Work Text:
“Hey.”
She doesn't sound surprised to see him at her door this late, even though he's only showed up at her place unannounced a couple of times.
“Hey,” he echos, pulling his body upright again from where he'd been leaning against the doorframe.
“You okay?” He watches her do a once-over, checking for cuts or bruises or the stench of liquor, any number of excuses that may have made his late-night visit make more sense.
He nods and smiles as she backs up, letting him in. The lights are on in the kitchen, a crumb-strewn plate on the counter, and he's happy to know he didn't wake her up. Hailey doesn't leave things a mess.
“Late night snack?” He asks, setting his jacket down and trying to pretend this isn't weird, or that it isn't weird how natural it feels to be in her personal space at almost 1 AM, maybe.
“Couldn't sleep, luckily enough for you,” she says. “Hungry?”
He shakes his head, watching the way the hem of her UC shirt rises above the waistband of her shorts slightly as she leans over to put her dish in the sink. She catches him looking, but he can't really bring himself to be embarrassed.
She gestures over to the cabinet where he knows the liquor is hiding. “Thirsty?”
He shrugs, because not really, but he's never been able to say no to a drink with her. She moves around him, and her body brushing against his is more familiar than it has any right to be, really, and maybe that's part of what got him in the car this late at night.
She looks over her shoulder at him and gives him a pointed look. “You know where the glasses are,” she says, and he moves on autopilot to the cabinet by the fridge. He holds out an Old Fashioned glass and holds up two fingers, a silent question.
“Obviously,” she says, meeting him at the counter with the tequila. “Do I ever let you drink alone?”
He smiles, tapping his glass lightly against hers as she finishes pouring. “You don't.”
The tequila is bitter and burns on the way down, and he's back to not knowing exactly how to explain his presence as he finishes his first sip.
“Jay.” She slowly spins the glass against the counter as she looks up at him. “Are you really okay?”
It's been a long week, and a hard case, and an even longer, harder year before that, and sometimes he's not sure he's okay. Usually. Usually, he's not sure.
“I feel okay, now,” he says.
“Because of the tequila?” It's a leading question, one she avoids with suspects but uses to her advantage with him, he knows. The tone of her voice tells him it's a challenge, but one she's not sure he'll bite at.
“Because I'm here, with you.” He tries not to read into the tiny bit of surprise that crosses her face. He tries not to read into the way he can catalog every split second of emotion that crosses her features.
She glances away quickly, and just by the tiny fraction of a moment she's not looking at him, he knows it threw her. It's not altogether different from telling her he’d go where she goes, or he'd follow her anywhere, but it feels like a lot more in the moment, in the quiet of her kitchen at almost 1 AM, tequila warming him.
It's not a hypothetical. It's not some vague idea of a future where he might make good on a promise to follow her over a cliff or put his career on the line for her.
It's now, and it's real, and maybe, probably, it's always been true, but it's out there now.
She takes another sip, and if only so he'll stop looking at her lips on the rim of the glass, he does the same.
“But you didn't feel okay, before?” A safer topic.
He probably shouldn't be here. He never wants to burden her, and it feels like throwing some tequila-drenched feelings at her in her own home on a Friday night is probably crossing that line.
He shrugs, again, because he really doesn't know.
She watches him for a moment, and it's the same look she's given him a thousand times, one that means she's about to tell him something he may not particularly want to hear, but he definitely needs to.
Except. She doesn't say anything. She just picks up her glass and brushes past him again, into the living room, onto the couch before he can even follow her. If it was anyone else, he'd wonder if he was supposed to follow, or just let himself out. But if Hailey wanted him to go, he'd be gone.
He trails behind her, kicks off his shoes at the edge of her kitchen, and settles next to her on the couch, the finger of liquor sloshing in the glass as he rests it against his jeans.
“Sorry,” he says, and she glances at him in the relatively dim light. The TV’s on, but it's quiet enough the commercials don't drown out her reply.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
He could list a million things, half of which she knows, half of which haunt him enough that he could never put their weight on her.
