked.
“Your cooperation seems like you’ve already decided.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Could have fooled me.”
She reached for a fork on the counter and inspected it with exaggerated concentration. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re terrible at pretending nothing is interesting.”
She glanced at him. “I’m not pretending.”
Jack dried his hands and turned toward her. The expression on her face shifted before he could place it. She looked like she expected him to step closer. He did — but only enough to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Her breath caught.
“Today rough?” he asked.
Abby blinked. “What?”
“You’ve been quiet since you got home.”
“Oh.” She looked away. “No. Not rough. Just long.”
Jack brushed his thumb once along her temple, then reached for the dish towel again. “Then don’t sit up too late. Go get comfortable.”
He said it easily because he meant it kindly.
Abby was quiet. When he looked back, she’d slid off the counter. “Right,” she said. “Comfortable.”
She carried the fork into the living room and left it on the coffee table. Jack stood in the kitchen with a dish towel in his hands and felt vaguely as though he had missed a step in a dance he didn’t know he was supposed to be learning.
Friday morning came gray and damp. The coffee maker clicked and hissed on the counter. Outside, the sky hung low over the buildings across the street, turning the windows silver.
Jack stood in the kitchen in an old brown sweater, pouring coffee into Abby’s blue mug. He filled it halfway. Then he left the rest in the pot to stay warm.
Abby appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, still in sleep shorts and one of his t-shirts, her hair pointing in different directions. She stopped when she saw the mug.
“You did the half-cup thing again.”
“You sleep better if you don’t drink too much before your shift.”
“Do you keep notes on me?”
“Only criminal behavior.”
“Highly concerning.”
Jack slid the mug toward her. The handle faced right. Abby noticed — he knew she noticed because her fingers paused just before closing around it. She took a sip and winced.
“Hot.”
“Give it a second.”
She held the mug with both hands. “Anyway—”
Jack leaned against the counter and watched her wake up in stages. It was one of his favorite quiet parts of the day — the moment before she remembered every phone call she had to make, every report waiting for her, every person who expected something from her.
“What time are you getting home?” she asked.
He glanced toward the calendar taped beside the fridge. “Probably late. The people at Madison still haven’t moved that cabinet.”
“The murder cabinet?”
“That’s the one.”
“Couldn’t you just tell them they have to?”
“I could. Then they’d hate me.”
Abby smiled into her coffee. “You care too much about whether people hate you.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“What? Fixing things? Being around people when things are already broken?”
Her eyes lifted to his. For a moment, the kitchen felt very still. Then Abby looked down again.
“I’ll probably be home late, too,” she said.
“You working overnight?”
“No.” She gave a small shrug. “Just asking.”
Jack nodded. “Okay.”
She waited. He didn’t understand what for. A few seconds passed. Abby took another sip of coffee, set the mug down, and turned toward the hallway.
“Have a good day, Mr. Restoration.”
“You too, officer.”
He watched her go. At the door, she stopped as if she might say something else. Instead, she grabbed her jacket and left.
The apartment was quiet after that. Jack rinsed his mug, swiped the counter, checked the time, and left for work. All day, whenever there was a pause between decisions, he found himself thinking about the way Abby had looked at him in the kitchen. Like she had asked him a question he hadn’t heard.
On Saturday, Jack bought white daisies and made a reservation at the little Italian place on 19th. It wasn’t their anniversary. It wasn’t a birthday. No one had done anything worth celebrating except surviving another work week. That was part of why he wanted to take her.
At the grocery store, he stood in front of the flower display longer than necessary, trying to remember whether Abby liked daisies because they were simple or because they reminded her of the cheap bunches they used to buy when they were dating and neither of them could afford anything better. He decided it didn’t matter. He bought them anyway.
By 6:00, the apartment looked almost suspiciously put together. The table had been cleared. The daisies sat in a glass jar near the window. Jack had changed into a charcoal button-down and jeans that didn’t have paint on them. He’d even shaved, though the razor had nicked his chin and left a small white square of tissue there for ten minutes. He took it off before Abby got home.
At 6:23, the lock turned. Abby came in with her work bag hanging from one shoulder. She was wearing a dark green sweater and black pants, her hair pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck.
