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What Hour loved most about Poet was the sanctuary in which she kept herself. Encased in glass like a sacred relic on display at a museum, never to be handled by anyone except those who donned the right gloves, taking her out now and then to give her a dusting. Hour felt that she had those gloves and was allowed, on special occasions, to take Poet out of her case and run a reverent fingertip over the cracks and wear in her materials. The things that made Poet so spectacularly herself. The things that made Hour enraptured.
Hector had been an appeasement to her parents. He was easy. Kind, thoughtful, and supportive. A checklist that Hour could rattle off to herself to justify their bland courtship and why she never felt the air leave her lungs when he walked into a room, never felt a full body ache when his fingers strummed against her skin.
Never once did he question who Hour was thinking about as he lay on top of her, the metaphorical weight of him like an anchor pulling her into murky depths while she went through the motions, masquerading as a good wife. Sometimes, she’d imagine Poet in her marital bed instead, those wide, curious eyes staring at her in the darkness. Those fingers, prying Hour’s resolve apart inch by inch. What it would feel like for Poet’s strong, lithe body to meld with hers, to make her lose control. She imagined Poet was a generous lover, perhaps the only time she gave herself freely. Or at least that’s how Hour would play it alone in the guest room (another action Hector never questioned) with her own fingers buried between her legs, mumbling Poet’s name into the dark to get used to the way it tasted in her mouth.
It's not like she didn’t have a reference material to draw from. How many nights Poet crawled into Hour’s twin bed at the academy, spooning against her after too many drinks with Lennix at one of the seedy bars around her as she nestled her face in between Hour’s shoulder blades? Hour’s body was wound so tight, hoping, wishing that Poet’s hands would wander. That they could crack the shell on this thing between them quietly in the dark where no one would need to know but them.
And sometimes, Hour could swear she’d feel Poet’s resolve slip away, a ragged catch of her breath in her lungs as her hands drifted down Hour’s side, two fingertips tracing the centimeter of skin from the gap between her pajama bottoms and the shirt. But then, she’d pull away like Hour’s skin was hot enough to burn her. Hour would believe it. Her heart had been on fire for Poet for too long, and maybe it was systemic, seeping into all of her processes to send everything alight.
Poet served as a benchmark that made it easy to find Hector’s faults. He was too perfect. Too kind. Too predictable. Too tolerable for her parents. Polite. Boring. He gave Hour everything she needed materialistically, but it wasn’t enough, and it never would be.
So when Hour, after years of stuffing herself into a box that now was much too small, decided it was time to live, she felt raw excitement (when perhaps she should have felt sadness), as she dialed Poet’s phone to ask for a girl’s night.
“I hate it when you call it that,” was all Poet said. “See you at 7.”
There was no triteness to Ashley Poet. No frills. Hour wished to take a hand to Poet’s rough edges like a potter working a wheel, smoothing her over however long it took but leaving the imperfections that made her the magnificent being that she was. And, she felt like, in a way, she could take credit for some of the softness Poet showed her. The easy, albeit confusing, affection found between the two of them had been started by Hour. At first met with the wide eyes of Poet, who seemingly couldn’t fathom why two people would snuggle against each other on the same couch to watch a movie. Poet liked to analyze everything, and Hour allowed for a hint of whimsy that probably scared Poet. Not that she would ever admit to that.
But over time, Poet’s hands lingered longer, or her eyes would flick to Hour’s lips in a way that didn’t feel friendly in nature, but rather, curious, and for Hour, consuming. How much time Hour had spent contemplating that soft, precious expression on Poet’s face as if she were examining something critical, filing it away in that encyclopedia of a brain.
~*~
When Hour pulled up to Poet’s street, Poet stood sentry in front of her house, sizing Hour up as she usually did, likely drawing seven conclusions just by the way Hour closed her door. As Hour approached, she watched that face soften and one tentative arm open, inviting Hour in. Hour wanted to ease Poet’s mind, to tell her that she would never disclose how much the other woman liked hugs. Or at least Hour’s hugs.
It had been too long since Hour had held Poet, and she almost forgot the reason that she came. Wondering if it wasn’t actually to simply pull Poet in and smell the lavender on her skin. Her brain reminded her with a swift kick of that nagging guilt. “My marriage is over.”
“I’m sorry,” Poet said, tone a cordiality that one might pay to an acquaintance over the loss of a sports bet.
“But not surprised?” Hour filled in the gaps, like usual.
Poet dodged. “You’ve told him?”