“I just couldn't sleep. I tried to watch the game, and then I thought I'd go for a drive, and then I rang your doorbell.” It happened exactly like that, like frames flicking across a shutter in his mind, one, two, three, and he's standing at his partner’s door with no clue how or why.
“Why?” At his look, she tries again. “Why couldn't you sleep?”
“Asks the woman who was wide awake when I darkened her doorstep.” He smiles, turning his head just enough to watch her out of the corner of his eye, the way her finger traces along the rim of her glass.
“Sometimes you just can't turn it off, y'know?” It’s not a question, really, but he nods along all the same. He knows.
He watches her eyes flick to the TV, some romantic comedy he'd claim not to have seen playing quietly on the screen now. He thinks about her here, watching a love story unfold before her on-screen, probably eating a guilty-pleasure late-night grilled cheese alone in the dark up until the moment he'd rang her doorbell. She looks comfortable and settled in and if the things that haunt her keep her up at night, for as well as he knows her, she makes it look easy.
He takes the last sip of his drink and slides the glass onto the coffee table, the squeak of glass on glass causing her to look back up at him. Her eyes are bright in the dark room, always, always so inquisitive.
“Well, obviously you don't randomly show up at a gorgeous woman’s home uninvited when you can't sleep,” he says, and maybe it's heavy-handed, maybe the tequila went uncharacteristically quickly to his head.
Maybe it's dark and late and his partner is a gorgeous woman, and probably, definitely his best friend, and sitting on the couch with her tonight is the first time he's felt comfortable and settled in too long.
She raises her eyebrows at him, smirking slightly.
“What?” He asks, playing for innocent. She rolls her eyes and he smiles. “You know you're gorgeous.”
She glances down at the drink in her hand, sloshes it around the glass for a second before bringing it to her lips. When she speaks, her lips brush against the glass, and he's pretty sure he shouldn't focus on it as much as he is.
“Oh, I know I am,” she says, and he wants to laugh, but the way she's looking at him, he can't make the noise leave his chest. “I just wasn't aware you knew.”
She swallows the rest of her drink and he just stares at her for a second, waiting for her to give a telltale sign she's joking. It doesn't come, but he knows it's not really news to her that he thinks she's gorgeous.
“Yeah, well,” he says, and it feels like he's toeing a line, even though he's pretty sure he's already shown his hand.
“Yeah, well,” she mimics, sliding her empty glass next to his on the table. When she leans back onto the couch, her shoulder brushes his, and he really wasn't aware they were sitting so close.
“Hailey, c’mon.” He sighs, and the air feels charged as he breathes back in. “I know you're a better detective than I am, but I'm not blind.”
“I am a better detective than you are,” she agrees, and he'd argue, but he knows when he's been beaten.
“I was just being a good partner. Being respectful, or whatever. And there was the whole Ruze thing,” he says, and he doesn't want to open up old wounds, or make her think he was pining, because he wasn't, really, but it feels important to him now that she knows he's fully aware, probably too aware, of just how gorgeous she is, and he always has been.
“Wanna know how the Adam thing started?” The question surprises him, and he raises his eyebrows at her.
“I mean, obviously it started with sex,” she says, rolling her eyes, “but we had too much to drink, I mean, a lot. And he asked me if I'd shoot him if he leaned in and kissed me, and before I could say maybe, he'd kissed me.”
He breathes out a quiet laugh. “Brave guy. I've seen you shoot people for less,” he jokes.
“He was lucky I wasn't carrying.”
It's quiet again, and he thinks maybe he's worn out his welcome, maybe he should stand and pretend he's finally tired, and it’d be halfway to the truth. Whatever dormant anxiety was amping him up at home, making him antsy in the car, almost made him turn around when he realized where he'd automatically driven to -- it’s gone now, and it has been since the second she opened the door.
She shifts so she's sitting sideways on the couch, her legs crossed beneath her. Her bare knee brushes his jeans and she brushes her hair back behind her as she looks at him.
He doesn't want to leave.