She stopped when she saw the flowers. Then she saw him. Her eyes moved over his shirt, his clean shoes, the candle on the table that he hadn’t lit yet because he hadn’t wanted the apartment to smell like a restaurant before they even left.
“Jack,” she said.
He took her bag from her shoulder. “Good timing.”
Her hand stayed on the strap for a second before letting go. “What is all this?”
“I thought I’d take my wife to dinner.”
Abby looked at the daisies again. “You thought?”
“I did. I made a reservation.”
Her mouth softened. “You made a reservation.”
“7:00.”
She stepped closer. “Where?”
“The place you like near the bookstore. The one with the bread you keep pretending you don’t like.”
“I have never pretended that.”
“You said the olive oil was too aggressive.”
“It was aggressive.”
She laughed — surprised, almost breathless. Jack felt a small rush of satisfaction. He wanted to tell her that this was why he’d done it. Not the restaurant, not the flowers. This exact moment when she forgot to be tired for a second.
Her phone rang.
Abby froze. They both looked at the screen. The station number. She answered on the second ring.
“Mercer.”
Jack turned toward the kitchen, giving her space without meaning to listen. But the apartment was quiet, and he could hear enough. A supervisor. A change in staffing. An old evidence review that had to be prepared before morning. She was needed early — not immediately, but early enough that it would be stupid to stay out late.
When she ended the call, she kept holding the phone. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Jack looked at her. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I have to be in by 6.”
“I thought it was going to be a normal weekend.”
“It is a normal weekend.”
“Not for you.”
He shrugged lightly and reached for his phone. “We can go another night—”
“Jack.”
He was already opening the reservation app. “It’s fine.”
“You got flowers.”
“Flowers. Keep you shaved.”
He looked up at her then. The way she said it made him smile despite himself. “I can shave again.”
That got a laugh out of her, but it didn’t stay. Jack canceled the reservation. The confirmation disappeared from the screen. For some reason, the silence that followed felt heavier than it should have.
Abby set her phone down on the counter. “You were looking forward to it.”
“Yeah,” he said. Her eyes flicked up. Jack realized too late that he’d answered without softening it. He added, “But we’ll do it next week.”
She stared at him for a moment. Then she nodded. “Okay.”
He reached for the flowers. “I’ll put these in more water.”
Abby watched him carry the vase to the sink. “Jack.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
He looked over his shoulder. “I know.”
It was meant to be gentle. It was. But she looked away as if he’d said something else.
He heated soup because it was the only thing Abby could manage to eat after she changed out of her work clothes. The daisies sat on the kitchen counter, their stems freshly cut. The candle remained unlit on the table. Rain began falling around nine — thin at first, then steady enough that the windows blurred with it.
Abby came back wearing a cream-colored sweater and soft gray sweatpants. She sat at the table with her sleeves pulled over her hands. Jack set a bowl in front of her.
“Tomato basil,” he said. “The bread’s in the oven.”
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
He took the seat across from her. Abby looked at the soup but didn’t pick up her spoon.
“What?” Jack asked.
She shook her head once. “Nothing.”
He waited. She sighed quietly.
“You won’t be disappointed. With soup. With tonight.”
Jack frowned. “Abby—”
“I mean it.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I know you had work. That’s not what I’m asking.”
The rain tapped against the window. Jack looked at her — really looked. Her hair was still damp around the ends. There was a tiredness in her face that had nothing to do with the early shift tomorrow. She had one hand wrapped around the edge of the bowl as if she needed the heat from it.
“I was looking forward to dinner,” he said finally. “Of course I was.”
Her expression shifted.
“But I’m not angry at you.”
“I didn’t ask if you were angry.”
“I know. Then why do you keep saying it like it doesn’t matter?”
He hesitated. “Because it doesn’t matter more than you getting sleep.”
Abby’s eyes lowered. The spoon moved once through the soup. It touched the side of the bowl with a small sharp sound.
“You’re always so reasonable.”
Jack tried to smile. “Usually considered a good quality.”
“Is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. Abby gave a faint laugh that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Sorry, that sounded harsher than I meant it.”
“No,” he said. “It sounded like you meant something.”