Told him? Hour wished. She wished she could tell him that she was not interested in him, or any man. It’s not that Hour couldn’t fill her bed with another woman, but it wasn’t just any woman she coveted.
“No, it’s the first time I’ve said those words out loud. I needed to tell you first.” Hour expected the confession to feel more freeing but it instead breathed reality into a scenario she’d simply imagined.
“Thank you for telling me,” Poet said, inhaling deeply as she tightened her grip on Hour, curling a tendril of hair around her finger.
“You think I’m being foolish, don’t you?” Hour asked.
“I think only fools stay with people they’re not in love with,” Poet said, turning to walk toward the house.
Hour watched her climb the few steps onto the porch, frozen in place momentarily as she considered just what the fuck she was doing here. Regardless, the tension around her heart lifted as she stepped toward the house, following Poet.
~*~
Poet’s home post-explosion looked like what Hour imagined her mind to look like, files, papers, photographs, scraps of fabric, and maps tacked to every spare inch of her home office. Hour clocked that Poet was a well-organized packrat who could justify every single thing that she kept, even back at the academy. There was a method to this madness, one that Hour found just as fascinating as Poet’s guarded, yet soft, nature. One that Hour knew her system could emulate. One that Poet seemed so afraid of.
Poet had to be eased into any form of connection, so Hour was not surprised when they spent the first few hours of “not girl’s night” sifting through paperwork on the highway slayings. It’s not like Hour didn’t enjoy this work, too. Not only for the sense of justice, but also for the way she and Poet could play off of each other, two members of the same ensemble riffing until they got the melody right.
They spent the entirety of that first evening into night sifting through photographs, cross-referencing it through Hour’s system, and eating bad takeout out of plastic containers until they both fell asleep on opposite ends of the couch. When they awoke the next day, nothing was said as Poet made coffee and gave Hour clothes to change into.
She didn’t ask if Hour needed to check with Hector, and Hour was hopeful that meant she didn’t care. Because if Poet cared then Hour should feel something other than relief. Perhaps guilt? Pausing, she waited for the emotion to fill the gaps, but when none came, she slipped into Poet’s shower, trying not to lose herself in the curated, neat products inside of it. Or the scar cream in her medicine cabinet.
Hour had to stop herself from staring at Poet’s scar as they sat on the floor across from each other for the second day, drinking lukewarm coffee and parsing through bits of evidence. She wanted to wear the gloves then, run her hands over Poet’s marred skin, kiss it, and tell Poet it made her beautiful. She was not the recluse in the bell tower. She was a brave and brilliant woman who could have gotten a lot worse than this. But Hour knew Poet didn’t see it this way. It ruined the mirage of her perfection in every way.
“You’re hiding in this case,” Hour said as they eked out half of a lead at hour six.
Poet looked at Hour, a flicker of pain across her features, but she didn’t correct her.
In truth, Hour was hiding, too. Lost in the make-believe world of what this would be like if this was their cozy craftsman tucked away on a quiet street. What it would be like to come home to each other every day, how it would feel to dismantle that wall around Poet, brick by brick until the splendor of her heart was revealed.
That night, it was Poet who suggested they open the second bottle of wine, which, after a meager dinner of cheese and crackers, sent Hour’s mind in motion. For so many years, she had hidden this desire for Poet, poorly, she’d assumed. And here they were, on the couch, too close for Hour’s twitching fingertips. She envied the way Poet’s thumb stroked the stem of her wine glass, wishing, foolishly, that it was her. But Hour had become a master of this craft, knowing when and where to pull back, like now. She got up then, grabbing the half-full wine bottle, absently glancing at the candle Poet lit for “the ambiance” that bathed the room in a soft, amber glow, the scent of ripening peaches wafting around it.
“I don’t know how much longer I can hide here,” Hour said, refreshing their glasses as she sat back on the couch.
“What’s really going on?” Poet asked after giggling, something she only treated herself to after a few glasses of wine.
“What do you mean?” Hour said, trying not to look at Poet’s mouth and failing.
“You're the smartest person I know. You married someone who has no curiosity. At least about you. You say your marriage is over because you don’t feel seen, but maybe you don’t want to be seen,” Poet said, bluntly.
That’s all Hour ever wanted, really, was to be seen. To be herself.
“Why would I not want to be seen?” Hour challenged.
And who was Poet to talk to her about being seen? Poet holed up in this house like a clandestine citizen, donning a superhero cape at night to catch villains on the side of the road.