“That was the night you almost got shot,” she says. Her voice is quieter than it normally is, maybe more timid than he's ever heard her. “It was the night I thought you were --”
His brain fills in all the words Hailey could say next. Stupid. Reckless. Selfish. There are more, and none of them paint him in a good light.
“I thought you were dead, Jay. Just for a minute, but that was long enough.”
He breathes out slowly, trying and failing to not picture the situation reversed, the adrenaline that would course through his veins and make his heart race, the way she'd look splayed out, injured, pale before him.
He pillows his cheek against the back of the couch and makes himself focus on her now, instead. How she's warm and settled next to him, comfortable and vibrant and very much alive, and still, somehow, his heart races at the sight of her.
“I'm sorry.” It’s all he knows to say, not that it changes anything about that night, or takes away any of the emotion that still clearly lingers.
“Yeah, well, that was your one free pass. The next time you make me think you're dead, I’ll kill you myself,” she says, smirking at him.
He holds up his hands in mock surrender, mouths, “don’t shoot,” and she laughs, but when he lowers his hands, his fingers brush her knee.
It’s accidental, and every rational part of him is screaming that he should just apologize, or play it off, or ignore it altogether. But the part of him that can catalog every emotion on her face? The part of him that somehow knew she’d still be awake? That part is watching her face, and no part of her is waiting for an apology. And no part of him wants to ignore the little shuddery breath she takes as his fingers press just slightly harder against her skin.
“Hailey--” he starts, but she shakes her head softly, shushing him quietly. He doesn’t move his fingers, and he lets the edge of his thumb drag across her skin with a little more force.
“I was awake when you got here because sometimes it’s just too quiet. Even with the TV on, and the washer running, and the traffic outside. It was too quiet, and my thoughts were too loud, and then you rang my doorbell.”
Her hand brushes the fabric of his long sleeve shirt, raking the material up his wrist so her fingers can press against his pulse point and trail down over his hand on her knee.
“But I feel better now. Because you’re here, with me.”
It’s his turn to take a shaky breath in as her words hit him and her fingers press his palm flat against her skin, the heat of her thigh spurring him on.
This isn’t what he came here for, at all. It’s the last thing he expected. But he can’t imagine leaving without at least trying.
He leans into her space a little, lets his hand slide a fraction of an inch higher up her thigh. He hesitates and has to force the words out, but finally, they fall from his lips, cockier than he feels. “Are you gonna shoot me if I kiss you?”
She shakes her head. “Only if you don’t,” she whispers, and his lips press against her smile slowly, not because he’s not sure she wants it, or because he isn’t positive he needs it, but because he wants to remember, he wants to memorize, the way she tastes at 1:00 AM in the dark of her living room for the first time.
(She tastes like tequila, and trust, and then he stops thinking, because her mouth opens under his, and she tastes like finally.)
HIs fingers dig into the muscle of her thigh, and she shifts, and maybe every ounce of adrenaline and antsy energy he had tonight, that put him in the car and brought him to her doorstep, knew the night was going to end with Hailey in his lap on her couch. But he didn’t, so the shock of her weight on his thighs makes him gasp, and his teeth catch her bottom lip. The noise she makes against his mouth courses through him, and, well.
He's got a dangerous job. He’s put his life on the line for his job, his city, his country -- but he's never been more sure that something was gonna wreck him like he is about the way Hailey drags her fingers through his hair and slants her mouth over his, dirty and quick, before she pulls back just enough so they can breathe against each other, a silent check in more charged than any they've ever shared.
He reaches out to trail his fingers down the side of her face, almost a reassurance that she's here and this is happening. Besides the way he just kissed her, it's the most intimate way he's ever touched her that hasn't involved shielding her body from gunfire (or bombs, or fire, or any number of horrors they've faced side-by-side.)
The adrenaline rush of touching her now feels the same as all those events. He feels jittery and overwhelmed, emotions he rarely lets anyone but her see. She just watches him for a moment, and he doesn't want the rush to end.
It feels exciting, like a first meeting, but lived in, like trust, and he watches her close her eyes as he leans back in. There are a million cheesy little things he could focus on (like how the glow of the TV light brightens her hair and it somehow makes him feel warm, or how her fingers flex on his shoulder and it feels like that tiny touch could keep him rooted to this spot forever) but he tries to focus on her, on memorizing all the new ways he's meeting his partner tonight, like he doesn't already know her better than he does himself.