She looked up at him. For a second, he thought she might say it. Instead, she picked up the spoon.
“Forget it,” she said. “I’m tired.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He let her eat. Later, while he washed the bowls, he heard her moving around in the bedroom — drawers opening, the bathroom door closing, the shower turning on. He stood at the sink and watched rain move down the glass.
He told himself she’d said she was tired. He told himself that giving her room was what she needed. But the word “reasonable” stayed in his mind long after the dishes were dry.
At 11, Abby came out of the bathroom in his gray t-shirt and said nothing. She got into bed and turned toward the wall. Jack sat on the edge of the bed for a while.
“Abby.”
She didn’t turn around.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think you’re only interesting in uniform.”
A pause. “Okay. That wasn’t a very good answer, was it?”
“No.”
He let out a breath. “You’re interesting when you’re angry at bad television. You’re interesting when you try not to laugh at your own jokes. You’re interesting when you leave your shoes in the middle of the hallway and act surprised every time I almost trip over them.”
Abby’s shoulders moved slightly beneath the blanket.
“Jack.”
“And you’re interesting when you’re tired,” he said. “Though I’d prefer you got more sleep.”
She made a small sound that might have been a laugh. Then she said, “Can we talk tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Not tonight.”
“Okay.”
He lay down beside her. For a while, he stared at the dark ceiling. Abby’s back was warm through the blanket, close enough that he could have reached for her. He almost did. Then he thought of how she’d asked if he only found her interesting when she wore the uniform, and how he’d answered too late, too clumsily — like a man trying to repair a leak after the whole room had flooded.
He left his hand where it was.
On Tuesday, she stopped arresting him.
Jack noticed before he let himself admit it. The apartment was quiet when Abby got home. He was standing at the counter peeling apples for a pie he hadn’t planned to make until he saw the bag of Granny Smiths in the store and remembered that Abby liked them tart. The peel fell in one long curling strip into the trash.
The lock turned. He heard her step inside.
“Hey,” he called.
“Hey.”
No accusation. No fake badge in her voice. No drawn-out suspicious version of his name. Just “hey.”
He looked up. Abby had already taken off her jacket. She was wearing a black long-sleeve shirt and dark jeans, her hair pulled into a low ponytail. She put her work bag down beside the dining table and came into the kitchen.
“Apples?” she asked.
“Pie.”
“You making enough for the whole building?”
“Maybe.”
She nodded and opened the fridge. For a few seconds, the only sound was the knife against the cutting board. Then Abby said, “Don’t cut too many. I won’t eat much.”
Jack stopped. “You okay?”
She had one hand on the refrigerator door. Her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. Abby, I’m fine.”
The old answer. He set the knife down.
“You’ve been quiet since Saturday.”
She closed the fridge and faced him. “Have I?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been tired.”
“You’ve been more than tired.”
Her mouth pressed into a line. Jack waited. Abby looked at the apples, the pie dish, the clean counters. Then she said, “I don’t really want to have this conversation while you’re holding a knife.”
He looked down at the knife. “Fair.” He put it in the sink.
She waited for him to continue. He didn’t know how to do that without cornering her. So he said, “Okay.”
The words seemed to land wrong. Abby gave a small nod as if confirming something to herself. “Okay,” she echoed.
She went into the living room. Jack stood in the kitchen and listened to the television come on. A laugh track floated through the apartment. He picked the knife back up. The apple in front of him had browned slightly where he’d cut it.
The next morning, Jack poured half a cup of coffee. He almost filled it all the way. Then he stopped himself. It was a routine, a kindness, a thing he knew she appreciated — or had appreciated. The question sat with him as he carried the mug to the table.
Abby was already there, dressed for work in a soft navy cardigan and black slacks. Her hair was twisted into a careless knot. She looked more awake than she’d been all week, but there was a distance in her face that worried him.
He set the mug down in front of her. The handle faced right. She looked at it.
“Thanks.”
Jack put toast on her plate. “What time do you think you’ll be home?”
“Not sure.”
“Late?”
“Could be.”
“What do you want for dinner?”
“Anything.”
He leaned both hands on the back of the chair across from her. “Anything, Jack?”