“What are you going to say to him after you tell him that it’s over and he says he’ll change or that he wants, you know, couples counseling?” Poet asked, as if bored by the human experience.
Hour could not blame her here.
Hour sipped wine instead of answering. Poet’s logic was hard to beat on a good day, but even if she had presented Hour with the most convincing argument, nothing could make her stay with Hector.
“So, what are you going to tell him?” Poet persisted.
Hour scoffed, unable to comprehend this conversation through the haze of wine and the 30 or so hours spent here in Poet’s home. Instead, she carefully slipped her head into Poet’s lap, welcoming the fingers through her hair. She wished they could talk about, instead, how gentle Poet’s fingers were slipping through her hair. How she made Hour feel safe and protected.
The fingers scratching at her scalp send a slow, mounting heat through Hour. It never took much with Poet but now especially on her couch and in this quiet oasis where everything screams of Poet, smells like Poet, and sends Hour’s mind racing. Hour fights the urge to put her wine glass down and pull that hand to her mouth, pressing her lips against those feather-soft fingers.
“I think about my parents’ disgust when I told them about my career choice, and I thought okay, if this is how they respond when I tell them I joined the FBI,” she paused, tongue alien in her mouth, too clunky and too slow for what she wanted to say. “and I couldn’t do it.”
“Do what?” Poet’s voice was all softness, the edge was gone now.
“Tell them that I’m gay,” Hour said as she turned her head back to look at Poet’s face, still reading the same evenness, no surprise or shock pulling it in any which way.
“You knew, huh?” Hour said. Poet was one of the most brilliant minds Hour had ever encountered. Of course, she knew. Which meant she had to know how Hour felt about her.
Propelled by the notion of being found out, Hour sat back up, unable to have this conversation with her head on Poet’s thigh, twitching every now and then to remind Hour of how strong she was. Still, Hour was unable to look at Poet’s face just yet, internally writhing through the shame coursing through her. Shame that, no matter how many times her logical mind tried to displace from her, haunted her like a tortured spirit.
Hector was not a bad man, quite the opposite, really. The type of man that cried when he felt sadness and wrote love notes to Hour before her long days. Who did things out of kindness and not recognition. Hour let the realization wash over her that she’d be breaking his too-big heart, and soon. “I’ve spent my whole life obsessed with truth, and I’ve just been suppressing my own. He’s so sweet. He’s so just gentle. And I’ve wasted years of his life.”
“He was married before you. He had girlfriends before her. And you’ve - you’ve been in love how many times? I mean, don’t you think that he would want you to have that feeling just once?” Poet said, tone lighter, that left Hour wondering if she had this speech ready for this exact scenario.
Poet was always prepared.
“But I've had that feeling,” Hour argued.
“You have?” Poet challenged.
Hour didn’t believe her.
Hour quickly swallowed a breath, trying to slow the rate of her heart down. She watched Poet’s curiosity, then the way her fingers picked nervously at the woven fabric of the blanket. Poet’s prowess for logic did not blend into feelings, and Hour figured then it was making her uncomfortable.
So when Poet pressed a soft, “with who?” following the question, barely audible, Hour hesitantly brought her gaze over to Poet. Furthering this deception was not in the cards tonight, and Hour let the wine and the moment buzz between them.
Hour barely recognized her own voice as it left her, tremulous and soft as a flutter of a bird’s wing. “With you.”
Poet’s breath hitched, her eyes lidding to a somberness that disarmed Hour.
“It’s always been you,” Hour said, a smile playing on her lips. Saying her truth dug out the rot inside of her while a thousand-pound weight lifted off her chest.
“Fuck, say something,” Hour said, pinching the bridge of her nose as Poet’s fingertips spidered across her shoulder, curiously. “Please say something.”
Poet remained silent, except to tap against Hour’s shoulder with restless fingers. Hour wished, again, that those fingertips would touch her somewhere else, somewhere softer, somewhere with heat.
Poet’s eyes swept to Hour’s, then grazed down her lips. Hour resisted the shudder that was starting from her thighs, sending small shockwaves of need upward. The fingertips of Poet’s other hand traced the skin of Hour’s jaw.
Hour didn’t know what she expected in spilling this sixteen-year secret tonight, but Poet’s mouth centimeters from hers wasn’t high on the list. Nor was Poet’s body inching closer. Hour kept her eyes open, unsure if this was really happening or if perhaps she’d fallen asleep on the couch again, and another dream tortured itself through her sleeping consciousness.