He tries to relax into her kiss, but he feels hyper-vigilant in the best way possible, and he just wants to touch as much of her as he can. He skims a hand up her thigh and one up her back, dragging his blunt nails up the back of her shirt. He doesn't want to miss a second, or forget the way she drags her fingers off his shoulder for half a second to tuck her hair behind her ear, or how they dimple back against his shirt in the exact same spot a moment later, like five tiny brands hot against him.
He lets himself fall into it as she trails her lips down his chin to his throat, her tongue quick and cool against his skin. (He can't stop himself.)
He lets his fingers graze the warm skin of her back as he leans back only far enough to pull the shirt up and over her head. Her skin is warm and bare beneath his hands, and he runs his hand down her side and commits to memory the way she bites at his neck as she shivers. (He can’t stop himself.)
He brushes her hair back behind her ear again and she makes a distracted noise of thanks against his skin. (He can't stop himself.)
(He doesn't want to.)
He skims his fingers back up her sides, surprising a gasp out of her, and she’s absolutely ticklish. It’s powerful knowledge he’ll wield for all of time, if he has any say in it. She drags her lips back up to meet his, and he pulls her closer to his chest, his hands on her back. She pulls back and bites her lip, and he wonders for a moment if he should hand her shirt from where he tossed it on the floor. But she smiles that smirky little grin, and he immediately relaxes.
“Bet you’re feeling pretty happy I’m comfortable enough with you that I didn’t run to put on a bra when you got here.” Her fingers drag down his chest to the hem of his shirt, and he leans forward into her a little so she can drag it off him. The air is cool as the fabric leaves his skin, but she leans into him immediately, her nipples pressing against his skin and her body warm against his chest.
“I’m not not happy about it,” he teases, letting his hands span her sides and his thumbs brush the sides of her breasts.
“Yeah, shocker,” she whispers. He shivers against her body as her nails drag up his chest and her lips find one of a hundred scars from things that have almost wrecked him.
Her lips suck a kiss against the bend of his shoulder and he can't stop the groan it pulls out of him, or the way his thumbs shift and drag over her nipples. They pebble against his touch immediately and her teeth press against his shoulder.
“Hailey,” he whispers, and it feels gravelly and rough tripping across his lips. That's probably what makes her glance up immediately, her need to always check in, make sure he's okay.
He drags his thumbs over her nipples again, slowly, and she bites at her lip as her eyes flutter closed. He shifts a hand away from her breast to brace against the back of her head and then presses her body back, so she's almost parallel with the floor in his lap, her hair spilling down around his hand and her body splayed out over his legs.
Her eyes open at the movement, and she just lets him look at her, like she knows he needs a moment.
Light from the TV plays across her skin, painting her in blues and golds, and if this was a different night, some uncertain future they could have together where every touch, moan, kiss wasn't a first, he'd be happy just to watch her like this for as long as she'd let him.
But her fingers trail up and run over the back of his neck, and it's like a shock to his system. He leans forward and presses his lips to hers, and her nails press into his skin. His mouth moves down her neck, over a racing pulse, and settles on her breast, moving over her nipple with blunt teeth.
She moans (a first) and he switches sides, dragging his thumb over her slick skin as he moves.
He could keep his face pressed to her chest for hours, on some hypothetical future night, but she drags her palms down the back of his neck and around to his shoulder blades, leveraging herself back up so their chests are pressed together again. She readjusts her position in his lap for a moment but doesn't move to kiss him.
It's quiet, the only sounds their breathing and the credits rolling over a familiar song as one romcom ends and the screen splits as another begins.
She moves, shuffling her knees so she can stand, and he's never wanted anyone to move less. She reaches out a hand as she gets to her feet, but he just stares.
“Hailey, as soon as I get off this couch, one of our work phones is gonna ring, or I'm gonna wake up or something,” he says, and maybe this, more than anything, feels like an admission of how badly he needs this, how badly he wants her.