“What?”
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“Trying to fix it without asking what’s wrong.”
He sat down slowly. “I am asking.”
“After I said no, because I don’t think you mean no.”
Abby looked at him for a long moment. Something in her expression softened, then closed again.
“You said you wouldn’t push.”
“I said I wouldn’t force you. Is there a difference?”
“Yes.”
She looked down at her coffee. Jack watched her fingers circle the mug. He wanted to reach across the table and take her hand. He wanted to tell her he’d been thinking about Saturday, about the bedroom, about every moment lately when she’d seemed ready to say something and then decided against it. Instead, he said, “I don’t want to make you feel trapped.”
Abby’s eyes came up. “And I don’t want to have to ask you to care.”
The words were quiet. They hit harder than if she’d raised her voice. Jack went still.
Abby immediately looked away. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Then how did you mean it?”
She exhaled through her nose. “I don’t know.”
“Abby, please.”
Her voice changed — not angry. Tired. “Can we not do this before work?”
Jack swallowed. “Yeah.”
She picked up her keys. At the door, she paused. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
She nodded once, but she didn’t look convinced. Then she left.
Jack stayed at the table until her footsteps faded down the hall. The coffee in her mug cooled untouched.
That night, he came home to find the apartment dark except for the lamp beside the couch. Abby had left a note on the counter.
“At the station. Don’t wait up.”
He looked at the clock. 9:48. He’d been at the Madison duplex until nearly 9 because the old couple had finally agreed to move the cabinet — but only after Jack helped them empty the drawers one by one. There’d been old receipts, faded Christmas cards, a broken watch, a stack of letters tied with ribbon. The wife had sat in a folding chair while her husband opened each drawer and said, “Well, I’ll be damned” in a softer voice every time he found something he’d forgotten.
Jack had stayed longer than he needed to. Now he stood in his own kitchen with Abby’s note under his fingers.
He made himself a sandwich. Cleaned up. Checked his phone too often. At 11:30, she still wasn’t home. At 12:15, he texted: “You okay?”
Her reply came six minutes later. “Fine. Just paperwork.”
He typed, “Want me to come get you?” then deleted it. It would take him twenty-five minutes to get there. She had her car. She’d said she was fine. He wrote instead: “Drive safe.”
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. No reply came.
At 1:40, Jack went to bed. He didn’t sleep well.
He woke to cold sheets beside him. For a few seconds, he didn’t know what had pulled him out of sleep. Then he heard the faint scrape of the balcony door. The clock read 2:17.
Jack sat up. The apartment was dim. The curtain had been left partly open, and a narrow strip of city light lay across the bedroom floor. He got out of bed quietly.
Abby was sitting on the balcony in one of his old knit cardigans — the dark green one he wore every fall until the sleeves began fraying. She’d pulled her knees up onto the chair. A glass of water sat on a small table beside her. The air outside smelled like wet pavement and rain-softened concrete.
Jack stood in the doorway for a moment. Her shoulders were too straight. He went back inside without saying anything. In the bedroom, he took the thin blanket from the foot of the bed. In the kitchen, he warmed water and poured it into the ceramic mug she liked because it was slightly chipped near the handle. He added nothing to it — no tea, no lemon — just heat.
When he stepped onto the balcony, Abby turned her head.
“You awake?”
“Apparently.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“You didn’t.”
It wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t think that mattered. He draped the blanket over her knees and placed the mug beside the glass of cold water. Abby looked at it.
“You brought me a second drink.”
“One for when you want to be cold and one for when you want to be warm.”
That earned him the smallest smile. Jack pulled the other chair closer but didn’t sit too near. For a while, they listened to the city. A cab went by at the intersection, tires hissing through water. Somewhere behind them, a refrigerator motor clicked on. A television in another apartment flickered blue against a curtain.
Abby wrapped both hands around the warm mug. “You always do that,” she said.
“Do what?”
“Make things manageable.”
Jack leaned his forearms against his knees. “Is that a complaint?”
She stared ahead. “I don’t know.”
He waited. Abby rubbed her thumb against the chipped edge of the mug.