Once when the pair had gone out for margaritas after “hell week,” a series of grueling physical challenges that left them both completely wrung out, Poet had followed Hour into the bathroom, hooking a drunken hand around her waist and pulling her in.
Poet looked at Hour that night like she was looking at her now.
Except Jordan walked in then, bumping their backs off of the door with drunken effort.
Hour figured it would never happen again.
And yet, here they were. Poet’s lips pressed against Hour’s like a consolation prize, giving some but not all of what tangled between them, dripping with heat and demanding to be freed.
Hour’s fingers danced along Poet’s jaw, trying to loosen her up as their lips pressed in a way that did not suggest longevity but rather finality. Hour didn’t want to believe it, but she knew. She’d always know with Poet.
“I’m sorry,” Poet whispered.
Those two words crushed Hour under their weight, but the part of her that always wondered, the part of her that always knew it wasn’t totally one-sided, bloomed forth on her face in an unconscious smile.
“At least I know.” Hour soothed, laughing ruefully through the pain stomping on her chest, barely aware of the hand gripped within her own.
Poet’s gentle knuckles placed against Hour’s jaw let her mind find another focal point as she sifted through the embarrassment and pain of what just happened. There was never a world where she and Poet would actually get to be together, and deep down, she knew that. But now, with the reality of it swirling around her, her stomach lurched.
Poet’s forehead settled against Hour’s, and the pair took a soft and steadying breath together. Poet’s fingers traced along Hour’s face again, and Hour shrugged out of them this time, unable to let her mind get swept into the possibility of what could happen.
Poet’s eyes flickered with pain as Hour pulled away. Poet’s decisive hand grasped at her wine glass as she pulled it away and set it on the coffee table. Her hands moved to either side of Hour’s face, a pleading look in her eyes as she gently tugged Hour forward.
Hour should have pulled away.
Hour should have stopped it.
But she welcomed that mouth on her again, pretense be damned. This time, Poet explored more than just a soft, sweet kiss. This time her tongue slipped into Hour’s mouth, sharp with the taste of wine. Hour gasped softly into Poet’s mouth, pulling her in by the shoulders.
Hour wondered what kind of woman she would be if she asked Poet for one night, how much she could say to her without saying anything at all, instead letting her hands roam and her mouth wander.
Poet moved with grace as she straddled Hour’s lap, hands moving to her jaw and into her hair, moaning so softly Hour was barely sure she heard it.
Hour pulled away. “I should go home.”
“You can’t drive,” Poet countered, finding Hour’s lips again.
Hour did not protest.
Tension radiated off of Poet’s body, abated only, it seemed, when Hour’s hand slid up the back of her sweater, touching her back, tracing over her ribs, and down to her hips. If only Poet would let Hour show her how she’d help her unwind, a proclamation she could not back up with fact, but the sheer amount of thought Hour had put into it should be enough.
The next time Poet pulled away, Hour reached up to trace two gentle fingers against Poet’s face, following the grooves of her scar, marveling at the skin peeking through, pink and new. Poet turned her face.
“I am going to bed,” Poet said as she leaned in again, kissing Hour breathless one more time. “There’s a guest room.”
Hour had been expecting something like this for the last few moments and accepted this, though hoped, perhaps foolishly, that Poet might turn around. “Thank you.”
Poet strode over to the candle, blew it out, and walked to her bedroom.
Hour’s heart shattered as the door clicked into place.
~*~
Hour laid on her side in Poet’s guest room, stripped out of her pants and socks, but keeping her underwear and the shirt that Poet gave her. It still smelled like the other woman’s body around the collar, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Her heart would not let her sleep tonight, a fate she would accept, already racing as her body wrung the rest of the wine out of itself.
When the sky was at its darkest, Hour finally fell asleep.
She didn’t hear Poet come into the guest room, but rather felt her, that body sliding up behind her as Poet’s hand traced against her outer thigh, touches less tentative and more defiant, streaking across her skin. Gasping, Hour arched her back, meeting the soft fabric of Poet’s pajama bottoms.
Hour realized then she was awake, blinking into the darkness of the room to be sure. She turned in Poet’s arms, slipping her fingertips against the soft skin of Poet’s cheek, damp from tears. Hour kissed them, wishing she could take more than just salty water from this woman. Wishing she could take all that pain inside of her.
“Poet,” Hour began.
“No,” Poet said as her lips found Hour’s, hungrily.