She cocks her head at him slightly, and it's the same face she makes before she laughs at him, he knows it too well.
“Jay, do you think you're dreaming right now?” She reaches down and laces her fingers with his, and he could resist. The only way he's stronger than her is physically, and that's really not even a guarantee most days. He could resist, but god, he doesn't want to.
He stands and pauses for just a moment, a hand in her hair and their fingers joined at his side. No phones ring. No alarm sounds. He doesn't wake in a cold sweat, antsy and needing.
“See?” She asks, leaning into his chest on her tiptoes.
“Can you blame me?” It's quiet, and he doesn't want an answer. It's not a dream.
She just shakes her head and he has to kiss the smirk off her lips. And it's like that sets them aflame, and all he can focus on is her and how she reacts.
The way she laughs into his mouth when his hand trails down her waist and over her ass.
The way she pushes him through the kitchen and up the stairs toward her room, her hands working his belt apart and how she lets him pin her down, the stairs pressing into her back, just to kiss her for a long minute.
The way she gasps when he backs her up against the doorframe, maybe the least gentle he's ever been with her, and how it turns into a moan when he lifts her to wrap her legs around him.
The way she looks at him as he presses her back against the mattress and then how she just watches him, at once as at ease and as keyed up as he's ever seen her, as he stands to lose his jeans.
The way her nails skim his sides as he crawls back over her, how her fingers dip under the waistband of his boxer briefs as he kisses her.
He lets himself press against her as he trails his lips down her neck, her nails tracing patterns across his shoulders as he moves lower. His lips skate over her breasts, stutter-step down her stomach. She laughs when he dips his tongue into her navel, but her hands tug at his hair as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her shorts.
He glances up at her, because this feels like a line they can't uncross.
“This is the point where I would wake up,” she whispers, and he has to press a smile against her warm skin and let himself just breathe her in for a moment.
“Tell you what,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over her stomach with every word, “if you wake up when I pull your shorts off, get in the car, show up on my doorstep, and just get naked. Just, get all kinds of naked, Hailey. I promise I'll know why you're there.”
She laughs and he just waits for her to look back at him, enjoying the sound.
“All kinds of naked, huh,” she says, and he wants to laugh, he wants to kiss her, but her hands cover his on her waistband and she pushes the fabric of her shorts and panties down, and he's lucky he remembers his own name.
He tosses her clothes behind him and pulls her body closer to him in one motion, and she laughs out a squeal, a noise he wouldn't have attributed to her if he hadn't felt it reverberate against his lips as they drift lower over her body.
He looks up at her as he presses a thumb to her clit. Her eyes are closed, but she still looks like she could laugh at any moment.
“Hey,” he whispers, and she opens her eyes immediately, searching his face. He holds her gaze as he presses his tongue against her, and she bites her lip. “Still think it's a dream?”
She rolls her eyes, but cards her fingers through his hair, and he figures that's answer enough.
“Yeah, me too,” he says, and her fingers grip his hair tighter, a silent shut up if he's ever heard one. So he presses his lips back against her and moves his tongue in the shape of words that might make her smile, or laugh, or moan.
There aren't many things Hailey doesn't make her opinion known on, at least where he's concerned, so he's a little surprised at how lax she goes against his mouth immediately, like this was exactly the stress relief she needed. Her hands in his hair guide him a couple times, and he listens, feels rewarded when she moans and holds his head closer against her.
She tenses a couple times, and he can feel she's close, lets her control the show and presses his tongue to her clit as she grinds against his mouth. She almost whimpers above him, and that noise is gonna stick with him. Her thighs tense and he lets her hold his mouth against her body, lets her bring herself to the edge with his tongue, his mouth.
She comes, a strangled, gasping noise escaping her, and her fingers loosen in his hair immediately, but he licks her through it, grazes a hand up and down her thigh, calming her. He pulls back when she shifts away and rests his chin on her thigh, watching her come back down.
“You look pretty proud of yourself,” she says, a few moments later, and he just grins, already anticipating the eye roll he gets.