“At work, that’s all I do. I walk into places where someone is yelling or someone’s hurt or everyone’s already decided the worst thing about everyone else. I figure out where people need to stand. I get them to sit down. I tell somebody to breathe. I call whoever needs calling. I make a list.”
Jack listened.
“When I come home,” she continued, “sometimes I don’t want to be managed.”
He looked at her profile. The rain had left tiny droplets on the balcony railing. The street light turned them silver.
“I don’t think I’m managing you,” he said carefully.
“I know you don’t.” Her voice was soft enough that he almost missed it.
Jack looked down at his hands. “Then what am I doing?”
Abby inhaled slowly. “You’re taking care of me.”
“I thought you liked that.”
“I do.” She shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. I like that you know how I take my coffee. I like that you leave the hall light on if I’m working late. I like that you make food even when you’ve been on your feet all day. I like all of it.”
“Okay.”
“But sometimes it feels like you take care of me so carefully that there isn’t room for me to take care of you. Or disappoint you. Or make you want something.”
Jack’s chest tightened. Abby laughed once quietly and looked embarrassed by the sound.
“That probably makes no sense.”
“It makes some.”
“I don’t want you to be mad at me when I have to work.”
“I’m not.”
“I know. That’s the point.”
He looked at her then. Abby had tears in her eyes, but she wasn’t crying. She seemed almost annoyed by them.
“I wanted you to be a little disappointed Saturday,” she said. “Not cruel, not angry. I just wanted you to say you were looking forward to it and that you were sorry it didn’t happen. I wanted to feel like it mattered to you. Not like you could move me to another day on the calendar and nothing would change.”
Jack’s throat felt tight. “It did matter.”
“I know that now because you told me.” She looked down. “But most of the time, I don’t know. You make everything easy for me. And I think I started wondering whether easy was all you wanted from me.”
He reached toward her. Stopped. His hand hovered in the space between them. Abby looked at it. Then she looked at him. For once, neither of them made a joke.
“I thought leaving room was love,” Jack said. His voice sounded unfamiliar to him. Abby’s eyes stayed on his face.
“I thought giving you space was the respectful thing. You spend all day with people asking things from you. You come home exhausted. I didn’t want to be another person who needed more.”
“You’re my husband.”
“I know.”
“You’re allowed to need more.”
Jack gave a humorless laugh. “That’s apparently the part I’ve been bad at.”
She looked down at the mug again. He put his hand on the small table between them — palm up. Not reaching, not withdrawing. Just there. Abby watched it for several seconds. Then she set down the mug and placed her hand in his. Her fingers were cold.
Jack closed his hand around them. “I do want things,” he said.
She lifted her gaze.
“I want you to come home earlier sometimes. I want you to cancel plans less often when it’s possible. I want to take you to dinner and watch you complain about olive oil. I want you to stop pretending you don’t need help when you’ve been carrying everyone else’s problems around for twelve hours.”
Abby’s mouth trembled. “I don’t pretend.”
“You do.”
“Maybe a little.”
“A lot.”
She almost smiled. Jack rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand.
“And I want to kiss you when you stand in the bedroom doorway looking at me like you did Saturday.”
Her breath caught.
“But you were tired,” he added. “And I thought if I got that wrong — if I treated your joke like an invitation when you were just trying to feel normal after a bad day — I’d make you feel like I wasn’t seeing you.”
Abby stared at him. “I was inviting you.”
“I know that now.”
“I thought you knew.”
“I didn’t.”
Her eyes closed for a moment. Then she said, “I thought you didn’t want to.”
Jack felt the words land somewhere deep and painful. “Abby—”
“I know it sounds ridiculous saying it out loud.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“I know we’re married. I know we love each other. I know you’re here every night making soup and folding laundry and putting gas in my car when you notice the light is on. I know all of that.” She swallowed. “But I still want you to look at me and want me. Not just take care of me because I’m yours to take care of.”
Jack moved his chair closer. The balcony was narrow. Their knees almost touched. “I do,” he said.
Abby’s eyes filled again. “I know you do,” she whispered.
“No.” He shook his head. “You know I love you. That’s different. I should have made the rest clearer.”
She looked at him. Jack felt the old instinct rise in him — the instinct to soften, to make a joke, to avoid saying something that might sound too earnest or too intense or too much. He let it pass.
“I think you’re beautiful when you’re in uniform,” he said. “I also think you’re beautiful when your hair is pinned up wrong and you’re yelling at the washing machine because it ate one of your socks. I think you’re beautiful when you’re tired and angry and when you’re laughing so hard you get that little crease near your mouth.”
Abby’s lips parted slightly.
“I think about touching you more than you probably realize,” he continued. “I think about you when you’re not home. I look at the clock. I listen for your key in the lock. I make things you like because I want to see your face when you take the first bite.”
She was crying now — silently, one tear slipping down her cheek. Jack reached for it. This time, he didn’t stop halfway. His thumb caught the tear beneath her eye.
“I thought being steady meant staying back,” he said. “But I can see how that looks from where you are.”
Abby leaned into his hand. “Steady doesn’t have to mean far away.”
“No.”
He moved closer. The blanket slipped from her knees. Jack caught it before it fell to the wet balcony floor, then tucked it around both of them instead. Abby gave a watery little laugh.
“You really can’t help yourself.”
“Probably not.”
“See that word? That’s your favorite escape hatch.”
“Probably.”
She laughed again — softer this time. Jack smiled, then grew serious.
“I’m sorry I made you feel like you had to hide behind a joke to ask me for something.”
Abby’s fingers tightened around his. “I’m sorry I made you guess everything.”
“You didn’t make me.”
“I did a little.”
“Maybe.”
She looked at him. He shrugged one shoulder. “We’re both apparently terrible at this in very complimentary ways.”
“That’s almost romantic.”
“It’s devastatingly romantic.”
Abby’s smile lingered. Then she reached up and touched the side of his face. “Can I tell you something embarrassing?”
“You usually do.”
“Sorry.”
She took a breath. “Sometimes when I call you a suspect, I’m waiting to see if you’ll come after me.”
He went still. Not because he didn’t understand — because he did.
“I thought you liked making me squirm,” he said quietly.
“I do.” Her cheeks warmed. “But I also — I like when you don’t just stand there and let me decide how close we get.”
The rain had stopped. Somewhere below, water dripped steadily from a fire escape. Jack looked at her for a long moment. Then he leaned forward and kissed her.
Not quickly. Not as a reward for honesty. Not like an answer meant to shut down the conversation. He kissed her because she had told him the truth and he wanted her to feel that he had heard it.
Abby made a small sound against his mouth — surprised at first. Then her hand moved to the back of his neck. She kissed him back with a kind of careful urgency that made his chest ache. When they pulled apart, her forehead rested against his.
“Is this the part where I arrest you?” she whispered.
Jack smiled. “Depends.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Negligence.”
“Fair.”
“Repeated offense.”
“Also fair.”
Abby’s nose brushed his. “What’s your defense?”
“I’m trying to improve.”
She gave him a look. “That’s not a defense.”
“No.”
He kissed her again. This time, Abby’s fingers caught in his hair at the back of his head. The city continued around them — cars passed, lights changed, someone somewhere laughed too loudly through an open window. But Jack didn’t feel far away from her anymore. Not even a little.
The next evening, Abby came home to find a piece of paper taped to the refrigerator. It was crooked. The heading had been written in black marker.
JACK’S CORRECTIVE ACTION PLAN
Below it were four numbered items:
-
Initiate at least one date with wife every week.
-
“You’re tired. We can do it later” may not be used as a universal response.
-
When wife says “I’m fine,” one additional question is authorized.
-
When wife is clearly attempting flirtation under cover of police procedure, suspect must respond seriously.
At the bottom, in larger letters:
Violations subject to personal interrogation by Officer Mercer.
Abby stood in front of the fridge with one hand over her mouth. Jack was at the stove stirring something that smelled like roasted chicken and mint.
“You wrote that?”
“I had help from a legal consultant.”
“You mean you looked up nothing and invented all of it?”
“That’s not nothing. It’s a plan.”
She walked closer, still reading. “You made a plan.”
“You said I’m good at managing things.”
“That was not entirely a compliment.”
“I know.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’m trying to use my powers for good.”