“Should I be?” He asks.
She crooks a finger at him and he presses a kiss to her thigh before moving up her body. He presses his lips to her cheek and she turns her head to capture his lips.
And she's that good, or he's that gone, because he doesn't see it coming, the way she wraps her legs around him and pushes, pinning his back to the mattress before he can even react. Her lips brush his ear and he feels her grin, triumphant.
“Don’t fish for compliments, Jay,” she whispers. She bites at his earlobe, and he hisses. “But, thank you.”
“Literally, anytime,” he says, and she laughs against his neck. She presses open-mouthed kisses to his shoulder, and he runs his hands down her sides, settling on her hips. She moves against him, and he presses up against her, watching the way she closes her eyes and grinds down against his cock over his boxer briefs.
His fingers dig into the flesh of her hips, letting her move for a minute. It's good torture, and she absolutely knows it judging by the way she opens her eyes and locks gazes with him before leaning down to kiss him, slow and lazy.
He takes his shot, curving his hands around her shoulders and holding her to him, slipping his tongue in her mouth while she continues to rock against him. She bites at his lower lip, and her fingers dip in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and he's not sure which one makes him groan into her mouth, an overwhelmed, needy noise.
She pushes the fabric down and he moves his legs to ease them the rest of the way down. When he's kicked them off, and there's nothing separating them anymore, it seems like time slows down into little snapshots of moments.
The way he sits up to kiss her and tangles his hand in her hair to keep her with him.
The way she settles into his lap and raises up on her knees to sink down on his cock, and how everything just stops for a moment afterward.
The way her fingers claim space on his shoulders as she adjusts to him, and how his lips find her neck to calm his racing heart as she starts to move against him.
Their overwhelmed noises mingle as she keeps moving, and that desperation is what speeds time back up.
She runs her hands up his chest and pushes him back against the mattress. His lips miss the warmth of her neck immediately, but it's a fleeting thought as she presses her palms to his thighs and moves her hips faster, arching her back.
Her head is thrown back and her hair tickles his legs as it brushes back and forth against him, and god, he wants to touch every part of her.
He settles for running his palms up and down her outer thighs as they work her body over his, and when they tense under his hands, he shifts his hands to run up her inner thighs to brush the sensitive skin there.
She moves faster against him, and if part of her job description wasn't to protect him, he'd be pretty sure she was actively trying to kill him. He can feel his body reaching its breaking point, the last hour, month, years of tension catching up.
“Hailey,” he whispers, and at this point, he's surprised he can form words either of them can understand. His fingers flex on her thighs. “Hailey, can you come again like this?”
She doesn't answer, just moves a hand off his thigh to find his fingers, lacing them together and drawing them up against her clit, and if the way her body shivers at the first press is any indication, yeah, she can get there. He circles his thumb against her, lets her set the pressure with her hand as his guide.
He tries to focus on her, on watching her take what she needs, but everything is starting to get hazy at the edges. Her position shifts just slightly, falling out of rhythm, and he circles his thumb against her clit faster.
She doesn't make a noise as she comes this time, but she doesn't need to. He feels the way she shakes apart, the tension easing from her thighs. When she eases herself forward, pressing her chest to his, he gathers her hair in his hands and presses his face into the side of her neck.
He lets her breathing return to normal before he moves his hands down to her thighs and holds her against him, rolling her underneath his body. He settles between her legs and rocks into her slowly.
“Okay?” He asks, his lips brushing hers. She nods and her mouth opens against his, teeth nipping at his lips. Her nails scrape down his back and she shifts her thighs so he can move deeper, faster, inside her. Her hips move to meet his thrusts and he’s barely kissing her now, just letting her suck at his bottom lip and trail her lips over his stubble.
He shudders out a breath, letting his fingers tangle in her hair. She doesn't stop dragging her fingers or moving her mouth, or meeting his hips, and it's her concentration and tenacity and her, all the little things that make her a trustworthy partner, all falling from her lips, teasing with her fingers, all set to bring him just to the brink in a totally new way.
(He can't stop himself. He doesn't want to.)