Abby smiled despite herself. Then she noticed a second note beneath the first. It was written in his handwriting too.
ABBY’S SUPPLEMENTAL GUIDELINES
-
Jokes are welcome, but not required.
-
Requests for hugs may be made directly.
-
Requests for kisses may also be made directly.
-
If husband fails to understand, one clear reminder is permitted before arrest.
Abby stared at the last line. Her face warmed. Jack tried not to grin too much and failed.
“You’re impossible,” she said.
“Possibly.”
“Stop saying possibly.”
“No.”
She folded her arms, but the smile stayed. “Did you make dinner?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you trying to bribe an officer again?”
“I’m accepting the risk.”
Abby looked at him. For a moment, the apartment was quiet except for the soft crackle from the pan. Then she crossed the kitchen. Jack watched her come toward him. He didn’t move first — not because he was waiting for her to decide, but because he wanted to give her the chance to say what she’d been practicing saying.
She stopped in front of him. Her hands rested lightly at his waist.
“I had a bad day,” she said.
Jack set the spoon down. “Okay.”
“And I don’t want to explain it yet.”
“Okay.”
“I just—” She looked up at him. “I want to be held for a minute.”
Jack turned fully toward her. He put both arms around her and pulled her close. Abby exhaled against his chest. The sound went through him. He held her without asking questions, without trying to solve whatever had happened, without moving too soon.
After a while, Abby said, muffled against his shirt, “This is good.”
“I’m glad.”
“You don’t have to say anything clever.”
“Thank God.”
She laughed softly. Jack rested his cheek against the top of her head. He could feel the tension slowly leave her shoulders.
When she finally leaned back, he brushed his thumb along her jaw. “Do you want to talk now?”
“Not yet.”
“Then we eat.”
“Good plan.”
“I’m learning.”
She looked at the notes on the refrigerator. “Apparently.”
The following Friday, Abby found a card on the kitchen counter. It was tucked beneath her car keys.
Tonight. 7:00. Wear the dress you like. Your suspicious husband will pick you up.
She read it twice, then a third time. Jack was in the bedroom getting ready. She could hear a drawer opening and closing, the muted sound of him swearing under his breath when he couldn’t find something.
Abby leaned against the counter, smiling to herself. She’d almost forgotten what anticipation felt like inside a marriage. Not the broad familiar anticipation of seeing him at the end of the day. Not the comfort of knowing he’d be there when she came home, sleeves rolled up, dinner halfway made, asking how her shift went. This was sharper. A little ridiculous.
She liked it.
At 6:55, she came out of the bedroom wearing the dark blue dress she’d bought for a friend’s wedding and rarely had a reason to wear. It was simple, soft at the waist, and made her feel more put together than she had any right to feel after a week of paperwork and reports.
Jack was waiting in the living room. He wore a navy jacket over a white shirt. His hair was still slightly damp at the temples. He’d shaved carefully this time.
When he saw her, he didn’t say anything for a second. Abby felt the silence immediately.
“What?” she asked.
Jack crossed the room. “Nothing.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“Probably.”
She pointed at him. “You did it again.”
“I know.” He stopped in front of her. Then he reached up and adjusted one of her earrings — his fingers warm near her ear. “You look beautiful,” he said.
Not rushed. Not casual. Just true.
Abby’s throat tightened. “Thank you.”
Jack’s hands stayed near her face for one extra second. “I’m allowed to look at my wife, right?”
“Depends how long.”
He smiled. “Noted.”
The Italian place on 19th was warm and crowded when they arrived. Small candles burned inside red glass holders on each table. The air smelled like garlic, wine, basil, and baked bread. Outside, rain had started again — soft enough that people still walked beneath umbrellas instead of hurrying.
Their table was near the front window. Abby slid into her chair and looked around. “You really came back for the olive oil.”
“I came back for the bread.”
“That is not what you said last time.”
“I was wrong.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Mark the date.”
“I’m not afraid of personal growth.”
“Liar.”
Jack laughed. The server brought wine. Jack let Abby taste it first, and she gave an exaggeratedly thoughtful nod before approving it.
They talked through dinner. Not about the balcony. Not about the notes on the fridge. Not about anything heavy enough to make the evening feel like a follow-up appointment for their marriage. Abby told him about a rookie who’d labeled every evidence bag backward until someone discovered the mistake during an audit. Jack told her that the old couple on Madison had finally put the walnut cabinet in storage but had taken the broken watch from the drawer home with them. The husband said he was going to get it fixed.
“Will he?” Abby asked.
“No.”
“Then why take it?”
“Because his wife told him it was his father’s.”
Abby’s expression softened. “See, you pretend you’re annoyed by people, but you remember all their things.”
“I remember furniture-related trauma.”
“Sure.”
They ate slowly. They laughed. Their knees touched beneath the table once, then stayed that way.
Near the end of dinner, Abby lifted her glass and took a sip. A drop of red wine caught near the corner of her mouth. Jack noticed. Before he could stop himself, he reached across the table and wiped it away with his thumb.
Abby went still. His hand remained near her face.
“What?” he asked.
She looked at him. “Nothing.”
“Abby.”
She smiled a little. “You did it.”
“Did what?”
“You touched me because you wanted to.”
Jack’s expression softened. “Yeah.”
She watched him. “And you didn’t turn it into a joke.”
“Didn’t seem necessary.”
“No.”
He lowered his hand. Then Abby caught his wrist lightly.
“Don’t.”
Jack looked at her.
“Don’t pull away so fast.”
Something warm moved through him. He turned his hand beneath hers and laced their fingers together on the table. “Okay,” he said.
Outside, rain slid down the window in long, clear lines. Their reflections sat side by side in the glass, slightly blurred by the weather. For once, Jack didn’t feel the need to make the moment smaller than it was.
A week later, the apartment was quiet when Abby came home. The lamp beside the couch was on. Jack sat reading with his feet on the coffee table, one ankle crossed over the other. A pot simmered softly in the kitchen.
The lock turned. Abby stepped inside and hung her coat on the hook by the door. She didn’t move farther into the apartment right away. Jack looked up.
“Hey.”
“Jack.”
There was a particular tone in her voice. He set the book down. “What happened?”
Abby leaned against the door frame. “Reports have come in regarding a repeat offender.”
Jack stood. “Serious.”
“Very.”
He walked toward her. Abby’s eyes followed him. There was a smile waiting at the edge of her mouth, but she didn’t let it arrive too quickly.
“This individual,” she said, “has been illegally entering your life on a daily basis.”
“Terrible.”
“Stealing your pillows, your sweaters, your leftovers.”
“Unforgivable.”
“Also — your attention.”
Jack stopped in front of her. The hallway light above them cast a warm circle over the entryway. Her work bag rested at her feet. There was a faint smear of rain near the shoulder of her coat.
In the past, he would have stayed where he was and waited for her to finish the game. This time, he reached for her hand.
“Then I guess I’ll have to keep her close,” he said.
Abby’s smile broke through. “Officer needs to investigate.”
Jack drew her in until she was against him. “Before that,” he said, “how was your day?”
She hesitated. He felt it — the old instinct passing across her face. The instinct to say “fine.” To toss him a joke. To make herself easy to hold.
Then she let out a breath. “A little hard.”
Jack’s arms tightened around her. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.”
“I just want to stand here for a minute.”
“Then stand here.”
She tucked her face against his shoulder. The pot in the kitchen made a quiet bubbling sound. A car passed outside. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor’s door opened and shut. Abby’s coat was cold beneath Jack’s arms.
After a while, she said, “You know, this is technically still a crime scene.”
“Probably.”
She laughed against his shirt. Jack kissed the top of her head.
“Good,” he said. “I was worried you’d stop breaking in.”
Abby pulled back enough to look at him. “I don’t think I ever really did.”
“No.” He brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “But you don’t have to arrest me every time you want to come home.”
Her eyes softened. “And you don’t have to wait for me to ask.”
Jack nodded once. “Deal.”
Abby looked at him for another second. Then she slipped her hand into his and let him lead her toward the kitchen. The hallway light remained on behind them. The soup waited on the stove. Her work bag stayed by the door for a little while longer — forgotten where it had fallen.
Have you ever been so careful with someone that they forgot how much you wanted them?