And maybe, in the brief second he pulls back to watch her face before his eyes close, maybe she doesn't want him to, either.
He lets go, lets himself finally relax, lets the adrenaline course through him, lets her mouth and her fingers and her body push him over a new type of edge than the one she's gotten so, so good at pulling him back from over the years.
He comes, and he's just aware enough to remember he wants to memorize her, wants to watch the way she steadies him through it. Her nails on his back turn to soft caresses, her lips on his stubble turn to barely-there kisses pressed against his neck. Her legs slide back down against the mattress, only shifting enough to let him pull out gently.
“Jesus, Hailey,” he mumbles, and he hopes she hears the sweet, reverent edge he tries to lace it with, hopes it sounds as different to her ears as it feels saying it.
It's different now, immediately, like the world has shifted around to fit them like this. Her hands are ghosting up and down his back, and it takes him a second to realize that although he’s relaxed, his fingers are still in her hair, his thumb brushing just over the shell of her ear. He thinks she's leaning into it slightly, that his tough, fighter of a partner might have needed this, wanted this, as much as he did.
She breaks the silence first, because, well, they're them, and she's the brave one.
“You okay?”
She just watches him, because she knows, she always knows, it takes him some time. The words always work with her, but they don't always come easy or fast. He shifts to the side so he's not crushing her, but their legs entangle and he presses his cheek to the mattress beside her, his arm still across her chest tangled in her hair.
He moves his gaze back to her face, its perfect profile, her solid, unwavering stare as she turns her head to face him, always ready to call him on his shit.
“Are you okay?” It's not an answer, and they both know it, but he’ll know he's okay when he knows she's okay.
It's a cop-out, and the slight pucker of her lips tells him she knows it, obviously. It also reminds him that she's still Hailey -- even if this is a brand new side of her for him -- she's still the person he'd follow anywhere, she still deserves his honesty, his trust, now more than ever.
She's still just staring at him, waiting on an actual answer to her question. He won't win in a staredown with her. He learned that early and often, but she still loves to remind him.
He shifts his hand in her hair slightly so his thumb can brush along her neck. She closes her eyes, and he takes a moment to just watch her at her most relaxed. He's wanted to touch her like this a hundred times, a thousand little moments that flash through his mind of times he could have reached out and given her a moment of peace with just his touch.
He doesn't want to stop, now that he's let himself do it.
“Hailey.” It's quiet, lower than a whisper when they've gone dark at a crime scene. She hears it anyway, of course. She always hears him.
Her eyes open, bluer than any ocean he's ever seen, and it's cheesy, yeah, but. She just watches him.
“I'm good.” Two words probably shouldn't carry so much weight, but she smiles slowly as they reach her ears and he feels twenty pounds lighter already.
Her fingers drag along his chest, stopping only when he covers her hand with his.
“You're good,” she says, quiet, like a shared secret.
He nods, just watching her face. She’s expressive always, but no one has ever rivaled him for hiding their emotions as well as she does, when she really, really wants to.
But he knows her. Just like he knew she’d be awake at 1 AM, and how he knew, without question, that this would happen eventually. He didn’t think it would be tonight, and by her side here, naked, it still feels a little surreal, like waking up from the best dream to find out it wasn’t a dream at all.
He knows her, so he recognizes the second the smile starts to form on her lips, and it takes everything in him not to kiss it away, because he thinks maybe he can do that freely now, in the privacy of this little bubble, and anywhere else she’ll let him.
“We’re good,” she whispers, and her palm presses harder against his chest, like she can feel the way his heart is threatening to beat right out of it.
“Yeah?” He asks, but it's really just to watch her smile again.
“Yeah, Jay,” she says. “We're always gonna be good.”
His words from what feels like a different lifetime echo back to him, and he leans in to kiss her.
Tonight, maybe not surprisingly, hasn’t felt like the first time. (It is.)
Kissing her now, feeling her smile in the dark, it doesn't feel like a last time. (It isn’t.)
It feels like a dream, but better, because Hailey is real and vibrant against him, and he smiles against her lips in the dark, settling in.